Mrs.
Rosen asked a few more careful questions regarding her schedule, whether she could handle simple clerical work, and her salary requirements.
Sandrone’s answers were clear and practical, without any exaggeration, nor did she hide her urgent need for this job.
Her composure and those eyes, which were overly beautiful yet revealed a sense of resilience, clearly won the landlady’s favor.
“Alright, child, I think you’re more reliable than those noisy girls from before.”
Mrs.
Rosen stood up.
“Miss Star should be back, in her domain on the second floor.
I’ll take you to see her.
Remember, whatever you see, try to stay calm.
If she can approve of you, that would be for the best.
If not, don’t be too disappointed; Miss Star’s way of thinking is…
well, quite unique.”
They walked up the stairs, which were covered in an eroded but clean carpet, and arrived at a dark wooden door at the end of the second floor.
On the doorplate was only a simple brass letter’S’.
The door was not closed tightly, leaving a crack.
Before they could even knock, a calm voice of a young woman came from inside: “…Mrs.
Rosen, please come in.
And that applicant as well.
The third screw on the door hinge needs oiling; the sound is 0.3 decibels higher than yesterday.”
Mrs.
Rosen pushed the door open, and Sandrone followed her inside.
Then, she understood what was meant by a “study-cum-living room comparable to a battlefield.”
The room was large, a spacious area formed by knocking through two rooms, with excellent lighting.
But all the light seemed to be swallowed by the mountain of “clutter” piled up in the room.
Against the walls stood bookshelves that nearly reached the ceiling, but the books were not neatly arranged; instead, they were packed tightly in various tilted stacks, some even embedded with other items, and some books were even suspended in mid-air by thin strings.
In the center of the room was an oak desk that might have once been quite elegant, but the desktop was now submerged under papers, a magnifying glass, various sizes of tweezers, small knives, pipes (more than one), a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper, and seven or eight empty or half-empty coffee cups. New chapters come out on NovelPing first.
The floor was covered with a thick Persian carpet, but the pattern was almost invisible, scattered with more books, dossiers, clothes, several different styles of shoes, a bundle of rope, and a boxing sandbag (?).
Near the window, there was a relatively clean high-backed armchair and a small round table.
On the round table sat a set of chemical laboratory glassware, with an alcohol lamp heating some kind of liquid, emitting a scent similar to bitter Almond.
A young woman with messy, shoulder-length grey hair and wearing a monocle had her back to them, focused on observing the reaction in a test tube.
In her other hand, she leaned on an expensive-looking Ebony Cane, but her posture was straight, clearly indicating she had no difficulty walking.
This was Miss Star.
“Miss Star, this is Sandrone Lopez, here to apply for the assistant position.”
Mrs.
Rosen cleared her throat, her voice carrying a hint of the helplessness she had grown accustomed to.
Miss Star did not turn around immediately; she waited until the reaction in the test tube had completely stopped before carefully extinguishing the alcohol lamp and placing the test tube into a specialized rack.
Then, she slowly turned around.
Her face was younger than Sandrone had expected, probably in her early twenties.
Her complexion was fair, and her features were regular, even exquisite, but they were shrouded in an extreme lack of expression.
Her dark gold eyes looked somewhat vacant behind the monocle, as if they could see through appearances yet lacked interest in the living person before her.
She wore a well-tailored white shirt, a dark grey vest, and matching trousers, with her shirt sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing smooth forearms.
The cane was held casually in her hand.
Her gaze instantly swept across Sandrone’s entire body, from the faded hem of her skirt to her slightly frizzy but neatly tied dark brown hair, and then to those tightly pressed lips and deep blue eyes.
“Sandrone Lopez.”
She repeated the name in a flat voice.
“Second-year student at Nuremberg University’s College of Applied Mechanics.
Lacking sleep for the past three days, averaging less than five hours per night.
Extremely tight financially; the decent breakfast you had today was, I presume, someone else’s treat.
The pads of your right thumb and index finger have various old and new small scratches and burn marks, caused by operating miniature tools and contact with low-temperature solder.
Your left shoulder is slightly lower, caused by long-term use of a single-shoulder bag or uneven weight-bearing.
The degree of erosion on your shoes does not match your attire; the shoes are old, while the clothes have been frequently washed recently.
Emotional state: nervous, guarded, but determined, with an urgent need for this job.”
Sandrone was completely stunned, a chill crawling up her spine.
The other woman was almost entirely correct!
This feeling of being instantly seen through made her scalp tingle more than the scrutiny of a Detective.
Mrs.
Rosen seemed long used to it and only sighed.
Miss Star leaned on her cane and took two steps forward, her gaze landing on Sandrone’s face, or more precisely, her eyes: “Pupils slightly constricted, breathing frequency increased.
Feeling slight fear at my observations.
Good, at least it proves your sensory system is functioning normally and is not numb.”
She suddenly pointed her cane toward a corner of the room—where a precarious stack of old newspapers and several empty boxes were piled.
“Your first test: within five minutes, tell me how many items in that pile do not belong in this room, and point out their most likely origins.”
Sandrone looked in the direction she pointed; the pile of clutter looked as if it had been gathered randomly from a trash heap.
Five minutes?
How was that possible?
But her training as a mechanics student and an inexplicable feeling allowed her to calm down immediately.
She walked over, not rashly starting to rummage, but instead crouched down and began to observe rapidly.
She first judged the structure and center of gravity of the pile as a whole, then her gaze moved from the date of the newspaper on the top layer, to the material, color, and degree of erosion of the items exposed in the middle, and finally to the faintly visible outlines at the bottom…
“The ‘Nuremberg Daily’ on top is from three days ago; the ink scent is faint, and the corners have wrinkles from being soaked by rain and then dried.
It likely came from a recycling bin or a trash heap on a street corner.”
Her speaking pace quickened as her brain operated at high speed.
“Pressed underneath is a damaged ceramic ashtray, an old style, with the smooth feel of long-term use on the edges, but the bottom has the R-shaped wax seal mark unique to this apartment; it originally belonged here but was discarded.
Next to the ashtray is a section of a broken leather belt; the leather quality is fair, but the break is clean, as if cut by a sharp tool.
The degree of erosion indicates it’s a male item and doesn’t belong to Miss Star.
Further down, there’s an empty Black Hawk Brand tobacco tin; this brand is more popular among Docks workers…
a rusty gear, a standard industrial part, a size commonly found in small textile machines, with marks of violent disassembly on the edges…”
Her voice gradually steadied.
She pointed out three things that clearly did not belong there: the broken men’s leather belt, the tobacco tin commonly used by Docks workers, and that small gear that had been violently disassembled.
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”