8:59 a.m.
Vivian stood in front of the side door of Notre-Dame de Paris, her stomach’s cravings launching a brutal industrial revolution.
If only she could get a cup of iced Americano to save her life—damn this Commuter DNA.
Right now, her body belonged to a penniless orphan, with only three coins left in her pocket. That giraffe named Cicero—no, that charlatan—had scheduled her interview for nine o’clock.
“Dong—Dong—Dong—”
The bells of Notre-Dame rang nine times.
The black wooden side door creaked open.
It looked less like an office and more like a storeroom meticulously organized by someone with terminal OCD.
Countless towering bookshelves sliced the space into a maze. The shelves held not only books, but also eyeballs floating in formalin and the shriveled half-arm of a mummy.
All these items were tagged, neatly arranged in alphabetical order.
[Aztec Cursed Gold Coin (demagnetized)]
[Borgia Family Ring (do not lick)]
[…]
“You’re twelve seconds late.”
That cold voice came from deep within the bookshelf maze.
Vivian rolled her eyes.
This precision down to the second reminded her of the time clock at her company in her previous life.
She followed the voice, turning three corners before finally seeing Cicero behind a massive oak desk.
Today, he wore a dark gray three-piece suit, his cravat tied with meticulous care. He was jotting something with a quill pen in a register as thick as a brick.
“That’s a commuting error, sir.” Vivian walked up to the desk, bracing both hands on its surface, trying to look more imposing.
“Unless you give me a carriage, my legs can only be so efficient.”
Cicero didn’t even look up.
“Short legs are not an excuse. Sit.” He gestured to a hard-looking wooden chair opposite him.
Vivian sat down. The moment her backside touched the seat, she realized one of its legs was shorter than the others, wobbling precariously.
Great.
Workplace bullying. This was outright workplace bullying.
“I want an advance on my salary.” Vivian decided to get straight to the point.
“If I don’t get some money, I might have to fish in the Seine River for food.”
Cicero finally stopped writing.
He lifted his head, those dark gray eyes scanning Vivian’s face like a pair of precision scanners.
“You’re so sure I’ll hire you?” He set the pen down, fingers interlaced beneath his chin.
“My assistant not only needs to face corpses, evil spirits, and the occasional exploding Alchemical Product, but also has to put up with me.”
“That last part is the hardest, right?” Vivian blurted out.
The air fell silent for two seconds.
Cicero’s lips twitched.
“Your mouth works faster than your brain.” He took a piece of parchment from the drawer and pushed it across to Vivian.
“Sign it. Weekly salary of fifty francs. Room and board included.”
Fifty francs?!
Vivian’s eyes instantly turned into gold coins.
In this age where a butcher would only give three copper sous, fifty francs was like earning thirty thousand a month in modern terms!
“Deal!” Vivian grabbed the pen to sign, not even bothering to read the terms.
“Wait.” Cicero suddenly pressed down on a corner of the parchment.
“Before that, there’s an entry test.”
Of course. As if it were ever that easy to get money from a capitalist.
Vivian put down the pen, eyeing him warily. “If you want me to kill, burn, or loot, it’ll cost extra. And I sell my skills, not my body.”
“It’s not that complicated. I don’t like little girls.”
“I get it, priests like you all prefer little boys.”
“…” Cicero pointed to a pile of clutter in the corner.
There was a mirror draped in black cloth, a violin with broken strings, and… a violently shaking iron box.
“That’s an ‘abnormal item’ we just reclaimed a few days ago.” Cicero’s tone was flat. “That box keeps making a racket. Go handle it.”
The box was about the size of a microwave oven, its lid snapping open and shut, producing a “clack-clack” sound, as if grinding its teeth.
“Handle,” Vivian raised an eyebrow, “how?”
“Up to you.” Cicero picked up his pen again. “If you can’t deal with a box, I’ve no reason to keep you around as a mascot.”
Vivian took a deep breath and approached the restless box.
The box seemed to sense the presence of a living person and shook even more violently.
“Hungry…”
The box could talk? Vivian stared at it for three seconds.
This kind of artificial idiot dared to act up in front of someone who’d survived seven consecutive all-nighters in college?
She turned, scanning the room.
“What are you looking for?” Cicero couldn’t help asking.
Vivian spotted the massive Parish Toponym Dictionary on Cicero’s desk.
Perfect. Knowledge is power. She walked over and picked up the dictionary, which weighed at least five pounds.
“What are you doing?” Cicero frowned.
Vivian carried the dictionary back to the box.
The box snapped open, exposing its “teeth” lined with iron spikes, ready to chomp on this foolhardy human.
“HUNGRY!!!!” The box roared.
“Hungry, my foot.” Vivian raised the dictionary and, summoning all her strength, slammed it straight into the box’s gaping mouth.
“Bang!” A muffled thud.
The lid jammed on the dictionary and wouldn’t close no matter how much it bit down. The box whimpered, desperately trying to spit out this hard lump.
Vivian dusted off her hands and plopped down on top of the box, crushing any last resistance.
“Done.” She tipped her chin at Cicero. “The more you pamper it, the worse it gets. This is called… uh, Reverse Stockholm Syndrome Therapy.”
Cicero’s quill paused midair, the drop of ink finally succumbing to gravity and blotting his expensive waistcoat.
He looked at the Cursed Box, now rolling its eyes from being gagged with a dictionary, then at Vivian’s face that clearly said, “That’s it?”
“Salaries are settled every Monday.” Cicero wiped the ink from his waistcoat, looking thoroughly disgusted.
“Now, go make me some coffee.”
“Got it, Boss.”
Just then, the heavy oak door was violently thrown open.
“Bang!” The door slammed into the wall, making the eyeball jars on the shelves tremble.
A middle-aged man in police uniform burst in.
Sweat poured down his face, his once-dignified mustache now sticking out wildly, his face as red as a ripe tomato.
“Jacques?” Cicero frowned. “What happened?”
“Cicero!” The policeman named Jacques charged forward with a shout.
“Something happened! It happened again!”
Jacques panted, unable to hide the fear in his voice. “At Place de la Concorde… just now! In front of everyone!”
“No weapon, no one even approached. The parliamentarian giving the speech—his head just… pop, gone! Like it was sliced off by a guillotine!”
“Victim was Royalist Party?” Cicero asked.
“Yes! Damn it, how’d you know?”
“Because today is Marie Antoinette’s Memorial Day.” Cicero grabbed a black trench coat from the coat rack and swung it over his shoulders.
“Let’s go, Detective.”
Cicero turned to Vivian, who was trying to sneak off for coffee.
“Your orientation is over. Time for field training.”
“Huh?” Vivian pointed at herself. “I just signed the contract five minutes ago! This violates labor laws! I want overtime pay!”
“Then here’s your chance to earn a bonus.”
Cicero strode out, trench coat tails flying.
“Keep up. Unless you’d rather stay here and chat with that box.”
“Ugh…” Vivian sighed, resigned, and grabbed the deerstalker hat, jamming it onto her head.
The index doesn’t exist? What is the name of this novel?