The man slowed down on his rusty bicycle over the hill, pressed the brakes under the shade of a tree, and looked around for bystanders. He'd just passed Herne, turned north by the railroad and followed the stream passing by the gravestones and the demolished chapel just as he'd been told.

It was a perfect afternoon to go out quietly, Grey thought to himself. It was sunny enough for him not to worry about the weather, yet cloudy enough that nobody would venture out without a reason to do so. Spring was on the rise, and he needed not worry about freezing stiff for half of the year.

Not just for himself, but 'for his client' as well. This was a house far out in the country, gable-ended with wooden shingles as he'd been instructed. Nary but a dirt road nearby, a pair of oxen tied to a stake, a barn and acres of farmland as far as the eye could see. A tractor might'a helped this feller with his work, he thought to himself. But I suppose, that ain't your business in this job. Lotta people you'd think don't need it, they do. Errybody got their own reasons, I guesses, and times are always a'changin'. [i]

Seeing nobody, he breathed a sigh of relief. He set his bike against the tree, unbuttoned the plaid shirt under his dark maroon coat and dragged a crumpled little yellow note out of his inside pocket, before tearing it and throwing it into a puddle. Each little piece made tiny ripples, warping the reflection of his wrinkles into hypnotic patterns as he stepped on it. With each following splat, the ink smeared and blended with the shallow water, erasing the message within.

Once he'd shoveled some mud over the remains with the sole of his shoe, he'd reached inside his gatsby hat, grabbing the fake business card within. "Lanic & Willard Associates Press," the card read under a symbol of a quill printed in red.

With a long-sided bag strung over his back, Grey rehearsed his greeting three and a half times, slid the card into his trousers and straddled over to the front porch in his smooth leather shoes—well polished, he'd hoped. "G'd afternoon folks," he'd announced his presence, knocking softly. "Anybody home? Merrylbarrow?," he wiped the sweat off his forehead as he awkwardly called out, ringing the bell before cursing 'the boss' between his teeth for his fookin Shaftlicker handwroitin'. Why's cursive gots to be this bloody illegible in Lyd'n'shaftlick?!

A soft voice rang from above, with the scratchiness and tone of an elderly woman. "Th-this is the Marlborough home," she corrected. "Oh, you must be one of those postal people again?" She opened the curtains of the window above, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses to look at the man and revealing her long messy grayed hair.

"No, mi'hss," he smiled, wincing from the sun in his eyes as he turned his head up. "It's, uhm, Lah-nick uh'nd Willerd Press, Gukuquka[ii] Weekly. Oi'm looking for an Eh-Eva-"

"Evanthelia Marlborough! That would be me! Oh, I'm so glad you came," her face lit up. Her tone suddenly became a lot more inviting. "Do come in," she cleared her throat, "do come in. I unlocked it just a minute ago."

Once he'd opened the door, Grey's jaw dropped at the chandeliers and the vastness of the home, contrasted with the dilapidated furniture, the damp set of boot prints on the floor and items strewn about. The living room was populated with splattered canvases, cobwebbed tables, and a well-endowed shelf whose dust gaps told the story of a long-used family library, now a store of booze. A piano, likely where someone long ago played to entertain the family and practiced their first melody from its age and the photo album laid bare on it. He tried to chase the thought of gorging himself on the wine out of his mind, knowing what he was about to do. "Say, meh'ss, woud'ye prefer that oi c'mover upstairs?" he froze in place before the staircase.

"Why, ye-s!" her voice cracked, "I'd be delighted if you could come over to my tea room."

The man walked up the circular staircase, holding the handrail to stave off vertigo. "Ah, ah'm hevin' trouble co'ming up," he puffed and turned to his left, "ye'll excuse me miss, 's that you in this picture? Young madam and 'er kid."

"Tha-t's," her voice sputtered as she walked hunched over to the top of the staircase with her lips pulled back, "why, that's me and my no-good brother Clay," she snidely remarked, "why don't you take this off?" She spat the words out, like seeds stuck in her mouth. "...ah, why do I care?" she fanned away at the picture as if it gave off a bad odor, holding the man's shoulder before he could pick it up, "leave it, it's cursed."

"Cursed," he repeated inquisitively as he kept his skepticism to himself, resting his hand on her arm, juss' in case she's about ta' shove me.

Or, she thinks the 'ouse might'a be haunted. Ya never know what the clients can 'ave on their minds.

"Ah, Gi-llie once tried to take it off and died when the stairs broke. I believe she wanted to take it with her to the piano…" her tone wilted , "I now put the photo album there, when I practice her favorite songs sometimes."

Back home, we eat apples and pears. In Lyd'n'shaftlick, ye get eat'n by tha stairs.

