musicians of old

Chapter 950 The Countdown to the New Year

"Special Patrol Department? They only sent ink?"

"Oh, and this too."

Before anyone could answer, Congreve immediately pulled out another card from the bottom of the box. It was pure white, without any decoration, and had only one line of printed text on it: “For official business, please accept this.” There was no signature either.

"We suggest accepting it, no need for a return gift?" The assistants paused, indicating they were drafting their recommendations.

"Take it." Sheeran looked up, unsure of what Congreve was saying. "Anyway, I can use it."

This specially made ink is extremely expensive to obtain elsewhere, but it makes a perfect gift.

Sheeran continued opening her own letters. The next one was handwritten, with delicate handwriting, on a pale purple perfumed stationery. It was clearly the letter from the soprano who had recently graduated from the academy and gained fame for playing the lead role in "Tristan und Isolde." The letter was full of admiration and subtly asked if she could "give me half an hour of instruction at your convenient time and place."

She read it twice and put the letter in the "forward to other departments" basket—this type of request is usually handled by the theater's teaching team.

On the other side of the foyer, Roy and Joan were dealing with visitors of the "can't help but greet them face to face" caliber, mainly Roy, of course.

Judge Meraldin and Cardinal Richelieu dressed modestly in ordinary clergy robes, speaking with restraint and politeness, but their conversations couldn't help but probe: whether Mr. Fanning was in good health, whether he would make a public appearance soon, how long he would stay in Janus, and whether he would receive an audience with His Holiness the Pope.
Roy smiled and gave a flawless answer, stating that there were no public appearances scheduled for the time being.

Joan sat in an armchair a little further away, flipping through a sheet music book. After the church members took their leave, she made a suggestion: "Shouldn't we make a reception schedule, with different levels of staff corresponding to different people? But the key is to know what time they prefer so we can make unified arrangements."

“I asked about that yesterday,” Roy said.

What did he say?

“He said,” Roy mimicked Fanning’s calm yet weary tone, “you decide what to do. If you really can’t refuse, I can meet with some people for an hour each day, but no more than fifteen minutes per person.”

"It means he 'only works one hour a day'," Joan said, pursing her lips.

“That’s roughly the idea,” Roy sighed. “But I think he was actually a little better this time than during the Harvest Arts Festival. Before that, he was so bad you just wanted to punch him.”

Footsteps came from the stairs, and the two quickly covered their mouths.

Fan Ning came down several hours late, and when she saw the situation on the first floor, the corners of her mouth curved into a smile.

"It's so lively," he said.

“It’s very quiet here, very quiet,” Roy corrected. “Go look outside the door if you don’t believe me.”

Fan Ning walked to the basket, picked up a few letters and flipped through them slowly, his fingers making almost no sound as they swished across the pages.

He looked very serious, as if he had examined not only the contents of the letters and the contents of the glue labels, but even the texture of the paper in detail. A few minutes later, he put the stack of letters back.

"How is it going?" Hiran asked about the handling method.

"Okay," he said, preparing to walk out.

“Wait, the reception hours,” Roy quickly reminded him. “One hour a day is too short, it’s hard to schedule. It’s the end of the year, how about we work a little more overtime, dear Master Fanning?”

"Then one hour and fifteen minutes?" Fan Ning asked in a gentle, consultative tone.

“He wouldn’t even take a round number.” Joan’s tone was one of defeat.

"Then one hour and forty minutes," Fan Ning humbly accepted, and sincerely asked, "Is that the whole time?"

Roy took a few seconds to process what he was hearing before squeezing out a short syllable through his teeth: “…all.”

Fan Ning turned a corner at the entrance and walked directly towards the courtyard gate. However, the social elites who were queuing up outside, asking around, or negotiating with the reception staff did not seem to recognize that the person who said "excuse me" and brushed past them was clearly their main target.

Starting around noon, San Porto experienced a few more light snowfalls.

Fine snowflakes pattered softly against the glass of shop windows on the street, each time covering Walstan Street with a uniform layer of white, gradually leaving clear footprints.

