The midday sun descends slowly on the horizon by the time my covey brothers and I are nearly done with processing Mr. Cromley’s items. We assess through piles of knickknacks one by one, finally finishing the last pile of books together since some titles require consensus on its value. This town must’ve been home to retired printers as they had quite the library of first editions between the Barnes’ and Mr. Cromley.

Alan thumbs through the pages of an old and battered book. He shakes his head.

“Covey, I think I have something interesting here.”

“What could be more interesting than the lingerie you found earlier?”

Gilbert shoots a disapproving glare at Thomas while I edge over Alan. We gather around him to look at an open page, yellowed and worn from time. I glance down and read aloud:

“Aria: A True History of the Earthly Consort-”

My eyes widen and I look up to Alan. Thomas cocks his head and turns the book towards him, peering at the faded print.

“Isn’t this title banned in the Creche?”

“Why?”

“Maybe the usual? Propaganda? Violence? Erotica?”

Gilbert eyes the page and shakes his head.

“No, none of those. It’s a false account claiming that Aria was actually a Soul Seer and not a woman. I’ve heard of this title and others from my father.”

“Could you mean your birth father?”

Gilbert chews his lip. Alan didn't mean any offense and Gilbert knew that he meant none. Thomas and Alan were “birthers,” born and raised in the Creche. It was evidenced in their Creche-specific dialect, which had sharper vowels and a melodious twang over the standard Imperial accent.

To us, he was known as Gilbert Nathaniel. At birth, he was part of a prominent family from the East. He was the last-born son and sent to the Creche at thirteen, well into our Mid-Years. Unlike myself, whose birth family had fallen from grace, Gilbert was disowned. The unusual nature of his arrival had no limits to the rumors surrounding him, as most Creche children arrive well before the age of ten.

“Yes. My birth father mentioned that this text is commonly read by the Rebels, a kind of manifesto.”

“Could this mean that there are Rebels hidden in this town?”

Gilbert shakes his head. He runs a finger down a page, examining the layer of dust at the tips of his gloves.

“Though it's in Mr. Cromley's pile, whoever had it last was among the deceased. It appears that it hasn’t been read recently, as well.”

“Then if anyone knew of anything, it probably died along with them. What should we do with it, Commander?”

I hold my chin in thought.

“This will require more inquiry. I’ll write of it once we board the train home and give it to the Mother Superior when we ar-”

I feel something moving by my ankle and look down. My eyes widen at the sight of some kind of small brown creature and flinch back. The ball of fur scurries underneath Gilbert’s table and into the burn pile of clothing.

“Ah!”

Fearing that it’s a rat, I grab the accounting table and leap over it to get to the pile of clothing. My brothers stand by with mouths wide open at my sudden actions.

“I think there’s a rat!”

I get to the pile and begin to indiscriminately pluck out items. Shirts, textbooks, and swathes of linen fly over my shoulder.

Alan gently touches my elbow.

“Wait, Evey, you’re scaring it.”

I pause, suddenly conscientious of my current state. True, I probably am overreacting, but my covey brothers had a inkling why I felt this way to rodents.

I’ve spent many dark, dank nights on cold stone floors with rats nibbling at my heels. At first I, like most young children, thought of them as little friends. I had imagined it to be like in fairy tales. An imprisoned princess whose heart is so pure that she could speak to all manner of creatures so long as they were harmless.

As much as I wanted to play in imagined landscapes, it couldn’t silence my starving belly.

But Alan’s soft touch snaps me back to the present. His large blue eyes look into mine, easing me to calm myself. He then turns to dig into the burn pile, feeling into its darkness. A moment later his eyebrows perk up and he pulls out a subdued furry creature.

He holds the creature up by its scruff, rendering it limp and compliant. It’s even yawning, exposing the mouth of a predator, not a prey. Alan speaks with a soft and soothing voice.

“There there, little…”

His eyes angle to the area between the animal’s back legs.

“Lady.”

She’s a ferret, not a disease-ridden rat. I grasp my white cravat, sighing in relief.

“Evey, could you pass me the tin box over there?”

I look over my shoulder and select a slightly rusted cylinder with a printed landscape of rice paddies and women dressed in silken robes. The label, Ming’s Tea, is written in large red stylistic font. With much gentleness, Alan places the ferret into the tin container with a coiled up knit scarf. He pets her spine to encourage her to relax.

“It’s Mr. Cromley’s ferret. Gilbert, what’s the standard protocol for live property?”

“This is assuming we could properly sell or store a ferret. We might have to return her to Mr. Cromley.”

“But if we return her to Mr. Cromley it’s likely the townsfolk will find a few more gold pouches missing.”

Thomas points a finger up in thought.

“Perhaps we could cook and eat it?”

Alan gasps and tightens his hold onto the tin container. I shake my head at Thomas as Gilbert makes a disgusted noise.

“Her. She’s property and still worth some coin. Gil, what would you estimate to be the price of a well-trained ferret?”

“Four gold pieces, I reckon.”

I look at Alan.

“Then should we try to sell her to the townsfolk before we depart? Unless-”

“I’ll buy her! Here, I’ll pay the rest when we’re back to the Creche.”

Alan pulls out a gold coin from his chest pocket. It’s the last of his stipend from this mission.

Thomas reaches to stall him, his hand grazing against Alan’s chest. The redhead pulls out a gold coin and places it into Alan’s palm. It doesn’t take long for me to understand the gesture, so I also hand Alan my last gold piece. Gilbert glances to all of us, arms folded, and makes a grunt of approval. He, too, places a coin in Alan’s palm to complete the ferret fund.

“Consider this an early Feast Day gift, from all of us.”

“Th-thank you…”

“Will you be naming her? I assume that we shouldn’t trouble Mr. Cromley to tell us.”

Alan looks down to the ferret but seems to have little inspiration.

“I am not really good at names, Lady? Sadie?”

“Bella?”

“Shish Kabab?”

Gilbert makes another disgusted noise before offering his suggestion.

“How about Mingsley?”

“Mingsley?”

Gilbert nods and his dark eyes settle on the ferret, as if he’s pointing with his gaze. I realize that he was actually looking at the name of the tea tin: Ming’s Tea.

“That’s a nice name.”

Alan responds with a rare open genuine smile. He rubs his forefinger against the ferret’s jaw, eliciting happy chittering noises from her. My heart feels full seeing him bond immediately with the creature, hoping that he would come to remember the last of his Creche days with fondness and joy.