If you go hunting a tiger...

- 9 -

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

I tried to calm down. Even though there was never any stress in my previous life, I didn't have conflicts with anyone, but I'm not a piece of jelly! My granny taught me to be calm and strong and to be able to defend my rights. Of course, kidnapping, captivity, and this maniacal house, a constant convoy, all of these don't add anything to self-confidence, but it is too early to turn into a hysterical person.

Why am I so upset anyway?

Ah, got it. On the carpet lay a newspaper with a full-page headline, "Mortal Kombat in TGS: There can be only one."

The rag, judging by the headline, is yellower than a lemon, but even such publications don't write lies. They exaggerate, embellish, or understate, but they don't lie.

This means someone has already been killed here. The police didn't find evidence; this happens, but there was noise in the newspapers. Who was killed then? Could it have been my father?

Because of the lawyer's visit, I thought Albert Terrent had died two or three months ago, but nothing in the house suggests there had been a recent funeral. Even if Dave treated his son with indifference and was happy about his death, then death itself will continue to influence the existence of the house itself, and especially the enterprise, for a long time. Irma, Eleanor, or even Chris would definitely have blurted out about Albert's recent death. Or even more so, Chris, who had an affair with Albert.

It turns out that my father died a long time ago. And Dave hoped to make Eleanor's son an heir, but something went wrong, and I was needed.

This means that the father was killed. I don't want to know why; it doesn't matter; all that matters to me is the threat to my life. And it's more difficult to defend against her than against Diongus Tinoliadis.

"What?" I asked. Dave was saying something all this time, but I listened.

"The gift of a calligrapher-ligaturer can't leave the family!" Dave growled, rather furious.

"Oh, come on, it doesn't have any value!" I said it contemptuously. "A crowd of designers, historians, and specialists in dead languages graduates every year. Hire at least a dozen calligraphers. Or did you imagine that I, as a relative, would do the design for free? Eat shit!"

Dave looked at me very strangely: with an absolute amazement, which gave way to suspicion, and then he said accusingly:

"You don't believe in the power of folitvons?"

"Do you treat yourself with an elixir made from hare droppings?" I asked sarcastically. "That's noticeable."

Dave glared at me with hatred. I just grinned contemptuously. And Dave said,

"The Alnorrian Bible Church recognises the grace of folitvons."

"I amn't interested in the opinion of any religious institution, and in a civilised country, they can all express it only within the confines of their institutions."

"No one from the Terrent family can ignore the church!" Dave growled. "And all Terrents are only Biblians!"

"I'm Calvin. And you owe me."

To my surprise, Dave didn't argue or blackmail me. He suddenly smiled as sweetly as possible with his nefarious mug and said that we would discuss this topic later, and now he had an important online meeting.

I felt scared. What is this ghoul up to?

But strangely enough, until the ball itself—this is a week—nothing significant happened. Even in the interview Dave arranged the day after our conversation, nothing special happened. Five journalists came, obviously from TGS-friendly publications, and said that there would be a live broadcast on their television and online channels. I told the cameras that I wanted to take my father's property, pay off the debts for the candy shop, and, if my granny wanted to withdraw from business, find a tenant. Then I will go to the east of the country and create a fund for the development of Old-Alnorrian, joining those who are seeking recognition of it as the fourth state language.