Eva's Pastry Shop

"Hey," Karen called out. Mr. Pavaro didn't move, and the two black-robed men turned their gazes toward Karen. "Are you rehearsing a show? Or is this some kind of novelty play?" Mr. Pavaro suddenly chuckled. "That just shows how little you've seen. Games like this haven't been a novelty in pastry shops for a long time." "Tch, who goes to places like that? Just older women." "That's your youth talking again. Age is the distillation of technique." Karen flicked away his cigarette ash, then deliberately leaned his head out to glance at the handcuffs around Pavaro's wrists. "Debt collection? Even loan-shark gangs are using handcuffs now?" One of the black-robed men pulled out a police badge and held it before Karen. "We're police officers. We suspect you have ties to the suspect." "Uh..." Karen immediately dropped the unburned cigarette butt onto the ground, threw up his hands, and ducked his head back. "None of my business! Really, none of my business! I just thought your outfits... Officers, I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to obstruct official duties." With an apologetic smile, Karen slowly rolled up his car window. The black-robed men didn't actually intend to investigate Karen; they had only wanted to scare him. After all, the priests of a Whip of Order squad weren't so idle that they needed to interrogate every ordinary passerby. Handcuffed, Pavaro stepped into the car, and the commercial van drove off. Sitting in his car, the panic on Karen's face slowly faded away. *Oh, thank goodness you're a smoker.* Did that line mean Pavaro had known all along that Karen wasn't an ordinary person? Karen wasn't particularly surprised by this. Although his special method of purification made him difficult to detect through probing, that only applied to brushing past someone on the street. He had interacted with Mr. Pavaro several times, and Pavaro had even examined Alfred. Putting the pieces together and discovering that Karen wasn't an ordinary person wasn't all that surprising. What did surprise Karen was that Mr. Pavaro had brought up the pastry shop on his own initiative. Was that a hint to him? But why hadn't Pavaro tipped off his own two workers? Karen looked at the two assistants who were still standing stock-still even after their boss had been taken away. *Well, telling them probably wouldn't have helped anyway.* Neither looked particularly bright. Dinkum was slightly better, but only slightly. *So that's why he told me?* He did owe the man a favor, but they hadn't had much contact, and they weren't really friends. If it was just a debt of gratitude, he could simply repay it. Giving them more money or finding some point coupons to pay back the boss's wife would settle it, wouldn't it? After all, the faction Karen feared dealing with the most—and wanted to avoid the most—was the Church of Order. All in all, searching his conscience, watching Mr. Pavaro get dragged off didn't give Karen any great urge to gather evidence and clear his name. This wasn't as simple as counseling Alaye's son for psychological issues. The former only cost some time and energy; the latter, if handled poorly, could drag him down with it. Still, since he was already here, even if Mr. Pavaro had been taken away, Karen still needed to pay his visit of gratitude. Karen got out of the car, retrieved the gifts from the trunk, and walked toward the funeral parlor. Along the way, he came up to Pike and Dinkum. Pike stared at Karen in disbelief. Dinkum stepped forward proactively, taking the gifts from Karen, and said humbly, "My lord." Seeing Dinkum and Pike's reactions... *Hm?* *Did they misunderstand something?* Karen quickly realized. They had indeed misunderstood—he had genuinely just happened to arrive, and there just happened to be a lighter prepared by Alaye in the car. However, Karen hesitated for a moment and chose not to explain, merely nodding to Dinkum. "This way, my lord." Dinkum led Karen into the funeral parlor. It was a street-front shop; though two storefronts had been combined, it still looked somewhat unrefined. Because a mourning ceremony had just concluded, the interior was somewhat messy. On a small raised platform lay a "guest." "This way, my lord." Dinkum led Karen to the back courtyard. Behind lay the living quarters—and work areas too. With a passing glance at an unlocked room, Karen could tell from the corner of his eye that it was a workspace similar to Aunt Mary's. The living room wasn't large, situated right next to the dining area. Karen sat down. Dinkum poured another cup of black tea and set it before Karen. Karen picked up the cup and held it beneath his nose to sniff it, momentarily hesitant to drink. Although he felt the likelihood of Dinkum poisoning his tea to avenge his boss was virtually zero, why bet his life on it? Just then, Karen noticed a detail: there was another room facing him, its door covered with very girlish stickers. It didn't look like something belonging to Mrs. Pavaro. Even if Mr. and Mrs. Pavaro enjoyed that sort of taste, they wouldn't decorate the outside