Closed.

Before Clara could set out on examining the wine, she remembered that every Armistice Day a ceremony at midday in Constance Park was held.

On the first anniversary of the treaty signing, it featured the unveiling of a statue honoring those who lost their lives defending the Empire. Since then, the occasion had mostly been marked with speeches by high-ranking members of the military and low-ranking members of the Royal Family. She had to go in uniform, like every other veteran she knew.

--

About half the crowd was uniformed men and women. Most of the other half were accompanying the veterans, or were there because they lost someone in the conflict. On the first anniversary, the crowd overflowed the park and the streets beyond, but life had moved on. The war undoubtedly seemed longer ago to most people than it did to Clara.

During the ceremony she caught Finch looking at her, wondering what he just read from her face.

- Say that you are fine.
- Say that you are feeling melancholic.
- Say that it's nice to see so many people gathered.
 
Say that you are feeling melancholic.​
Clara, despite wanting to inspect the wine always found it easy to focus on days like this one. Her mind was clear of everything but her messy memories and thoughts on her time in the military. It angered her that the crowds were thinning - it seemed society did not care for the sacrifices made. But at least she among other veterans would always remember, and give recognition to those who deserved it.

Her eye was caught by Finch analyzing her - why did he always have to do that? Clara raised an eyebrow at him, although she lacked any playful smile that would usually accompany such a sentiment, "I'm slightly melancholic, is all." She muttered, as she adjusted parts of her uniform that were already perfect and avoided meeting Finch's eyes. It was hard enough for her to admit she was in a sombre mood, but she felt admitting it would satisfy Finch to the point that he might not press her further. Of course, the idea could certainly be counter intuitive, but she could hope.
 
"I know." Finch nodded. It was clear he wanted to say more, but he got no chance.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen." Announced the master of ceremonies. "His Royal Highness the Crown Prince!"

The Crown Prince stepped onto the balcony, spread his arms in acknowledgement of the applause, rested his hands on the rail before him and started the fifth and last speech of the afternoon.

It was a very confused speech. It begun well, but a few sentences in, it started to disintegrate. Within moments, it was obvious both that the Prince's speeches were usually written by someone else and that he was improvising this one. Clutching the railing with a death grip, he fumbled on.

He talked at length about the benefits of peace, about enemies who became brothers, about what a blessing it was to have the time and opportunity to learn about one's former adversary. He talked about the art and theater of Vlask, different in many ways from that of Mercia, and he made a reference to Madame Albescu, thanking Vlask for being willing to share their treasure.

The crowd was obviously uncomfortable.

The Prince concluded "Now that the guns are silent, we may have the pleasure of discovering our former enemy to be a worthy teacher. Just as Vlask may learn much from our inventors and our industrialists, Mercia may find that it lost something when it abandoned faith, and that Vlask can teach us to reclaim that part of ourselves. In the coming years, with the help of our friends, I hope to see Mercia become an Empire of artists as well as inventors, of philosophers as well as industrialists, of the sun blessed as well as the skeptics."

- You completely agree.
- You agree, but Vlask in not a good example to follow.
- You are horrified.
- You are now sure that the opera singer is influencing the Prince.
 
You agree, but Vlask are not a good example to follow.​
Clara was astonished at the prince's bizarre lack of ability to speak, and his jumbled words. She was sure every veteran and loved one here could definitely see the benefits of finally living in a time of peace - no one else would be harmed or killed. And by sharing technological discoveries, the world could become better faster. But that didn't mean she was readily prepared to spontaneously accept the Vlaski people and ways of life into her own. Clara was still wary of them, and she shuffled on her feet as though it would counteract her discomfort as she listened to the Prince.

More annoyingly, it seemed the Prince was ignorant of the sacrifices the people gathered had made - the boy didn't even address the dead or thank the present veterans! He irritated the crowd through indirect insult with each passing sentence and Clara had to clench her own fist to the point of white knuckles to stop herself from doing anything beyond stupid.
 
Most of the veterans they passed on their way out of the park appeared to feel betrayed and insulted. The rest were attempting to excuse and defend the heir of the Kingdom for which they wore the uniform. No one looked happy.