The air was filled with the aroma of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon from mulled wine, cloves, cheap perfume, and the smell of damp wool coats, while a buzz of anticipation and weariness emanated from the crowd.

Colorful lights and holly wreaths covered the shop windows and doorways of the streets and alleys, and theater posters everywhere were replaced with festive light operas or luxurious ballets. Even many horse-drawn carriages were covered with gold stickers that read "916-917".

Fanning, walking through it all, was clearly visible to everyone, but like a middle note that was indeed in the middle of the melody, yet not very noticeable.

He stood in front of the shop window displaying the "Year-End Sale" sign, watching the mechanical dolls repeatedly bowing against the velvet background, then looked down at the crystal wine glasses from Tia and the lace tablecloths from Pontua displayed next to him.

He stood for a while in front of the street performer's stall. The old man, wrapped in a patched military overcoat, had a face like a dried apple. He was playing a Leander's Dance—the old bellows were breathing heavily, causing the copper nails on the sound tube to strike the reeds, producing a rough but fairly accurate sound. Several children surrounded the performer, imitating his dance steps, their shoes clattering on the stone pavement.

"Ding dong~"

Fanning bent down and gently tossed two silver coins into the violin case.

The instant the silver coin fell, the organ's previously somewhat mechanical rhythm subtly shifted for a fleeting moment, as if rusty gears had been injected with invisible lubricant. The old man's fingers pressed the keys with the same force, but the flowing melody briefly revealed a delicate, almost chamber music-like quality that shouldn't belong to this dilapidated instrument. The children's laughter seemed to simultaneously grow louder and clearer.

The old man looked at the young man with his cloudy eyes. The first glance was out of gratitude for his support, but the second glance was filled with surprise. He seemed to have also sensed the inexplicable change in the performance state just now. Of course, the music quickly returned to its original rough and slightly off-key style.

Fan Ning gave the old man a thumbs up and then left.

In fact, Fan Ning did not use any of his intangible powers; he really only lost two silver coins.

And just ten minutes after he left, another young man in the crowd tossed a few pennies into the violin case, and that inexplicable change reappeared for a fleeting moment.

As night fell, Fanning followed the crowd to the banks of the Holy City Canal.

Many citizens gathered here to set off fireworks. Men in work clothes carefully lit the "fountain flowers," and silvery-white sparks hissed upwards. Children waved "fairy wands," drawing bright circles in the darkness. Families with higher incomes lit large "Roman candles," and colorful balls shot into the air with sharp cries, exploding into golden or green umbrellas of light.

Fan Ning stood in the middle of the crowd, watching a young couple. The girl covered her ears tightly, while the boy laughed and lit the fuse. In the instant the fireworks shot into the sky, their figures, nestled together, were illuminated, their faces beaming with genuine and fervent joy.

His gaze then shifted to another group of people setting off fireworks on the opposite bank of the canal, and then to a third group on the bridge further away.

Fireworks set off by different people in different locations, with their color combinations—despite being purchased randomly—presented an unconscious sense of harmony in the night sky. The combination of red and gold, the alternation of blue and silver, the frequency of their appearance, and their spatial distribution seemed to subtly match a pleasing rhythm, as if an invisible hand was subtly adjusting the colors of this ordinary night scene.

"The path to enlightenment has already begun to be established."

"The sedimentation of silt and the rising of radiance still require some time. The appearance of the waking world, dreams and surging will, people's five senses and subconscious intuition—at this moment, everything is not yet clearly distinguishable enough, like a suspension being shaken in a baby bottle."

Fan Ning gazed at the fireworks bursting in the darkness for a very long time.

He has offered his blessings to the new world, hoping everything will grow up quickly, but when will he be able to see that day? And after that, will he be able to see it or not?

"gentlemen."

A girl's timid voice came from beside my feet.

Fan Ning finally looked down and saw a little girl of about ten years old. She was not tall, and her face was red from the cold. In the pocket of her gray apron were a dozen or so carnations and holly wrapped in thin paper. Behind her were two small wooden carts with baskets connected end to end, filled with deep red roses, golden holly branches, and some carnations, snowdrops and junipers that looked exceptionally nice.