of the door like that. Karen set down the teacup, stood up, and walked over to the door. A padlock hung from it, locked from the outside—not properly fastened, but enough to prevent whoever was inside from coming out. Seeing Karen walk toward it, Pike instinctively moved to stop him, but Dinkum grabbed Pike's wrist, holding him back. Karen took off the lock and pushed open the door. Immediately, a thick, musty odor rushed out at him, like an entire room full of long-spoiled pickled vegetables. Karen blinked hard, his eyes stinging to the point of tears. However, inside was no storage room, but a bedroom. The furnishings were very simple: a large bed in the back, and a bath tub in the middle. On the bed were two girls of the same age, seemingly twins, both about thirteen or fourteen. One lay on the bed reading a book, while the other sat up playing with sticker cutouts. Karen had seen Mina play with such stickers before: a plastic sheet with four female models at the top, and beneath them rows of skirts, trousers, and headpieces with adhesive backing that let you mix and match outfits for the models. The sound of the door opening startled them, and both looked up at Karen standing in the doorway. Half of the face of the girl reading was covered in festering sores, and the back of her hand bore black lesions. The girl playing with stickers had a clean face, but everything below her neck was pitch-black. Under the bed they lay on was a layer of plastic sheeting. Because the pustules on their bodies oozed pus from time to time, the sheet was there to make cleaning easier. The musty odor in the room was emanating directly from the two of them. Karen frowned slightly. Ever since God's Revelation, his perception of the world had become much clearer. While it certainly couldn't match the effect of a dedicated spell like probing magic, he could at least sense superficial auras. On these two girls, he saw a mass of "black mist." They weren't merely sick; they were... contaminated. Karen silently stepped back out, closed the room door, and asked, "Who are they?" Dinkum answered, "My lord, they are the boss's daughters." Mr. Pavaro's daughters? "Were they contaminated?" "Yes, my lord. Six years ago, on their way home from school, an aberrant demon being pursued took revenge on them." "Couldn't the contamination be purified?" "My lord, that aberrant demon wasn't particularly strong, but it was a mental-type aberrant demon. In the beginning, nothing seemed amiss with them, so the boss focused on pursuing it. By the time the aberrant demon was finally captured and the boss returned home, he discovered both his daughters had already suffered mental pollution. The sores on their skin... are merely superficial symptoms." Mental pollution could also be understood as soul pollution. Once it reached this stage, achieving a root cure was virtually impossible. Unlike injuries to limbs where amputation remained an option if healing failed, the soul was like a glass of clear water: even if only a single drop of ink fell in, you could never spoon it all back out. "Six years..." Karen murmured. "Every so often, the two young mistresses must soak in a blood spirit powder bath to ease and suppress the torment in their souls and bodies. But with the passage of time—especially over these past two years—I've clearly noticed the interval between baths growing shorter, while the amount of blood spirit powder required each time has grown considerably." "Blood spirit powder?" Karen remembered that substance. Back when Old Anderson, accompanied by Mr. Bede and Mr. Mike, had shown him the asset ledger of Allen Manor, the "church assets" had shrunk pitifully compared to the manor's secular wealth. At its peak, the Allen family had owned twelve workshops supplying basic materials to eight orthodox churches. Now, the Allen family held only three workshops. Among the nine lost had been a blood spirit powder workshop. If memory served, that workshop was now in the hands of the Raphael family. Dinkum pressed his lips together and continued, "Although the boss receives Order coupons from the regional diocese each month, nowadays, those monthly coupons can't cover the expenses for the blood spirit powder the young mistresses need. You can buy a little with riels, but not only is it expensive, the available quantity is extremely scarce. That's why the boss frequently volunteered for missions issued by the regional diocese to earn extra Order coupons. He would even... take on anonymous tasks from other churches for the rewards." The Allen family was immensely wealthy yet still faced the crisis of decline because, in the true inner circles of this world, the most valuable currency was point coupons. A special base material like blood spirit powder was supplied directly to churches by regional workshops and circulated almost exclusively within those inner circles. Obtaining it required purchasing with point coupons. No wonder the boss's wife had specifically asked that day if he had point coupons to offer as compensation: her daughters needed point coupons to