His voice quickly cut off in hesitation, before he'd turned over to her to make a request, with a pensive curve on his eyebrows. "Meh'ss, could I play on it fe'r a bit? Need me an ear fer practice."

"Hm?" her eyes widened in surprise. "Play the piano?" she stepped down toward him, looking at the dusty instrument. "Well, I'd have to dust it first."

He held his cap against his chest, and nodded his head. "Well, it'd be an 'onor, meh'ss Morlborrow. I 'avent practiced in what feels like a bloody lahfe-toime."

"Why, I'll oblige!" her eyes widened before she pulled up her linen dress and slowly descended, "better make sure it doesn't get caught on the splinters!"

Grey, looking at her back and hands, glanced at her neatly-trimmed nails and the penknife left in her pocket, clutched his vest's torn sleeve and pulled it over the edge of a scar. His elbow, knocking over a light and hard object, jolted when he'd heard the sound of breaking glass as a flower vase crashed on the floor. Cripes! That cood'a waited 'till my job was bloody done!

"What ha-", the woman shouted before turning around, "ah!," she noticed the shards on the floor, and the roses on the spilled water. "That urn," her voice cracked, "was her favorite!"

"Me apologies, meh'ss," he raised his palms, "were ye about ta give it to somebody in yer will?"

"Somebody?" she growled, walking over to the mess that blended in with the dusty furniture and the splotch of gouache on the wall, "no, nobody," she wistfully answered her question while rubbing her face.

"Ah'm very sorry fer the vayse, ah'll go get a danged dustpan from oopstairs."

"What's the point?" Evanthelia shooed away the suggestion, "if you did that, we'd have to clean everything else too," she stepped down to the instrument, grabbing a cloth and dusting it down. Now mi't be the roight time to get it done.

Grey followed her, looking at the dial and handset hung on the wall. "This tellaphone, it werks? Whass that word cahrved here?" he pointed at the wooden frame, carrying an inscription his foggy eyesight couldn't quite make out.

"Fassid," she delivered with the warmth of an ice pack, "They gave him this at work, to call him around the clock."

"Who wassit?"

"A man who slept in my here home, made me prepare his breakfast and dinner and would come home in a rolling tin can with tin words, and smokes all but stapled to him," she sighed, "I don't regret the divorce one bit. He'd forget his own number and get me to dial, but was sharp as a tack when he'd bring a nauseating pack of cigarettes!"

The white-haired man held the handset to his ear, hearing nothing but silence while the woman implicated every digit that had conspired against her by being part of the dreaded phone number even as he fidgeted with the dial, followed by a clatter of blacks and whites being scrubbed.

"It's ready!" she announced, watching him sit down at the keys as she leaned back on a chair by the dinner table.

He cracked his knuckles and took a breath. "This'll be a warm-oop. Ah used'ta play this in tahverns."

His fingers awkwardly played the chords of a rather smooth, yet bland melody of the kind that put one to rest, loosening his shoulders as he'd gotten into the flow. "When ah wes younger, me fingers cood go round an' round a peyano loike this 'ours at a time! Lannick and bloody Willard press, Gucka-a crock! Ah told Boss ah'd never seen a bloody printer ba-fore," his back folded over the instrument from cackling.

"Where'd you play?" her curiosity perked up, as she reached into the cabinet to grab an unmarked bottle.

"C'treegall[iii]. I was born in da nooth, had me a son, a dootah and a lovely lady, ah had av-rything," he forced himself to play a few more notes, hands shaky. "By tha time tha war started, Ei was aw-rready quite the crummeh gee-," his mouth twitched, "geezar, coodn't run a bloody moile if oi wanted. We wer' doin quoite well too, erryone cood find good wark."

"Wh-where are they…" her voice quieted, as if she realized she'd cursed someone.

"Me son, Red? He finished school, enrolled in tha army fer a career. Of couhse, we w're glad to hear 'bout tha peace. But then, civ'l war an' all that arroived, he fought, he and his sistah got me the last train ticket outta the countreh," he tensed up and shivered, making a mess over the keys, "ah, ah, she w'shot whoile we were on tha last bloody moile to tha train stahtion! A hole in her foarehead biggar than tha mid'finger ah threw those reb-bels when ah got on! Ah still feel tha snow and blood splattah'd on me hands! She and Whitney, me precious dollies… Elisa and ah never saw her and Red ageen since she was nursing sold'jahs," his voice cracked, " 'and me that sauce, will ya?" he held his hand out as she poured him a glass of red wine, and he downed it.

"Ah, I hear that. One day you feel like you have everything, family," she looked at the photo album behind his head, "an estate, a fine place to call home… and the next, you're wondering if you dreamed it all up."

