Chapter 2 (2.2(a) Madam Monette)

The interior of the main building surpassed the extravagance of its exterior, adorned with opulent decorations. The ceiling stood thirty feet tall, crowned by a dazzling chandelier that bathed every corner in radiant light. Elaborate tapestries adorned the walls, depicting renowned chemists of the past and present, some of whom Wallace recognized from his textbooks.

A lengthy U-shaped rosewood counter partitioned the outer and inner areas of the main hall. Behind the counter, individuals—imps, elves, and humans—went about their tasks. Some diligently recorded entries in ledgers, others inspected herbs, a few arranged medicines, and some engaged with customers. Positioned beneath the colossal chandelier, a massive glass case occupied nearly half of the hall. Inside, an array of books on medicine, plants, and herbs were on display.

Wallace surmised that the books within the glass case chronicled the evolution of the field of chemistry. Among them were faded parchments with barely legible ink, volumes familiar from his studies at Summerstone, and delicate books with pages so brittle that a careless breath might shatter them. The contents of the glass case encapsulated generations of knowledge and painstaking effort dedicated to the study of plants and herbs.

Guided by Sargon, they proceeded to the right side of the counter where a young chemist awaited them, their paper laid out before him. Fortunately, no one sat nearby within earshot. Seated opposite them was a red-haired man, seemingly younger than both Wallace and Caren. Wallace pondered whether the chemist had recently graduated.

"Good day, I'm Ryland. How can I assist you?" Despite his youth, his voice exuded confidence and composure.

"I assume you've reviewed the paper?" Wallace placed his hand on the document, reclaiming ownership.

Ryland nodded, affirming, "Yes, I've gone through it. Could you explain the purpose behind seeking medicine with this therapeutic profile?" His gaze briefly shifted to the paper on the counter.

Wallace noticed customers gradually departing the main building as closing time approached. The pressure mounted as he contemplated whether to disclose information about the Death Slater organism to Ryland.

Observing Wallace's hesitation, Ryland, though young, perceived something linked to the sanatorium's affairs. Clearing his throat, he glanced at the wall clock. "Healers, disclosing the true purpose and urgency of your visit might facilitate the process. But do keep in mind, we adhere strictly to our closing time." He pointed to the clock, emphasizing the deadline.

With just fifteen minutes remaining until six, Wallace and Caren exchanged looks, understanding that Ryland wouldn't budge unless they unveiled the true purpose behind their visit.

Balancing the risks of divulging sensitive information against the urgency of obtaining assistance, Wallace recognized this decision exceeded his granted authority.

Caren lowered her voice, though still audible to Ryland, "We have no choice but to tell him the truth. The two remaining patients won't survive without a cure."

Images of the darkened Nightstone Unit and the ailing werewolves in their sickbeds flashed through Wallace's mind. Their survival hinged on this pivotal decision. The unfamiliar illustration before them prompted Ryland's probing question. After Caren's words, Wallace finally nodded, acknowledging the necessity.

Sighing, Wallace scanned the surroundings once more to ensure no eavesdroppers were present. "This concerns the Reolan Incident. Most of the casualties brought to our sanatorium succumbed to a deadly infection caused by an unknown organism. The illustration here depicts our observations under our locator loupe. We require medicine with a similar therapeutic profile to save our last two patients."

At the mention of Reolan City, a troubled expression crossed Ryland's face, indicating that Wallace's disclosure exceeded his realm of authority. Immediately rising, Ryland offered a half bow in apology. Stammering, he said, "I... I will find someone else to assist you."

Ryland hurried toward the centre of the counter where an elderly man with grey hair was seated, engrossed in writing. Wallace and Caren observed as the young chemist and the older man discussed. The elder briefly examined the illustration Ryland presented before casting a suspicious glance in their direction. Following their conversation, the old man eventually nodded in agreement.

Ryland swiftly returned to Wallace and Caren. The older man, engrossed in his writing, appeared to hold a position other than that of a chemist, unconcerned with their presence. It seemed the young chemist required his endorsement to escalate the matter further.

"This way, please," Ryland motioned, leading them. With a lift of the nearest countertop, Ryland exited the counter. Wallace and Caren followed suit, stepping out of the main building as the sky began to paint itself in the early hues of dusk—shades of orange and yellow.

Their destination was the right tower adjacent to the main building, identified in the initial introduction by the elf doorman as a counting-house.

Upon entry, the counting-house reverberated with the clicks and clacks of abacuses. Twenty burgundy desks were meticulously arranged, each occupied by focused imps. Their agile fingers danced across the abacus beads, creating a rhythmic and oddly soothing symphony in the spacious area. Some desks were adorned with stacks of money, others with plants, and a few held thick leather-bound ledgers.

Known for their sharp intellect and mathematical prowess, imps were employed here to manage the Angelwing Healing Centre's financial affairs. Wallace suspected a robust security system in place to prevent any misconduct. Unperturbed by the newcomers, the imps continued their work with unwavering concentration.

Ryland guided Wallace and Caren away from the occupied desks to the side of the building, finally stopping in front of a door. From his pocket, Ryland produced a key, likely obtained from the older man in the main building. With a subtle click, the door swung open.