buy medicine. "So Inquisitor Pavaro broke the law for that?" Karen asked. Dinkum fell silent. Pike, however, summoned his courage and spoke up: "The boss isn't that kind of person!" "Pike, don't be disrespectful to his lordship!" Dinkum scolded his companion. Right at that moment, Mrs. Pavaro walked in, shouting: "It's so busy outside, and you two dare to slack off back here! And where is your boss? Where did he run off to again? Why can't I find him anywhere? Don't tell me he snuck off to the pastry shop street again! Eh? You're... you're that person from the other day! What are you doing here?" Pike cried out to the boss's wife with a mournful face: "Mrs. Lake, the boss was taken into custody by the Whip of Order!" "What!" Mrs. Lake froze in astonishment, then yelled, "Where's the justice in this? Where's the justice! It's one thing to suspend him without his coupon salary, but how could they take him away too!" Mrs. Lake's eyes began to redden. She seemed on the verge of tears, but her longstanding fiery temper had made her unaccustomed to crying. Now, with red-rimmed eyes, she glared at Karen and demanded again, "Why are you here?" Dinkum said nothing, but Pike blurted out, "He's a lord from the Whip of Order." "It's you?" Mrs. Lake stared at Karen in disbelief. "You brought people to arrest my husband? You took him away?" Karen couldn't answer. Mrs. Lake made a move to charge Karen and tear into him. Seeing this, Dinkum and Pike rushed forward together and restrained her. One could not have physical contact with a lord like him—that was a grave offense. "You're from the Whip of Order? You faked it all that day? You've been acting this whole time? Hahaha! Are all the people from the Whip of Order such great actors? Why don't you perform at the grand theater?!" "Ma'am, ma'am, you can't say that! You mustn't say that!" Dinkum quickly warned his boss's wife. "What else is there I dare not say?! Let go! Get off me!" Seeing she couldn't break free from the two workers, Mrs. Lake simply collapsed onto the floor. She flailed her arms wildly and kicked her legs, forcing Dinkum and Pike to step back. Mrs. Lake looked back at Karen, a clear mocking sneer playing at the corner of her lips. "So this is Order? This is the Whip of Order? You arrested my husband—is the charge still dereliction of duty?" Karen gave no answer. "Hehehe... I kept urging him to neglect his duties! I called him rigid, called him pigheaded! Over the past two years, the amount of blood spirit powder needed each month kept climbing, and I cursed him almost every night! I cursed him for not seeing our daughters' skin festering all over again because we couldn't keep up with the bathing schedule! I cursed him for not noticing that every time our daughters saw us, even when the agony was unbearable, they bit their teeth and pretended they were fine! I cursed him for not hearing their muffled sobs buried in their pillows late at night! "I know he could have easily gotten more coupons! He wouldn't have had to risk his life taking missions outside, and our daughters' supply of blood spirit powder would never have run short! Yet even when I pinched his back until not an inch of good skin was left, he refused! "Fine! If he had truly neglected his duties so our daughters could have had another half-year or year of comfort, then even if you took him away, I would accept it! "But now? What right do you have? On what grounds? On what grounds?!" "I will investigate this matter thoroughly," Karen could only leave behind those words before turning to walk out. Sitting on the floor, Mrs. Lake gritted her teeth, her red eyes boring into Karen's retreating back. But in the end, glancing toward the door covered in girlish stickers, she could only tilt her head back in helpless despair, letting tears stream down both cheeks. Pike crouched down to comfort Mrs. Lake, while Dinkum followed Karen outside. Karen walked to his car and opened the door. Dinkum stood there awkwardly. Karen looked at him and said, "Mr. Pavaro's matter will be investigated further. For now, your job is to keep the funeral parlor running and take good care of Mrs. Lake." "Yes, my lord. Understood." "Mm." Karen got into the car and started the engine. After driving past a street, Karen pulled over to the curb. He hadn't imagined Mr. Pavaro's family was in such a state. Originally, he had assumed Pavaro Funeral Parlor was simply poorly run. Especially those two girls on the bed, and the sores covering their bodies. In his mind echoed the words Diss had once spoken: *Your father and mother were killed by my own hands.* Because they had already been contaminated... Karen instinctively reached for the pack of cigarettes beside the handbrake, opened it, drew out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it with the lighter. After taking one drag, he held the cigarette out the car window, propped his forehead with his other hand, closed his eyes, and took continuous deep breaths. *Hoo... hoo... hoo...