Klein Moretti could barely contain the urge to have him sit down right then and there and transcribe every diary entry from memory, manifesting them above the fog on the spot. Whatever last trace of hesitation he'd had about keeping the man dissolved entirely.
He kept his composure and said lightly: "Oh? Roselle's diaries? I've heard something of his exploits — quite an interesting figure, by all accounts. I confess I do find myself somewhat curious… Very well. At each gathering hereafter, you may recall a few pages and relay them to me."
He then showed Vincent how to manifest text from memory above the fog, and asked: "Now then — what is it you hope to receive in return?"
Vincent hesitated. "I believe something may be wrong with my body. I'm not yet certain of the specifics."
The reason for keeping it vague was intentional — groundwork for the "wrong-body" situation down the line. He still wasn't sure whether Klein Moretti's Sefirot anchor had locked onto his own soul, or onto the soul currently residing in Bernadette's body.
If it's locked to me — when I return to the world of Harry Potter, will he be able to reach me at all? And if it's locked to the body… that becomes considerably more interesting.
But Vincent had no real choice. He couldn't pass up this rare opportunity to address whatever was wrong with his soul.
Everything else would have to be dealt with as it came. In any case — he was quite clear that the person sitting across from him was no true deity.
Klein Moretti pinched his chin. He's probably referring to that strange state of his etheric and astral bodies. He gave a slight nod. "You will have your opportunity. Remember — within the next two days, I may summon you again at any time. Try to avoid being in the company of others."
"Understood."
"Before that, you must settle on your alias." Klein Moretti smiled and gestured toward the surface of the long bronze table, where a Tarot deck had been manifested. "Choose one card as your name. The Fool, Justice, and the Hanged Man are taken."
Vincent stepped forward, his gaze moving quickly across all twenty-two cards. Then he reached out and drew the one depicting a man and a woman beneath the blessing of an angel.
"I choose the Lovers."
He hadn't chosen it for the card's symbolic meaning. He'd chosen it purely for the image itself — a man and a woman together. Two souls sharing a single body: himself and Bernadette.
Klein Moretti slipped naturally into his oracular cadence. "Remember your choice. It will be with you for life."
He extended his hand and severed the connection, watching the deep crimson light contract, watching the man across from him dissolve into wisps of shadow that scattered and disappeared — and then, finally, he could no longer hold back the smile spreading across his face.
He could practically see an avalanche of Roselle's diary entries rolling toward him.
A few minutes later, Vincent stepped out of the bathroom and found Melissa sitting at the table, staring at his bowl of mutton stew — swallowing quietly, gnawing at her black rye bread, apparently trying to convince herself the smell was enough.
She looked both pitiful and faintly adorable.
The moment he came back to sit down, Melissa immediately shifted her gaze away, putting on an air of complete indifference.
He picked up the bowl and took a sip, then frowned. "The mutton stew is extremely salty today."
Melissa nearly leapt out of her seat. "That's impossible!"
Vincent slid the bowl across to her. "Try it yourself if you don't believe me."
"Fine."
She took the bowl and drank a mouthful. "It's not salty at all."
"It's the meat that's salty. Try the meat."
So she speared a piece of mutton with her fork, brought it to her lips, and took a small bite. "It's not—"
Before she could finish, Vincent pushed the whole piece into her mouth. Melissa's eyes went wide, and by the time she registered what had happened, the mutton was already in — she could hardly spit it out.
So she glared at Vincent, chewing furiously. The more she chewed, the better it tasted — the better it tasted, the more she wanted. And then she looked up to find Vincent across from her, pulling an exaggerated face in perfect imitation of her expression from a moment ago.
She couldn't hold it. A laugh burst out of her.
For a moment, the simple little flat was full of warmth.
As the deep red before his eyes cleared, Vincent found himself back in the faded room, still standing in the doorway, his hand still pressing down on the handle — but the door hadn't opened. The crack he'd seen must have been a trick of the mind.
Then — ding.
Vincent looked back. In the centre of the faded room, a translucent shape had appeared. It solidified quickly, becoming an ancient set of scales — roughly arm's length, suspended in the air.
The left pan was empty, lifted high. The right pan held a counterweight, heavy and low.
What is this?
A strange, wordless understanding surfaced in his mind, clear as instinct: the scales were a symbol — a symbol of the extraordinary ability he had obtained through this faded room. When he facilitated a transaction or brought about a cooperation between others, the empty left pan would gain weight.
How much weight depended on the value of what had been brokered.
When both pans balanced, he would receive a benefit. What kind of transactions were required, and what those benefits might be, he didn't yet know.
Vincent stood there studying the antique scales and felt a quiet sense of irony settle over him.
So I'm meant to be a middleman.
Reborn into Lord of the Mysteries, working as a broker?
Hm.
If I bring someone else into contact with the Sefirot and make them a member of the Tarot Club — would that count as facilitating a "cooperation"? It's a cooperation with a deity, no less. That would surely add a great deal of weight to the pan.
He shook his head and set the thought aside. He could sort out the implications later. For now — how to leave.
Almost in the same breath, in a flash of black and white light, Vincent was back in the semi-open room in Emerald City. "That's… it?"
He found himself standing at the writing desk without remembering how he'd got there. In his hand was the compass.
"Oh, bloody—"
Vincent flung it from him immediately. There was a sharp crack — a hairline fracture spread across the compass's glass face — and flickers of phantom light spilled from the crack into the surrounding air. Some dissolved and vanished. The rest spiralled inward as deep red light, sinking into the palm of his right hand, where they condensed into a symbol: radiating lines, like a starburst.
A few seconds later, the symbol burrowed beneath his skin and was gone.
Vincent held up his hand and turned it over, thinking. This is… familiar, somehow. So it really was the compass that got me an audience with the "God of Poverty"?
He rubbed the back of his hand. From the look of that symbol, what the Sefirot anchored onto… was very likely this body. Meaning — the one who will be attending the Tarot Club in two days is Bernadette?
He could only hope that when Bernadette swapped back tomorrow, and found out he'd signed her up for a "deity's organisation," she wouldn't be too… pleasantly surprised.
To be continued…