Charlotte did not have a particularly strong impression of this editor, whom she had only met a handful of times. She had spoken briefly with him when visiting the newspaper office to discuss business with Roselle and Green. She remembered his habit of reviewing manuscripts with an old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, and the sight of him slinking off to the corridor to smoke after Roselle, worried that the entire building might catch fire, scolded him.
Jacob, in contrast, could be described as obsequious toward her, Roselle, and the others, while being somewhat harsh on the contributors. Charlotte had always found that a little uncomfortable, but Roselle believed it was precisely the attitude a newspaper editor should have. Otherwise, letting just any article into the Weekly would not only disappoint readers but potentially invite trouble from the nobles, City Hall, or even the Church.
Yet Charlotte had never imagined that someone she had seen just a few days ago would now lie dead before her in such a bizarre pose. Frowning, she surveyed the various symbols around her, which seemed neither to have any mystical significance nor to form a complete picture, before returning her gaze to the center of the warehouse and Jacob's bloodless face.
The dead man's arms were spread to either side, his palms facing diagonally upward. His ten fingers were slightly curled from rigor mortis, while his head was tilted as far back as possible, exposing a wound across his neck deep enough to reveal bone. His entire posture looked as though he were bathing in sunlight descending from the heavens, or offering his praise to the Eternal Blazing Sun.
But Charlotte distinctly remembered that Jacob was a believer in the God of Artisan. Though his faith was shallow-he was the sort of casual believer who