* When his fingertips felt the burn of the smoldering filter, Karen loosened his grip and dropped the butt. Then, as if talking to himself, or as if someone were truly standing before him demanding an explanation: "With my current strength, I don't have the qualifications to get involved in this sort of thing yet. I think I can find a way to get some point coupons, or obtain some blood spirit powder and send it to their home. "Yes, that's what I'll do." Karen felt he had convinced himself, and started the car once more. Yet when Karen stopped again, he found himself parked on a street facing Eva's Pastry Shop. Somehow, inexplicably, he had driven here. Karen turned his head to look at the sign of the pastry shop. After a long while, he finally decided to step out of the car and walked up to the entrance. On the counter sat several plates of pastries. On two sofas inside sat seven women. "Come on in!" one of the women greeted Karen warmly. Karen stepped inside. The women, who had been bundled in layers of clothing, immediately shed their warm coats to reveal skimpy outfits beneath. One of them looked at Karen with a pleasantly surprised smile. People had to eat every day; if given a choice, why not eat something delicious in color, smell, and taste? They had to take customers every day; if given a choice, why not choose someone handsome and young? These women were between thirty and forty, perhaps slightly over forty, but beneath their heavy makeup under the mood lighting, their exact ages were hard to tell. Just then, another woman emerged from the back carrying a dustpan, having just finished sweeping. She glanced at Karen standing in the center, a smirk curling on her lips. "Look at you all drooling over a fresh fish." With that, she calmly skirted around Karen and emptied the trash from her dustpan into a bin outside the shop. This woman was over fifty, not particularly tall, and wore little makeup, leaving the marks of time plain on her face. She had no intention of competing for this client. Yet when she finished dumping the trash and carried the dustpan back inside, Karen raised his hand and pointed at her: "How much... for you?" The woman froze. Turning around to confirm Karen was indeed pointing at her, she smiled. "Really?" "Really." "I'm cheap." "Fine." "Then follow me." Setting down her dustpan, the woman took Karen's hand and led him toward the back. Inside were small cubicles partitioned off one by one, each tiny space holding only a recliner board and a stool. Of course, this wasn't for living, only for sleeping—and even then, sleeping merely meant lying down to rest for the span of a few cigarettes before getting back up. "Here." The woman led Karen into a cubicle, and Karen sat down on the recliner board. "We only do half-service here, but I can service you," the woman said, tying her hair up with a rubber band. Karen asked, "Do you know Mr. Pavaro?" The woman's hands tying her hair suddenly stopped. When they were smoking, Mr. Pavaro had said: *Age is the distillation of technique.* That was why Karen had chosen her. "Heh." The woman chuckled and sat down beside him. She took out a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and didn't offer it to Karen, merely lighting it for herself. She said, "I knew it. How could such a young, handsome lad come here for fun? Aren't there plenty of clean young girls outside? You wouldn't even have to spend money. I thought you had a mother complex." "I came regarding Mr. Pavaro's matter," Karen explained. "Where is he?" "He's been formally taken into custody." The woman blew a smoke ring and licked her lips. Hearing this news, she seemed somewhat nervous—no, somewhat afraid. She whispered, "Praise Mills." Sometimes, such praise was like "My goodness," "My God," or "Thank heavens"—to a believer, it was like a habitual everyday interjection. A believer of the Mills Faith? Karen knew of this church. It centered on a deity worshipped during the pirate era by prostitutes doing business in brothels on islands. Supposedly, she was the Sea God's lover and protected them. The last time he had encountered a follower of the Mills Faith had been in Mr. Morf's study; the scene of that female believer crawling out from under Mr. Morf's desk had left a deep impression on him. So this older woman before him was also a church member. That she continued to practice this trade wasn't strange; perhaps it was a form of cultivation, much like how local Inquisitors of the Church of Order liked opening funeral parlors. The woman took a long time to calm herself, and Karen waited quietly beside her. He noticed a cup of water on the stool, resting on paper—rough toilet paper used for the lavatory, rather than tissue paper kept in boxes on coffee tables. Any normal male seeing such red, rough toilet paper would probably feel an instinctive, scraping ache. Finally, the woman spoke again: "I warned Pavaro before not to keep investigating, because whoever can organize something on this scale must have an extraordinary background. "Besides, the Raphael family even sent someone offering to supply him with free blood spirit powder each month, enough for his two poor daughters. "Yet