"What the hell was that?" Finch only said, his expression very doubtful.

Woodsworth expressed interest in obtaining an answer to the same question, when Clare and Finch responded to his summons the following afternoon.

He rose from his desk, pacing the office. "You both saw that little display yesterday. We've muzzled the newspapers, but of course we cannot prevent those who heard the speech from telling whomever they choose. Before His Royal Highness stands in front of another crowd, we need to rid him of Madame's influence. The Queen herself has tasked me with detaching the heir from the opera singer. I need you two to find me a sufficiently effective way to do it."

- Say that you don't think it's the Madame's fault.
- Say that she'll return to Vlask soon enough anyway.
- Agree that her influence is to blame, but be skeptical about souring the romance.
- Be shocked about "muzzling the newspaper".
 
Agree that her influence is to blame, but be skeptical about souring the romance.​
"If only I knew." Clara replied flatly to Finch, and silence followed. Her thoughts were likely to vulgar to speak aloud anyways. Clara was perhaps surprised by the lack of reports the following day, but upon meeting with Woodsworth, her feelings quickly returned to how they were the day of - irritated and annoyed. Of course they'd muzzled the papers.

It was bittersweet - the Prince was able to avoid his mistakes and all the shame that followed. He, thus far, hadn't done anything to prove to her that he deserved such treatment, though it would certainly be a disaster if the media latched onto his incompetence as a leader. "Won't separating them only worsen the situation?" Clara's question was curt, portraying her distaste for the circumstance as a whole, including her own involvement.
 
"You are young and naive, detective." Woodsworth answered her in a very sour manner. He was not in the best mood that morning.

"Won't she leave for Vlask soon anyway?" Finch added, trying to divert the attention from Clara.

"Not if he makes her a better offer." Woodsworth responded. "We have excellent reason to believe she is in fact his mistress, and Her Imperial Majesty is quite concerned that the Prince means to invite Madame Albescu to live in this country once the Opera season has ended. We need to separate them."

"We hardly know enough about either of them to recommend a strategy." Finch pointed out.

"Which is why I'm sending you on an information-gathering mission first of all. Madame is giving a salon the day after tomorrow. You will both attend. Under cover, of course, as wealthy industrialist investors. We'll reserve a suite for you at the Sanderson Hotel. Appropriate clothing will be delivered by the morning of the event, and I'll arrange for a carriage."

--

On the day of the salon, a heavy fog blanketed the city. Clara and Finch descended from the carriage focused on getting inside out of the chill.

640

The salon was as elegant inside as out. Women in elaborate hats perched on the edges of chairs, holding teacups, while men stood talking in small groups. And then the smell hit Clara like a blow to the back of the head - a heavy, spicy incense she hadn't encountered since her days freeing captured cities from Vlaski occupation.

The tea was served from an ornate samovar. The men held tiny glasses of vodka. It was like a Mercian painting come to life, with a thousand tiny deliberate errors. The fog pushed against the windowpanes and for a moment it seemed as though they have entered another world, a different Mercia where Vlaski influence was seeping through the cracks like incense under a door and everything was just a little wrong.

- Watch the Vlaskesaris with suspicion.
- Do your best to stay calm.
- You are no longer shaken by the Vlaski presence.
 
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Do your best to stay calm.​
It had seemed she was not the only one who was bitter, though Clara would likely never know exactly what made Woodsworth tick. Despite Finch's slight diversion, she could still feel Woodsworth's lingering annoyance. And hers was only reinstated when he directed them to be spending more time around the idiot of a Prince, and the woman he adored on his arm. But at least she'd be doing a reconnaissance mission, something closer to the detective duties she missed since working in the clinic.

The fog almost felt like a warning, as though she had to be prepared to look harder in case something was hidden or disguised. But upon entering, all she observed was elegance. The way the women had perfect postures, and the way the men carried themselves. In contrast to the pleasant sights, the smell dug up memories she tried all to often to forget. It made her afraid to be surrounded in part by the culture and people she fought against, but now, Clara stood in the room, having to fight herself and her instincts. She had to stay calm.
 
Finch grasped her hand for a brief moment to whisper in her ear.

