They can get a whittling knife, matches, a block of elm wood, and a couple of loose keys for seven pence. For shoes, the pawnbroker directs them to Mercury; for the clothes, Gottery the Outfitter; and for a meal, just about anywhere in London has its own specialty, but the pawnbroker is particularly fond of the devilled kidney at Dante's Grill in Moloch Street.

The road to hell is paved with organ meats, apparently. (And Oakley is largely a herbivore anyway.)

The supplies are appreciated. The wood, though, is a boon; Oakley was chafing slightly under the weight of all this fungality. They tend to go for paler finishes than elm offers, but that's nothing few weeks left in a patch of sunlight won't... fix... hm.

...

Oakley looks perturbedly into the middle distance for a count of ten, blocking egress for a number of Bazaargoers.

...

There's no sun down here, is there.

...

They rub their temples under their covering of white cloth.

Alright, gentleperson, shake this off and continue shopping. Oakley requires rather long shoes, and quite specific tailoring so far as clothing goes. This is likely to take all whatever-time-of-day-it-is, so food is going to happen first. The architects and moneymakers of London won't shut up about mushrooms; how about its restaurateurs?

They are rather fond of mushrooms. If Oakley would prefer potatoes, however, or some other root vegetable, they can be procured.

Oakley intends to find a meal containing, if not every root vegetable, than at least a quorum of them. The more dirt-flavored the better.

Are there, perhaps, folks? Folks of any particular intriguity?

There are folks everywhere, in fact.

Some of them are discussing cricket, a singularly bizarre sport that still manages to be largely uninteresting. Some are discussing the forthcoming election; the Northbound Parliamentarian is currently leading in the Unexpurgated Gazette's polls. One of them is discussing a fabled card game called the Marvellous, the winner of which receives their heart's desire.

Oakley gnaws on a carrot that managed to avoid the death by boiling so many of its fellows clearly suffered. Survivor's guilt has left it recalcitrant, and also pretty fibrous. Oakley, it seems from how the gentleperson gnaws, is discontent to find just how much English there is left to learn.

Voda the hare sits on Oakley's table, like an aggressive centrepiece.

"The Marvellous" strikes Oakley as a very bad title for anything, much less a card game. A magic card game. Compelling! They insert themself abruptly into the conversation by leaning across their own table, Voda at about their navel, and propping their chin on their hand, elbow planted on the speaker's table. More attention has rarely been paid. Any startled silence is met by batted eyelashes and a, "Please do go on!" Half-finished vegetable stew is held deftly in their free hand.

The tale-teller pauses for a long moment, then at Oakley's prompting, slowly continues, getting back into his stride. "They say it can only be played under a particular conjunction of stars. That they play with a stake of souls, or myrrh, or star-stuff. That the cards they play with are etched in pure gold. But what I know is this... that if you want to play, you should go to the Devious Bookseller's in Spite, and ask him about the game of the stars."

His tablemates groan. "A bloody advertisement," one of them says.

Oakley is not particularly familiar with the concept of advertisement. They have heard of it, but in the way that they've heard of the southern hemisphere, or of tornadoes. If this has in fact been one, it was at least a useful example of the breed.

It takes Oakley a few moments to ascertain that Spite is a place-name and not just a suggested state of being, but afterwards they bolt down their remaining victuals and head thataway, taking directions from the tale-teller and leaving him, presumably, relieved. Voda swings behind them out the door by one ear.

Cards of pure gold are something the gentleperson could take or leave, and myrrh only slightly less so, but stars and souls promise the kind of magic that seems, so far, to be scant in London.

The Devious Bookseller's is a small and somewhat squalid shop, located between a kosher butcher's and a low-quality honey-den.

The owner looks up from a periodical and leers slightly confusedly at Oakley. "'ello," he says. "You lookin' for something, si- ah, mad- er, yes?"

The smallness is amplified by Oakley's presence in the doorway. The squalor is largely unaffected one way or the other.

"Yes!" Oakley says, voice loud despite the acoustical absorptive power of books when amassed. "I-am-here-to-ask––about-the-game-of-stars," they recite, like they're reading from a script. The gentleperson's gender goes unaddressed, but they do grin beatifically.

"Ahhh," the Devious Bookseller says with a grin. "Yes, indeed - I'll sell you the book that'll start you on your path."

He holds up a slightly battered book titled On the Maladies of Goats.

Oakley squints.

It is highly unlikely that a book with such a title contains knowledge that this gentleperson lacks. On the other hand, money is essentially meaningless and purchasing things is fun. Still, it's good for one's reputation to haggle. Exactly how much worthless London coin is one meant to spend on texts regarding animal husbandry?

