【Book of Hours/司辰之书】1906: Seventy-Seven Winks
1906：七十七下眨眼
斯泰法尼酒店
维也纳
1906年一月十五日
亲爱的塞雷娜(Serena)——
你的《墨水史》已经到手了。书的状况相当不错。书边稍稍有点模糊，但这个小家伙给它整理得很好。尽管这些古怪的经历和我预期的不太一样。让我告诉你是怎么一回事。
威尼斯的小径很冷，当然。他们还在讲老霍科巴尔德（Hokobald，1722年文本‘Prophet and Loss 中的写信人，他借来的《墨水史》被一只原生先知抢走了’）的故事，说什么这个地方现在被诅咒了，但要我说多半是被这里升腾的潮湿气给诅咒了。不知道那里怎么能住人。总之，没有什么可循之迹，所以我在心里对我自己说，好吧，D.，我的姑娘，低下头，眨七十七次眼睛，看看睿智骑士是不是在宴请客人，他会知道些东西的。
你读到这这里时会想，得了吧，D.，你比谁都清楚，睿智骑士在漫宿里的地位有点高，不大可能和原生先知讲话，对吧？ 但事情是这样的，睿智骑士知道那个古怪的骨白者，骨白者知道那个古怪的干渴者，而干渴者知道原生先知。所以我会去问问。
睿智骑士心情很好，所以我们都喝了杯他的酒——又喝了一杯，然后又喝了一杯，接着我们开始闲聊。作为一个具名者他很不错。遗憾的是他没有足够的波特酒，甚至梦境之波特酒，但就具名者而言已经不错了。当我醒来后，我出去呼吸了一下黎明的晨雾，做了点常规练习，当我再回到里面时，发现镜子上写着一个地址——作为一位具名者，他真的很不错。
那地址在维也纳。现在你知道我对维也纳的感觉了，自从俱乐部的事以后，我在那里一直不太舒服，但我想，塞雷娜是个好人，我欠她一两个人情，而坐火车去也没那么远。所以我去了。
两天后，在维也纳。找到地址了，到处打探一下，看看是怎么回事。惹人厌的小巢穴，到处都是不三不四的人，他们还给原生先知准备了自己的小神龛。（睿智骑士给了我它的名字，我试着写下来，但用这些字母写不出来。就叫他普罗普西(Propsy)吧）普罗普西的小小邪教，塞丽娜，你明白我的性子，随遇而安，什么都好，但给普罗普西这样的家伙建神龛，我总觉得就像给一块羊排建神龛一样。你见过原生先知吧？他们就像被马踩了一脚的海星一样，就是更大些。
不过，奇怪的是...普罗普西还不错。当然，不会说话，但这小家伙会写字，我不只是说像我写这封信那样表达自己，或者提出自己的观点之类的，我的意思是说它是个书法家，一个优秀的书法家。它那些小触角就像日本毛笔一样好用，你肯定想知道它从哪儿弄来的墨水，对吧，塞丽娜，你该庆幸我没告诉你。
长话短说，普罗普西认为《墨水史》是它写的，认为书是被人偷走的，并对H.H.做了一系列最糟糕的评价（对不起，塞丽娜），所以我们就好好聊了聊，我也敲了敲它，但最后我们达成了一致，它可以把书还给了我，但要付钱。听起来很公平。我为此在账单上又加了一项支出。恐怕有点贵——别生气。你当然不会，我知道你是个好人。
给你吧，账单，书，我们就差蜡烛了，哈哈!我会在昼夜平分的时日再来的。我还需要你帮我处理陵墓的事。事实上，还有俱乐部，我在那儿有点事情要打理。
再见
D.
PS！普罗普西希望正确署名。名录册里的名字。当然，在这里写不了——用这些字母写不出来。希望你能解决这个问题。否则可能会引起些麻烦，交给你了。祝你好运。D.
ps1：很有趣的一篇，显然是1722年文本‘Prophet and Loss’ 的后续，收信人Serena Blackwood女士委托写信者D.调查寻找丢失的《墨水史》，在睿智骑士的帮助下找到了当年从霍科巴尔德那里抢走书的原生先知‘普罗普西’，并把书买了回来。
ps2: Serena Blackwood女士是噤声书局的决议会成员。
ps3: D.同样是噤声书局成员，且认识睿智骑士。
ps4: 骨白者，干渴者都是赤杯的具名者。
ps4：原生先知原来能活这么久吗，1722年的那只和1906年的这只竟然是同一只。
原文
1906: Seventy-Seven Winks
HOTEL STEFANIE
VIENNA
January 15th-ish, 1906
Dear Serena -
Got your book. Pretty good condition, too. Bit blurred round the edges, but the little fellow's taken good care of it. Not what I expected, though, rum business all round.Tell you how it was.
Trail in Venice long cold, obviously. They still tell stories about old Hokobald, say the place is cursed now, but it's mostly cursed with rising damp. Don't know how anyone lives there. Anyway, no trace, so I thought, all right, D., my girl, get your head down, get seventy-seven winks, see if the Sage-Knight's entertaining, he'll know what's what.
You're reading this and thinking, come on, D., you know better than that, Sage-Knight's a bit high in the Mansus to be talking to Raw Prophets, what? But here's the thing, Sage-Knight knows the odd Ivory, Ivories know the odd Thirstly, Thirstlies know Raw Prophets. So I'll put the word out.
Sage-Knight's in a helpful sort of mood, so we both have a cup of that wine of his and then another cup and then another cup and we get to gossiping. He's all right for a Name. Shame he doesn't keep proper port, even dream-port, but he's all right for a Name. And I wake up and I pop out for a dawn smoke and a bit of the old practice and when I get back inside there's an address written on the mirror. Not bad for a Name at all.
Address is in Vienna. Now you know how I feel about Vienna, never quite comfy there since all that with the Club, but I think, Serena's a good sort, owe her a favour or two, not so far on the train. Off I pop.
Vienna, two days on. Find the address, have a snout about, you know, see what's what. Nasty little den, full of the wrong sort of the wrong sort, and they've got their own little shrine for the Raw Prophet. (Sage-Knight gave me its name, I tried to write its name, won't fit in this alphabet. Let's call him Propsy.) Little cult for Propsy. Now you know me, Serena, live and let live, all sorts, but a shrine to something like Propsy, I always thought it's like building a shrine to a lamb chop. You've seen Prophets, haven't you? They look like a horse stepped on a starfish. But bigger.
But, dashed odd thing… Propsy's not a bad sort. Can't talk, of course, but the little feller can write. And I don't just mean write like I'm writing this letter, express itself, put its point of view, sort of thing. I mean it's a calligrapher. Dashed good calligrapher. Every one of those little tentacle things, good as a Japanese paint-brush. Where does it get the ink, you're wondering, aren't you, Serena? Be glad I'm not telling you.
Long story short, Propsy reckons it wrote the 'History of Inks', reckons it was stolen, reckons all sorts of the worst about H.H. (Sorry, Serena.) So we had a good old chat, and I did knock it about a little bit, but we agreed in the end, and it gave me the book back, but it wanted paying. Seemed fair enough. And I've added a line to my bill for that. Bit of a sum, I'm afraid, try not to kick. Sure you won't, know you're a good sort.
So here you go, bill, book, all we're missing is a candle, ha ha! I'll be by again for the Equinox. Could use your help on a thing with the Mausoleum. And the Club, actually. Bit of a business, there.
Pip pip
D.
PS! Propsy wants proper attribution. Name in the catalogue. Course, can't write its name here. Won't fit in this alphabet. Hope you can sort that out. Might cause a bit of a stink if not. Leave it with you. Best of luck. D.