he was so stubborn. He kept reporting the situation up the chain again and again. The fact that his first two reports received no acknowledgment slips should have made things clear enough; that in itself was a warning. "Yet he ignored that warning. While continuing to report upward, he personally investigated the matter himself. "I never could understand what he was after. Every month, to scrape together enough point coupons, he didn't hesitate to take on dangerous missions. Yet he could have sat back, done nothing, and collected hush money—hush money enough for his daughters to take their baths normally each month and live like normal people. "Could it really be for that one phrase: 'Praise Order'? "Everyone just chants it. Why did he have to take it seriously? "Two months ago, he was suspended. When he told me, both he and I knew it was an ultimatum from above. "Well, now he's really been locked up." The woman quietly lit another cigarette and continued: "Why do Inquisitors of the Church of Order have such high status? Because the Church of Order stands behind them, and the Church of Order has the hardest fists. But once the church behind you stops backing you, an Inquisitor is nothing more than an Inquisitor. "Oh, that water is for servicing, but it's drinkable. If you're thirsty, go ahead and drink." "I'm not thirsty." "Heh." "Is this matter related to blood spirit powder?" "He didn't even tell you that, yet he sent you to find me?" the woman asked, slightly puzzled. Before Karen could think of an excuse, the woman nodded to herself. "Right. In a matter like this, unless it's a last resort, one definitely shouldn't drag someone else down." She picked up the water cup, took a sip, set it back down, and continued: "In recent years, the output of blood spirit powder has been abnormally high. He didn't have enough point coupons, so he thought about buying raw materials to see if he could compound some himself. Even if the yield was small, he wasn't going to sell it outside—just ease the burden on his two daughters. "As a result, he discovered that the raw materials flowing into the York City region each month and the output of blood spirit powder supplied were completely out of balance. "That meant a massive amount of blood spirit powder not produced from raw materials was circulating on the 'market.' "Aside from raw material production, blood spirit powder has another method of preparation: using female menstrual blood as an alternative ingredient. It saves a lot of effort. Although the material's efficacy drops somewhat, it's just a base material to begin with, so the impact isn't huge. "However, getting hold of that isn't as easy as collecting manure from public latrines. No company in society is known to collect it either. "Most importantly, for that surplus output to be supplied so steadily, there had to be a large-scale, highly efficient method of collection. "For instance..." Karen finished her thought: "Penning people up like livestock." The woman nodded. "And feeding them special drugs to turn once a month into once every two or three days... or even shorter." Hearing this, Karen swallowed hard, picked up the cup the woman had just drunk from, and took a sip. Seeing this, the woman smiled again. She put two cigarettes in her mouth, lit them together, and held one out to Karen. Karen took it and inhaled a drag. "Do you know how many illegal immigrants smuggle themselves into Wien every year?" Karen shook his head. "Hehe. Not only do you not know, even the government has no idea, because the numbers are simply too vast. So many people, so many women... nobody cares where they're sent after landing, or where they ultimately vanish. "A simple recruitment notice for female factory workers is enough to lure away girls wanting to earn a little extra money to relieve their families' burdens. "Deep interests are tangled up in this—you could even call it a stain on the orthodox churches." The woman looked at Karen and asked: "I have a dossier here recording all of Mr. Pavaro's investigative progress. If you intend to carry on Mr. Pavaro's path of investigation, I can hand this dossier over to you." "I... haven't made up my mind yet." The woman showed no disappointment, nor did she display any contempt. Instead, she reached out and rested her hand on Karen's back, caressing him gently like an elder. "You're very genuine," she said. "No, I'm very hypocritical." "Are you close with Mr. Pavaro?" "Not close. I've only met him three times. The last was when he was arrested." "Yet you still came." "I just happened to drive here." "Mm, and happened to walk into the shop?" The woman covered her mouth and chuckled. "Are you going to tell me next that if you hadn't happened to pick me, you would be lying here getting serviced right now? You know, words and texts often lie, but actions are the most honest." "What about you?" Karen asked. "Why did you help Mr. Pavaro investigate this? You must also know the dangers involved, and that you couldn't possibly gain anything from it." After all, Mr. Pavaro's own situation was