"Oi played this," he pointed at the piano, grabbing the pages of song sheets above the keys and flipping them, "to calm down drunks that didn'know how much toime they could've spent with people that thay wasted wit' tha bottle, and now oi'm here. Ah, ta hell wit' it," he put the paper back in its place and closed the book, "here's a Grey special piece fo' ye: only the best!" his lungs blasted the promise at his client, seemingly forgetting what he'd come for.

"Well, I'll listen!" she beamed, in the most enthusiastic tone her meek voice could muster as she stumbled over the chair in a drunken stupor."

His fingers smashed and dashed all over the keys, giving the swingy impression of a spring festival—one that would've occurred in a much sunnier place, missing only an organ and a tube. The woman's creases lit up with joy, getting her up and prancing around the room. "Ah, this reminds me of my younger days! Going around Herne, seeing the girls after church and playing with marbles… I've heard this, it was one of Irma Fliech[iv]'s operas! The one she did with Webster![v]"

"Fliech, Fliech… Hah! Tis an old C'triglan drinking song, 'Freezing Till Evening.' With a pers'nal touch ov swing, taught ma-self this tack-nique, that Fliech lady must'a bloody fleeced us fer it! No royalties!" he snickered, bobbing his head from side to side and turned his head to look at her spinning in her dress. "Ye hear?"

"Ah," she drifted off pensively towards the window, "I saw the most perfect doll today."

"Doll?"

"All the way here, she came. It couldn't have been more of a surprise! She had bright silky hair, and wore a shiny green jewel over a regal velvet dress. I wish she could've been with me for more than a measly few minutes."

She wasn't tryin'a hurt me, but she really went from playin' with bloody marbles to loosin' them.

"Har ha ha, a dah'll!" he let out a deep-throated laugh, "Ya 'ave great tales ta tell, meh'ss."

"The violets are blooming, why don't we go outside?" she suggested, leaning on the windowsill.

"Well, meh'ss, ah suppose it'll make tha clean-oop easier aftah tha job," he picked up his bag and stood up, "let's go," he walked over to the door, holding it open for her. A loud thud creaked the floorboard behind him, when he'd realized she'd tumbled, and he'd ran up to her to help her up. "You awright, meh'ss Morlb'rough?"

"I'm okay, it'll pass," she held his hand as he led her out into the pasture, "thank you. You are such a kind man, part of me couldn't believe you'd do something like this."

"Loike what?" he turned around, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," she hesitated, "your job made me think I'd meet a bit of a... brutish fellow."

"A brewtish fellaw?" his face barely concealed the sting those words gave him, "it's juss' a job," her arm was draped over his shoulders while his shoes powered through the terrain until she'd dug in her sandals and let go. "Well," he tipped his hat, "s'been wohnderful, meh'ss," he looked at the cleared sky, "ya've gots ta let me ta bring ya soomthin' from da kitchon ta go with that weather ba-fore ye play tha harp?"

She looked him up and down. "My god," she yelped with her fingers on the hinges of her eyeglasses, "I'd left some of this morning's Enchainean[vi] strawberries in the refrigerator!" she pointed at the kitchen window facing the setting sun, "bring some with a glass of water, and maybe take the rest in a cooler."

Nodding his head and giving a thumbs-up, Grey barged back in through the open door into the kitchen, almost tipping a chandelier over right as he'd turned before the staircase, before he'd grabbed it in midair to put it back. Wonder 'ow much oi could sell this for if ah pluck it outta 'ere! Maybe it'll be enuff fer a new coat, he stopped in place before he'd heard the voice of his client call out to him. "Mister, are you okay?"

He craned his neck to look at the door, ascertaining that she hadn't followed him. "Yes, o-one mohment, meh'ss, ah'll be 'ere wit' you ba-fore ya knewit!" he reassured her, before sprinting as fast as his elderly legs could carry him into the kitchen, grabbing a chilling iron bucket of strawberries out the icebox, and headed over to the wall-mounted telephone, picking up the handset.

What's tha num'ah fer that 'Butcher' bloke Boss told me to get?, he grabbed the card off his slacks and read the digits he'd penned on the back one by one as he dialed, the numbers gradually forming a funk over his face. Noineteen, sevanny-noine…

The Coroner and this li'l granner? Blimey, they w're mehried? What a cackshow!

"Allo, 'tis the Butchar?" he tried to keep his voice low. "Ah've been sent to finish meh'ss Morlb'rough's con-trackt…" Ah, she'd feel 'ugely betray'd if she knew oi wes wohrkin' wit' 'im.