Thirty pence, apparently, in whatever currency Oakley prefers. How low he'll go depends on how aggressively Oakley is willing to haggle.

A peevish expression crosses the gentleperson's face, wrinkling their tattered mask. Money may be false in its value, but it's not quite that false.

A temptation arises to simply steal the book. Swap its cover with a quick application of library paste, maybe. It might be fun.

Instead the gentleperson will apply their career skills. (Or rather, other career skills.) A touch of vexing flirtation and rather more "I am sorry, English is not my native tongue, what does this word here mean?" ought to determine if the book is worth anything, at least.

This particular book is worthless, but the proprietor won't accept less than ten pence. He has costs to cover.

Well none of this is making much sense. Yet. How intriguing.

Oakley will give the man thirteen pence, and take the book. Also, a handshake: cool, soft, bloodless, friendly. Oakley beams and gives an impressive illusion of eye contact while they actually glance about the bookshop. Any hidden doors, or hidden dastards? Is there anything here untoward, other than the bookshop's master? (Oakley is rather Devious, themself, but that word has connotations the gentleperson deftly avoids that others often don't.)

No hidden doors or dastards. Before Oakley can take the book, the Devious Bookseller writes an address on the inside cover. "That's where the game was held last time. And, here..."

He hands over a slip of paper with another address on it. "A certain lady wanted to meet whoever bought a copy of that book. Don't know her name, but she had a red headscarf and a pet monkey."

Oakley adds these to their vast collection of addresses that have been slipped surreptitiously to them by various– andskotinn, those were all lost in That Robbery Which Occurred Prior to the Most Recent Robbery! Fine. Oakley begins a new collection of misbegotten addresses. How mortifying to have only two.

"I thank you. Please do let me know if you ever need help tracking someone down, so that I can return your favor."

With that, Oakley departs. On the streets again, they take a moment to reshuffle the book and the paper and realize that, in fact, they have a third address, given to them by the Softhearted Widow. Not so scandalizing, as addresses go, but Oakley is heartened regardless. Three is a much better number of them to have. They hum to themself gleefully.

The money they have left to spend is, well, probably something to keep to hand if they're going to be gambling soon. (Even if the gentleperson is assured that the stakes will be stranger than that, it would be silly to go empty-pursed.) Luckily, shoes in London are hideously expensive and, conversely, there is a real buyer's market in moth-eaten opera gowns. So Oakley spends none of their money on footwear (leaving them to trod cobbles in worn-thin fur booties entirely unsuited) and only a handful of coins on one such old gown.

It can't hold a candle to the fabric riot of Oakley's current bundle of glad ponchos, but it's the color of wine and will probably help them blend in at, say, an opera house of some kind. Plans!

Oakley would rather visit an intriguing monkey woman than show up at a gaming den uninvited. They apply skills of detection to this preference posthaste.

The address of the woman with the monkey is a charming townhouse, the door of which has been bashed off its hinges. A notice has been posted on the doorframe: INHABITANT ARRESTED BY ORDER OF THE DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC DECENCY.

The house been ransacked - oddly, though the flatware is untouched, her bookshelves stand completely empty.

Also, that armoire over there is trembling slightly.

Oh, joy of joys, a police force. Oakley thinks dark thoughts on this topic whilst touching the flatware.

When they notice the trembling armoire, they slip a fork up one voluminous sleeve and wrench the thing open with their other hand.

There is a monkey in the armoire. It stares at Oakley appraisingly.

(Oakley is technically worth a fortune, but good luck selling them.)

Glacially, Oakley discards the fork. Friends, right?

Monkey approves (+1)

It bows somewhat curtly, scampers onto Oakley's shoulder, and indicates the door. On, noble steed, it seems to say.

Something growls at the monkey from under Oakley's many ponchos as soon as the scampering begins. It is not an audible growl, but Oakley (and all else who hear it anyway) stiffen and move more gingerly in the wake of the non-sound. Hands are rendered somewhat clammy.

Oakley proceeds under the guidance of their jockey, happy to emulate the humble horse. The gentleperson does take a moment to wrestle the front door into a position slightly more like that it once presumably must have occupied, and to graffiti the police notice:

INHABITANT ARRESTED BY ORDER OF THE DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC DECENCY. VERY RUDE PEOPLE

–before departing, a slight ink stain on their left boot where the ink pot was balanced during the crime.

The monkey doesn't seem to notice the growling. It is not particularly amused at Oakley's graffiti; it taps its foot impatiently on their shoulder until they're done. When they are, it leads them back towards Veilgarden. Specifically, it leads them towards St. Fiacre's Cathedral.