"Remember our covers. We are investors. I'm Mr Hawthorne and you are Miss Keelie. We should mingle around the salon first." He reminded her.

Mingling was always a good idea in order to assess the situation and this time, Clara had many opportune targets. Madame Albescu was sitting among the ladies around a table, drinking and tea and talking, occasionally laughing in her ringing voice. Her servants were all around, blending into the scene, not drawing much attention. Perhaps talking to one of them would be difficult, but if one succeeded in persuading them, they would possibly know a great deal of the whole affair.

The musicians were preparing to start a waltz.

- Talk with Madame Albescu.
- Try to find a servant to talk to.
- Approach the musicians.
 
Talk with Madame Albescu.​
Clara replied with the tiniest of nods, before surveying the room. Miss Keelie is the persona she had to adopt. That also meant she had trudge through all sorts of pleasantries, and often, socialize with people who could be ignorant beyond belief. However, her and Finch's intention was to gain intelligence in order to separate the Prince from Madame Albescu and her influence.

So, Clara played the part of Miss Keelie, smiling and laughing politely as she approached the table where Madame Albescu sat. It seemed the best decision was to talk to her first, considering she was the figure they wanted to eliminate. Though the woman might not be open to sharing her exact plans, people often revealed things in simple small talk. In a few moments, she found herself standing opposite the Madame. She curtsied in respect, before speaking, "Madame Albescu, I simply had to tell you how divine your singing is. You truly have a talent." It was a means of, hopefully, entering the conversation.
 
Madame Albescu, in the middle of a group of people in a heated conversation, turn to Clara as she approached, a smile on her face. "Thank you, my dear." She said. "You are just in time. I was just about to show these men what it meant singing from the heart."

As though out of nowhere, a trio of musicians arranged themselves behind her, one at the cimbalom, the second with a violin, and the third with a flute. Madame's voice blended with the music of the flute and it was a moment before Clara realised she was singing in Mercian. It was a Vlaski song, yet translated, a song that sung of sheep and shepherds, of a hearth and home and family. Of simpler times.

"You see?" Madame spoke when the applause died away. "That is the purpose of music, to open the door of the heart, to insinuate the ideas that cannot be spoken bluntly. I do still think it so sad that I may not speak of my faith without offending, but at least I may sing of it and perhaps that teaches those who hear me more about its sweet power than mere words could do."

Her tone rang with simple sincerity and the little hesitating accent that marred her otherwise perfect Mercian somehow only made her seem more genuine.

But her eyes were clear and hard, carefully watching the assembled company for its reaction.

- Agree with her, posing as an ally.
- Agree with her about music, starting a civil conversation.
- Challenge her opinion about sun worship.
- Rebuke her for using music to manipulate people.
 
Agree with her, posing as an ally.​
Clara willed herself out of gritting her teeth. Such frivolous displays were a waste of time, and meant she was unable to talk to the Madame herself. Instead she merely nodded with a polite smile and watched intently as the female set herself up with a backing accompaniment that spontaneously appeared.

The song was beautiful, and perhaps nostalgic. She applauded with the crowd, and there was no disputing the fact Madame Albescu had a gift in singing.

But what followed was off putting. The sincerity of her tone felt eerie. How could someone sound so genuine? Even when the chances they actually were was minimal? The best way Clara had to answer her own questions was to follow the instructions given to her for this mission. Gather information, and the best way to make Madame Albescu talk about her plans was to become an ally, a confidant. Clara was the first to speak up among the otherwise silenced crowd, "I couldn't agree more. Music is a pathway to our heart and soul, and I certainly couldn't have spoken such a truth better myself."
 
Clara had her complete attention.

"How lovely." She said, eyeing her speculatively. "That you agree with me. I can tell you are a woman who knows much of art. Come, sit with me and I will tell you. What is your name, madam?"

As Clara answered and they made their acquaintance, Madame stayed by her side for some time. Together they defended their jointly-held position against others in the room.

She turned to Clara often to hear her opinion, smiled at her readily and after a time, rested her hand familiarly upon her arm. Fortunately she was wearing gloves and wouldn't be able to drain Clara through the cloth. Moreover there was no reason to think she was a Lighteater, but just in case, such concerns were normal in Clara's case. However, there was now a matter that the Prince's mistress appeared to be flirting with her.