As Ryland opened the door, Wallace noticed the subtle intake of breath before they entered a passageway, making a right turn that led them to a waiting area. Ryland silently gestured toward a leather couch and a blackwood table, indicating where they should sit.

Despite its smaller size compared to the grandeur they had witnessed earlier, Wallace found the waiting room oddly comforting, radiating warmth and cosiness within its confines.

"I believe we made the right choice in sharing our situation with Ryland. Don't dwell on it," Caren said, her voice soft and understanding, without looking directly at Wallace. She knew him well enough to sense his unease.

Wallace nodded in acknowledgement, appreciative of Caren's comforting presence. The silence that enveloped them was comfortable, yet Wallace's mind raced, wrestling with concerns and uncertainties stemming from Ryland's reaction and the unusual illustration he had revealed, and now, Ryland still held possession of it.

Caren, seated beside him, remained a silent but reassuring presence. Her subtle finger movements betrayed her own disquiet, mirroring Wallace's unease.

Their prolonged silence was abruptly interrupted by the return of the young chemist. His manner had shifted to a grave solemnity. "Please come with me," he urged, gesturing for them to follow.

Without further ado, they obeyed Ryland's direction, sensing the urgency in his tone.

The short passageway led them to a larger, warmer area, bigger than the counting-house, where rows of desks and the sound of abacuses faded into the background.

It seemed to serve as a staff rest area within Angelwing. On the left side, a vast shelf showcased an assortment of drinks and exquisite glassware. The barstools were currently unoccupied.

On the right side stood an expansive overhang cabinet, resembling the drink shelf's size. One of the cabinet doors was ajar, offering a brief glimpse of its contents. Teas and various unidentified liquids filled the cabinet, evading quick identification.

Sparsely placed low tables occupied the centre of this area, contributing to its warm and restful ambiance. Dark burgundy lacquered wood adorned the walls, bathed in the cosy glow of chandeliers.

The ambiance suggested it served as a cosy resting place. Only three tables were occupied: a trio engrossed in thick books, and a duo of imps meticulously tending to towering ledgers. Both groups glanced up at Wallace and Caren, their expressions far from welcoming. Wallace suspected the individual anticipating their arrival must have been the elderly woman seated near the cabinet.

Ryland hurried towards the woman, confirming Wallace's assumption. A swift nod from the woman toward Ryland, before her focus returned to the paper in her hands, affirmed their purpose. Despite the distance, Wallace recognized the familiar illustration in her possession.

As they approached the woman, her elderly appearance became clearer. The wrinkles framing her eyes, short silver-grey hair neatly arranged, and the sagging skin hinted at her age, possibly in her seventies. Yet, her firm grasp on the paper in one hand and the mug in the other contradicted the typical frailty of someone her age. Her eyes exuded determination and clarity, casting an imposing presence.

As they approached within five feet of her, the old woman scrutinized them, as though they were freshly harvested plants being assessed for value. Without glancing at Ryland, she motioned for his departure.

Ryland's departure was accompanied by a visible exhale of relief, a detail noted by Wallace as Ryland turned away from the old woman.

"Please, take a seat," her voice carried the roughness of age, indicating she might be in her seventies.

Seated across from her, Wallace and Caren focused on the paper she held.

"My name is Monette. I am one of the chief chemists at Angelwing. My junior chemist informed me of the visit by two healers from Crissaven Sanatorium, bearing an illustration of peculiar substances. I am compelled to understand why you are seeking such substances." She placed the illustration on the table and pushed it toward them, her tone direct and accusing.

Wallace and Caren exchanged looks, unsettled by her choice of words. They possessed minimal knowledge about the rod-like substances; so little, in fact, that they wouldn't have deemed them suspicious.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I follow," Wallace expressed, trying to glean more before revealing details of their investigation, assuming she might have been briefed by Ryland.

Madam Monette leaned back, sipping from her mug. Her piercing green eyes and stern attitude conveyed that she wouldn't elaborate until they divulged the origin of the illustration.

Caren released a quiet sigh. Wallace's silence on the investigation wouldn't assist the situation in any way, she thought. She, on the other hand, tended to be more decisive in such matters. Understanding that there was no alternative to saving the remaining two patients, Caren succinctly summarized their investigation so far, omitting details unnecessary for Madam Monette to know.

Maintaining her usual composure, Caren remained unfazed even under Madam Monette's hawk-like scrutiny.

Inwardly, Wallace felt grateful for Caren's presence. The information she revealed appeared to be just enough, nothing excessive.

Madam Monette took three deliberate sips from her mug even after Caren had finished, taking her time to decide if she could fully trust their story. Her extreme caution led Wallace to suspect there was more to this situation than met the eye.

As it turned out, Wallace's speculation was correct.

No healer from Crissaven Sanatorium would fabricate the Reolan Incident at this point, especially not to anyone from Angelwing.

Setting down her now-empty mug, Madam Monette folded her arms across her chest. "Do you have even the slightest inkling of what occurred in Flamevalley fifty years ago?"