Chapter 90: A Visit

"I don't understand why you brought apples."

The priest reached into the grain sack, fumbled for a moment, and pulled out an apple slightly unripe, no larger than half his fist.

This fruit, which might one day become common in every household, has not yet been fully domesticated by humans; the climate near Comfort Harbor is also unsuitable for cultivation, and it grows poorly.

The skin, where red meets green, is slightly shriveled; moisture, not transported in time, was dried away by wind and sun; buyers picked out the few with decent appearance, packed them into bags provided by the vendor, which also contained prickly bran.

He wiped dust off the peel against his white robe, took a bite, chewed the fluffy flesh—the meager juice wasn't enough to replenish the saliva he secreted.

"Average. Not as good as mine, and unsuitable for pairing with wine." The priest finished the apple, unsatisfied. The thirst from walking half the harbor under the sun had not eased; he planned to try a fuller one.

Kraft tightened the sack's mouth and slapped his hand away—finding a place to buy fruit isn't easy, since most fruits don't transport well, and the apples people usually see are mostly in the form of cider.

"Shouldn't you bring fruit when visiting a sick person?"

"What logic is that? Aren't you here to treat him?" The fat hand tossed the core, wiped his hands twice on his clothes—too little sugar, no stickiness—"Besides, I've never heard of bringing fruit to visit the sick. Wouldn't wine be better?"

"Let's talk about the person we're looking for today." Kraft rubbed his temple, easing the sudden spike in blood pressure—his headache seemed to be returning.

But the priest was right about one thing: fruit wasn't necessary to bring. Still, arriving empty-handed felt awkward for showing goodwill; apples carried special meaning for an otherworldly soul, so buying one on the way felt like a good start to the day.

"What's there to say? I already told you—he used to work with those who made acid, fell down, and that was it. His daughter takes care of him entirely."

"Nothing more detailed?" Kraft wanted to hear more before entering, to plan what questions to ask, to compare with the family's account. After all, private conversation wasn't appropriate in front of others.

"Last time I went, he couldn't speak at all, lying in bed, his excrement cleaned by his daughter." Few could remain calm discussing such things; Father Adrien was no exception.

When not mentioning wine, he was still a competent priest, filled with compassion for humanity; this family's plight was among the worst he knew.

"I can feel he's still conscious, trapped in a body that won't move. He can chew food, cough incessantly, breathe with difficulty like Vetchum pulling his old bellows—muttering half-formed words—probably something. I privately advised his daughter not to take him to church."

"You know, I'm relatively open-minded," Adrien explained. "But some of the more rigid 'traditional' figures in the church might not agree—their views are frightening."

Kraft nodded in agreement. The most devout believers in such conditions should carefully consider whether to entrust their care to religious authorities—though most often, they lack the capacity to decide for themselves.

Along the gravel path, the priest walked ahead, speaking as he led Kraft deeper inside; away from the street, this place resembled Wendeng Harbor in general.

"His daughter—I don't know what to say… She has to support two people. What can she do? What can she possibly do?"

He truly didn't know how to say it; years of church moral education forced him to avoid blunt statements, to reorganize his words from the beginning: "She's so young—should she learn from those at the harbor?"

His words carried indignation, though the target was unclear.

Kraft didn't know what to say, silently listening as the priest complained, realizing they shared something in common—both encountered things that weren't pleasant.

On the sparsely trafficked path, footsteps came from behind. He tapped the priest's shoulder, signaling someone was approaching—stop talking. Even if unintentional, they must avoid damaging reputations.

Before the priest could fall silent, a female voice rang out from behind: "Are you talking about Yvonne?"

"What Yvonne? I was talking about those people at the harbor taverns who…" Adrien reacted quickly, realized his mistake, and immediately tried to brush it off, shifting the visitor's attention: "Ah, good afternoon, Yvonne."

A girl with chestnut hair stood at the previous corner, one hand on her hip, watching them. At this distance, she'd heard at least half of what the priest said.

Kraft felt so embarrassed he wanted to bury himself in the sand, hiding behind the priest's broad, fat frame, wishing he could slip into the apple sack.

Even before his suspension, Adrien had been a veteran priest; thick skin was part of the job—he somehow held his ground despite being caught speaking ill behind someone's back, pretending nothing happened, using Kraft to draw the fire.

"I've found a new doctor for your father—sharp as someone who can see through scripture, treated my liver disease." He stepped aside, revealing Kraft, who stood apart, staring at the apple sack. Kraft forced a stiff, professional smile, unsure of the proper etiquette.

Cornered with no escape, he stepped forward and offered the bag to the girl, whose height barely reached his chest—like a child dragged out by parents to greet distant relatives, trying to follow procedure to ease the tension.

"Hello, I'm Kraft Wood, lecturer at the Wendeng Harbor Medical College, invited by Father Adrien to examine your father—I hope I can help with his condition." He also hoped to learn something about that alchemist.

Attempting treatment was fine, but finding clues was his real purpose. His motives were impure, weakening his presence; combined with no confidence in treating suspected stroke cases, his words grew increasingly hollow.

Yvonne eyed the doctor brought by the priest—his title was long, and he included his surname, suggesting he wasn't ordinary. The priest's assessment proved correct; the girl hesitated slightly, then didn't reach for the bag.

The silence stretched. Kraft looked helplessly at Adrien—though this man was the source of the current mess, at least he knew the girl better, right?

The priest finally did something useful: he took the bag, stepped into Kraft's place, and explained to Yvonne: "Mr. Kraft has unique insights into diagnosing causes, different from previous doctors. The apples in the bag are for you—don't be polite."

"Thank you, Father." Perhaps because Adrien had previously been on decent terms with her—at least he'd gained some familiarity while seeking information about Vetchum. After his words, Yvonne's tense face softened slightly; she politely thanked him, yet still didn't take the apples.

"But if you're here to see my father, you're a few days too late."

The new doctor didn't elicit any hint of hope or other emotion from the girl—only a flat, numb expression, one Kraft sometimes saw on adults: the result of prolonged illness, repeating tiny hopes and greater disappointments, hammering out the last embers of feeling, leaving behind a cold, dead lump of iron.

But there was no other adult in this family to shoulder everything, so it naturally fell upon a child.

She didn't seem particularly sad—almost relieved—as she stated the outcome plainly: "He died three days ago. He didn't tell me anything about the things you asked about."