already so miserable; it was hard to imagine what benefit he could offer to persuade the woman before him to take such risks alongside him. The woman asked, "Do you know the Goddess Mills?" "I do." "She was a prostitute. In that era, pirates toyed with and slaughtered the women they abducted at will. Back then, prostitutes on the islands had a status lower than cargo. "So Mills chose to walk into the sea and become the Sea God's lover in exchange for the Sea God issuing a warning to the pirates. "Ever since, an oath began circulating among pirates: "'No matter how fierce the winds and waves, never withhold the hard-earned money of prostitutes!' "Willingness to pay was, in itself, a form of respect. "Just like Mr. Pavaro's superiors—or even his superiors' superiors—there are certainly people among them involved in this matter. They also chant 'Praise Order' regularly in their daily lives. "But is their praise the same as Mr. Pavaro's? "Just like among our followers of the Mills Faith, many believers only want to learn arts that please men to attain greater wealth and status. They also chant 'Praise Mills.' "Yet is the one they praise the true Goddess Mills? "The Goddess Mills symbolizes fearlessness, universal love, and sacrifice! "She may have come from humble beginnings, her work may have been lowly, and her ending and choices may have been lowly. She did not possess the spotless, unblemished background of those lofty goddesses. "Yet in my heart, walking barefoot through the storm, letting the violent winds howl past, letting the mud splatter across her body, while still singing beautiful songs—she is the truly great and sacred presence." The woman hesitated, stopped smoking, looked at Karen, and asked: "What about you? What do you praise?" *Me?* *I practice the purification of Order, and I use the spells of Order...* Yet Karen—who had only just been told by Purr upon returning home at noon, "You truly desecrate the word 'praise' through and through"—now found it difficult to speak. Before Miss Bertha, he could effortlessly chant "Praise Nature." Before Dinkum, he could calmly chant "Praise the Whip of Order." Yet before the woman in front of him, he couldn't bring himself to praise anything. The woman bent down, reached beneath the bed board, and pulled out a file folder, setting it before Karen. "I'm sorry to inform you, sir, that your service time is up. You can choose to extend your time or get up and leave. Of course, when you leave, you can choose to take this with you, or leave it behind. "After all, in many people's eyes, things from a pastry shop—just like the people—are dirty." "How much is the service fee?" "The others charge forty riels. Mine is twenty riels," the woman said. "As you can see, I'm old." Karen took out a hundred-riel note and handed it over. "Oh, no small change?" the woman asked with a headache. "I'm sorry, I don't." "All right, I'll give you change." The woman brought out an old-fashioned women's wallet from who knew where, took out a 50-riel note and three 10-riel notes, and handed them to Karen. Karen accepted the money, then took two of the 10-riel notes and handed them back. "You may be older, but your technique is better than theirs. It's worth it." The woman laughed, laughing very happily. "Hahaha..." In her mind rose the image of that bastard named Pavaro. Every time he came to discuss the latest investigative progress, he would pay her the service fee, always giving forty riels, and always saying: *You may be older, but you've got good technique!* Karen got up and walked out of the cubicle, leaving the folder behind. Looking at the folder still resting on her lap, the woman smiled faintly and prepared to put it away. Just then, Karen walked back in, smiling. "Sorry, it's my first time eating pastries, and I was too nervous. I left in a bit of guilt and a rush, and ended up leaving something behind." As he spoke, Karen picked up the folder from the woman's lap and tucked it under his arm. The woman propped her hands against the bed board, legs spread, leaning back, watching Karen's return. She was wearing a skirt; in that posture, everything beneath would be exposed. Yet in Karen's eyes there was not the slightest trace of lust or sacrilege—not because of her age, but because in his eyes, she was somewhat sacred. "Could you ask me that question again?" The woman nodded and asked: "What about you? What do you praise?" Karen took a deep breath and answered: "I don't think I'm qualified to answer that question yet. But I hope that the next time I see you, I can answer it naturally." The woman shook her head and said, "No need to be so extreme. Whenever you need it, you can come by anytime. Pavaro came often because we can also help ask around and look into things." "I see. All right, thank you, I understand." "Anyway, you're always welcome here—assuming, of course, you don't find this place dirty, or us dirty." "How could I? An elder I respect most once told me something." "Oh? What did that elder say?" "He said..." "Even the great, supreme God of Order was raised by a prostitute."