He sized Ryan up from head to toe.
“Are you the clerk with some potential the supervisor mentioned?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes.”
The young man smiled. “Lucky you.”
“People in the basement can spend years trying to get up here.”
As he spoke, the other two nearby looked up, clearly curious about Ryan.
Alvin frowned. “Simon, keep it down.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” Simon waved his hand dismissively.
He pulled a file from his drawer and tossed it onto Ryan's desk. “Since you've been transferred, get to work first.”
Ryan looked down at it.
It was an old census registry for the East End's old town district, its edges already yellowed.
Simon said, “Proofread this first.”
“Mark the error numbers with a red pen.”
“Don't edit them directly.”
“It's different here from downstairs.”
“Downstairs is just copying.”
“Here, you check if others copied correctly.”
Ryan nodded and opened the file.
The first page was densely packed with names and addresses. Much of the handwriting was faded, and some entries had even been corrected two or three times.
Alvin stood by and watched for a moment.
Once he confirmed there were no issues, he spoke up. “Someone delivers lunch at one in the afternoon.”
“Hot water is at the very back.”
“The restroom is out the door and to the right.”
“And...” He paused, looking at Ryan. “Don't browse documents on other people's desks.”
“Especially the locked ones.”
With that, Alvin turned and left to attend to his own work.
Ryan sat at his new workstation, looking down at the registry before him.
Nearby, someone was flipping through documents. In the distance, voices whispered about reference numbers, and the faint clatter of carriages on the street could be heard outside the window.
It was quieter here than in the basement, and cleaner too.
Ryan worked straight through the afternoon.
The formal recording hall was completely different from the basement; no one slacked off here, and no one dared to daydream for long.
Every so often, someone would walk in carrying new files, place them on the corresponding desk, and leave.
The entire process was highly structured.
At first, Ryan found it difficult to adapt.
The documents here were far more complex than those in the basement.
Downstairs only required transcription, whereas here, it required proofreading.
Names, dates, addresses, parish codes, birth records, marriage registries, and times of death—if a single detail was wrong, the original archives had to be re-examined.
Ryan didn't feel much at first.
But around three in the afternoon, his head began to ache, and that familiar, dull pain in his chest slowly flared up again.
His lungs felt congested, each breath bringing a sharp sting.
He lowered his head and coughed twice, quickly covering his mouth with a handkerchief. Fortunately, there was no blood.
Beside him, Simon looked up. “You look terrible.”
Ryan tucked the handkerchief away. “Yeah.”
Simon clicked his tongue and went back to flipping through his documents. “That's what happens when you spend too much time in that godforsaken basement.”
“Kerosene fumes, dust, dampness... a normal person's lungs would rot after a few years down there.”
He added, “The formal hall is a bit better. At least you aren't breathing in plaster dust every day.”
Ryan said nothing and continued working.
Although lunch had been delivered at noon, food in the formal recording hall wasn't free.
Even the cheapest portion of stewed potatoes cost two pence.
Ryan didn't have a single penny in his pocket.
He could only drink hot water to force himself through the day.
By four in the afternoon, his hunger became pronounced.
The words on the page even began to blur, and he suddenly realized a much more serious problem.
What was he going to do tonight?
He hadn't received his weekly wage from the basement yet, and the twenty pence he had been advanced was already spent on food.
The formal hall operated on a monthly salary system, which meant—he was currently penniless.
Ryan's pen paused.
Rent.
Dinner.
Medicine.
Kerosene.
These problems loomed over him once more like driving nails.
He suddenly realized that although the supervisor had given him a hand for some unknown reason, it didn't mean he could survive immediately.
Before his salary was in hand, he was still so poor he could barely breathe.
At six in the afternoon, the formal recording hall began to close up. Some packed their desks, others returned the day's files to the numbered cabinets, and some began putting on their coats.
Simon stood up and stretched. “Finally over.”
He looked at Ryan. “Aren't you leaving?”
Ryan remained silent for a moment before asking, “For formal positions... when is the salary paid?”
Simon blanked for a second, then burst out laughing.
The two clerks nearby couldn't help but look up as well.
“At the end of the month.”
“A single monthly payout.”
“You didn't think you'd get paid today just because you got transferred, did you?”
Ryan said nothing, his expression turning rather grim.
Simon stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly realized something. “Wait.”
“Don't tell me you don't have a single penny on you?”
Ryan remained silent. Simon stared at him for another two seconds.
Finally, he muttered, “Shit.”
“You people from the basement really know how to survive.”
He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a few coins. “Here.”
Three pence clinked onto the desk.
Ryan frowned instinctively. “I'll pay you back.”
“No shit,” Simon rolled his eyes. “I'm not running a charity.”
“Remember to pay me back four pence next month.”
Ryan was stunned.
“Interest,” Simon said solemnly.
Someone nearby laughed. “You're truly wicked, Simon.”
“Take it or leave it.” Simon flung his coat over his shoulder. “Who in the East End lends money without interest these days?”
“Besides,” he glanced at Ryan's deathly pale face, “in your state, you might not even make it home tonight if you don't eat.”
Ryan went silent for a few seconds before finally taking the money. “Thanks.”
Simon waved his hand. “Just put it on your tab.”
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he added, “Oh, right.”
“You should still be able to collect your wages from the basement.”
Ryan looked up.
“The weekly wage for temporary clerks is settled on Fridays.”
“The supervisor transferred you today, so theoretically, the basement has to pay you for the past few days.”
“Though—” Simon grinned. “Those old geezers in the finance office love to drag their feet.”
“You'd better go to the finance office tonight.”
“Otherwise, they'll drag it out until next week.”
Ryan stood up immediately. “Where is the finance office?”
“The back building.”
“Go out the door, turn right, and cross the archiving courtyard.”
“The one with the bronze plate on the door.”
Ten minutes later, Ryan left the formal recording hall.
It was already dark outside. London's streets were shrouded in a thick fog, the gas lamps casting a hazy yellow glow through the mist.
The wind was cold, and Ryan pulled his coat tighter around himself.
He crossed the backyard and finally found the finance office.
Inside sat only an old man wearing glasses, looking down as he calculated accounts.
“What is it?”
“Back pay for the basement recording room.”
The old man didn't even look up. “ID number.”
“Basement temporary clerk, Employee Number 37.”
The old man flipped through his ledger for a long time.
Finally, he frowned. “Weren't you transferred?”
“Transferred today.”
“Oh.”
The old man flipped through the pages for a bit longer.
Then, he fished a few coins out of a drawer.
“Three and a half days' wages.”
“Deducting kerosene wear, paper wear, and tardiness records...”
“Six shillings and five pence remaining.”
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