A grovelly man's voice surged, as if from the other side of the machine. "I see. Can't come soon enough," he rattled snidely, "when will it be taken care of?"

"No latar than no'w, ser."

"That's all then. I'll come over from Roswell-upon-Herne," the scratchy voice added, "I'll take care of her remains. Worst case scenario, she'll go missing."

"So 'ow far issit?"

"Half an hour will do," he heard the phone hang up.

Crickets chirping in the breeze and the oxen bellowing in the distant made for the only sounds to be heard.

Sitting by Mrs. Marlborough eating strawberries, one by one, made him close his eyes and think of his late wife as he grabbed a handful, feeling the warmth of the sun he wished he'd seen more of back home.

The client sighed, turned to him and spoke sternly. "It's time."

He stiffened his lips, pulled out the Luger from his bag, raised it above his head to peek at its stock, and inspected the magazine in his hand, looked into the barrel for a moment, and loaded the lead with a click. "I hoepe ye'll be togetha' wit' yer man," he stopped briefly as she lowered her head, "yer old mahn in the next lahfe," he consoled his client with a tone as sympathizing towards her as it was scolding of himself.

His eyes showed a faint grimace, one he'd hoped no one would see. "'Ey, ya don't hold it agin'st me fer this job, Eva?" he asked, almost pleading as he stuck the barrel to the back of her skull.

Her breath seemed to be slowing, her voice faltering. "I paid you to relieve me. Do it."

He steeled himself, and puffed his voice with determination. "Arright, keep look'n at tha vahlets. Ah'll be quick," he promised. "Turn yer temple ta tha muzz'le, ta mayke et look loike ye did it ta yerself."

"One last thing," she did as instructed and shot a heavy look at him with a curled lip, "take my canvases out of my home: the less my loutish brother[vii] will inherit of my work, the better."

A sudden force seized his weapon away from his hand, as he'd witnessed a large axe slice it cleanly in half, fitting narrowly between his hand and the woman's ear. His shoulder was caught between pins and needles under the pressure of metal, launching him across the terrain writhing in pain. "Stop it!" a softer voice cried out, seemingly addressed to him, "what do you even think you're doing?!"

Bloody Hell! D'the Butcher set me oop?

Grey found himself punted against the porch, sore all over his back, and without turning to look back, ran inside and headed into the kitchen. Pressing the scar on his arm against his coat's chest, he swept the broken glass from the vase into the entrance with a broom and pulled a long knife from the silverware rack.

Backing into a dark corner that made a blind-spot, he'd wedged his shoes between a pair of mouse traps and weighed up the risk of peering out the window in his mind, and took a look.

He was stiff in shock at what he'd seen: the doll he'd thought was the illusion of a heartsick madwoman, was entirely real. Wielding an axe the size of a golem on her back, her prosthetic metal arms and golden hair, tied up in colorful ribbons, glowed under the sunlight in her frilly blue dress and white skirt, accompanied by a pair of freckled young redheads, seemingly brother and sister staring agape at his client.

The surreal sight clashed with the reality of the pain in his joints welling up, and he'd curled up on the floor in resignation. "That man was trying to kill you," the same voice he'd heard before spoke emotionlessly. "Are you in proper condition, ma'am? You informed me that you had planned to off yourself by tomorrow."

"Wh-what is happening?! Who are y-you," a bewildered Evanthelia backed away from the three, taking her glasses off to wipe them.

"Allow me to reintroduce myself, miss Marlborough. I am Violet Evergarden, your Auto Memories Doll. After our conversation this morning, I have come to believe you have never been made aware of your two surviving relatives, Spencer and Luculia. My employers had instructed me to remain in your service for the full duration of the day," the soft-featured doll recited with the same rhythm and precision of her attacks.

Auto Memories Doll! Mey God, thay make 'em awtohma-tick now?

[i] It's meant to be a shitty Scottish accent. Honestly, I'm not sure how accurate it is (and it doesn't have to be, so what the hell.) My best reference for it was just the Demoman from Team Fortress 2, and his voice actor is American.

[ii] Gukuquka is what you get when you transcribe the name of a newspaper some background character is reading in episode 9. It sounds like shit, but I kept it in to stick to the original.

[iii] Ctrigall. Seen in Episode 11, the one with the soldier in the snow.

[iv] If you don't know who this is, watch Episode 14.

[v] Episode 7. The one with the lake.

[vi] This country, Enchaine, exists west of Leidenschatlich. Herne is on the Western Front (Episode 3.) Therefore, it makes sense that they'd have imports.

[vii] Clay Marlborough, Luculia's father, is dead as of Episode 3. Evanthelia does not know this – hinting at how fractured their relationship is.