Alive At Crepusculum ✓ [TPL Book One]

IV

Far north from Penwood State was the state of Old Quarrie where, along a residential road in the city of Westerfield, in a three-story complex with cream-colored walls, a man named Millard Jason—Mallord Beagle's alias—sneezed five times. So much sneezing, he thought he might either be coming down with a cold or someone was rumoring about him. It was a saying from the exotic lands of Naibon.

"If you sneezed, but do not have a cold, that means someone is rumoring about you. The Naibonese believe so, did you know that?" his wife once told him and now, it was engrained in his mind.

Apart from the chaotic sneezing, it was a calm morning for the retired detective. Mallord set aside the Westerfield Gazette. An Extra had been shoved in with the paper as well and it was all about these new mediums from the beer-loving, dance-adoring, hard-working nation of Deuskauz. Mallord sighed. There had been many people recently calling themselves mediums but always proven later to be frauds. They stole money from people who were distraught after losing loved ones. How inhumane was that? If it was up to him, he would put an immediate stop to it.

But it was not up to him. No. Not anymore. He had retired after the birth of his first child and then years later, the second came along. Mallord should have been content to retire. And he would tell himself he was. Every day.

As he let out another sigh, his wife Penelope came over with some buttery scrambled eggs, waffles, bacon, and some of his favorite croissants left from yesterday.

"Such a big sigh, honey. What's the news?" Penelope poured him his coffee and added in his milk and sugar just as he liked it. Her hair had grayed over the years with all the stress of the many wars between U.A. and everyone else, but she was still just as beautiful as she had been thirty years ago. Footsteps thundered down the stairs. It was their eldest son Michael going off in a hurry.

"Destination?" Mallord stopped him before he could run out the door. Michael was already fifteen and his voice cracked, but Mallord couldn't help seeing the little boy in him.

"Out," Michael said in a brisk 'mind your own business' voice.

"No breakfast?" His mother said and showed a plate of waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs. Sunday was always brunch and it was always Penelope's instead of the maid's.

It didn't entice him.

"Going to the diner."

"And not eat my home cooking?" Penelope put her hands on her hips. Michael came over and gave a kiss on her cheek.

"Nothing beats your food, Mum."

Once her irritated face melted into a smile, Michael went out the door.

"My, my, that boy knows a way to a woman's heart, but he has got to stop going to the diners. They're not sanitary, I heard. Would you care for some extra bacon, my dear?"

Mallord nodded and began to eat with his wife in silence. He had accepted that Michael was going to be trouble until he grew into his britches and his voice. His wife divided up Michael's portion between the two of them and they finished that as well. Once they were done, Mallord and Penelope rose from their seats and went upstairs to the nursery with a tray of the same food in cut-up smaller portions.

"Rose, sweetie," Penelope called, and ten-year-old Rose bounced up and down in the middle of the room, squealing with delight. She had a small chin, slanted eyes, and a cheeky smile that could light up any room or dark depressing day. Her natural curls had ribbons in them already askew even though her mother had put them in a short while ago.

Rose couldn't talk without stuttering and sometimes only blurted out single words in rapid succession which only her parents could really understand. When she walked, it was a waddle. In the Beagle family they called her their 'little penguin princess' which she liked. That brought an insane obsession with penguins. Store bought dolls, paintings, quilts, curtains, pillows, knitted blankets or hats or scarves—just about anything that could have penguins on them, had penguins on them.