- Flirt back, it is the best way to learn her intentions.
- Stay close, but discourage flirting.
- Step back, repulsed.
 
Flirt back, it is the best way to learn her intentions.​
Clara had never, personally been attracted to women. And she was certainly not going to start feeling that way, let alone when it was with a Vlaski women whom she knew likely had bad intentions. But acting was all a part of the show, and in order to actually know her intentions, the show had to go on. And Albescu's position as the Prince's mistress was unimportant in the moment - it was the intentions Clara needed to unearth.

Clara let her other hand wander, and it eventually settled over the Madame's that rested on her arm, and she smiled warmly. As she did so, however, chills ran up her spine, based solely on the possibility Albescu could be a lighteater. Mere fabric separated her from being another lifeless heap.

Continue talking. Flirt with the woman for goodness sake. Clara talked herself into pursuing Albescu through primarily body language. So as she was complimented, Clara would sheepishly look away, and almost constantly when speaking, she would bat her eyelashes. It began to seem that Miss Keelie was a flirtatious woman.
 
"My dear lady, I cannot possibly express how glad I am to have found someone in Mercia to agree with me so. I do wish you would consider visiting Vlask. You would love it there." Madame said, giving Clara a look that would seem rather lecherous on a man.

Some moments later a drawling voice rose over the murmur of the crowd. It belonged to a long haired Mercian poet, a young man who looked quite infatuated with the whole salon. "I am writing a novel." He said enthusiastically. "Set in the days of the old Empire. It is the story of a young explorer who sets off to see what lies on the other side of the icy seas, with nothing to guide or guard him but the sunstone left to him by his late father. The journey he takes is a metaphor, you see, for his inner journey of self-discovery."

The crowd murmured in appreciation.

"I am particularly enjoying writing about the sunstone." The poet continued. "I have never seen one, of course, but only imagine what it must be like to look through it and even on a cloudy day at once see the sun. Imagine how it must have been, navigating a ship through the ancient waters with nothing more than the sacred stone. The people of Mercia ought to see there is an alternative to our machinery-driven modern world."

"Indeed they ought." Finch agreed, in the slight accent and the manner of speech from the colonies, as was his cover. "We are too prone to take for granted the wonders of the modern world. A novel set in the time when the mastery of the sea was restricted to those fortunate enough to possess one of a few sunstones will surely prompt appropriate appreciation for the Mercian invention of the chronometer."

Madame Albescu turned toward him, looking quite spurned by his stance.

- Stay out of it.
- Pretend to argue with Finch, holding Madame's side and high opinion of the sunstone.
- Agree with Finch, talking about the marvels of technology.
 
Pretend to argue with Finch, holding Madame's side and high opinion of the sunstone.​
A polite laugh is all Clara could muster. "Perhaps I will." Perhaps Miss Keelie would, but Clara wouldn't be able to bring herself to visit the country. Before delving deeper into the conversation, which she feared would make her sick, a younger man spoke up. Clara copied the crowd's appreciative murmurs, and though she may read a novel in one of her sleepless nights, she was more intrigued and glad with what Finch followed up with. Her colleague had unknowingly set up an opportunity for Miss Keelie to solidify her position as an ally to the Madame.

"Or, alternatively, it will allow many of us to return to our roots and appreciate antiquity. And such a story could symbolize other returns," Clara commented as she stood beside the shocked Madame, clearly referencing the sun-touched, "I'm sure most of us will recognize the primary message behind the novel, though everyone will draw slightly relevant meanings as they read."
 
"I'm not the one who's missed the point of symbolism. I simply don't like it." Finch responded. "The wonders of our modern world ensure that opportunities are available to anyone capable of rising to the challenge, not only a fortunate few. Oh, my humble apologies, ma'am. I do hope I wasn't speaking out of turn."

"Of course not." Madame said. "I only feel sorry for you. You do not see how the way you live here crushes the soul. You have distanced yourself from the sea, the sun, the food you eat, even the touch of another person's hand." She indicated the fashionable elbow-length gloves she wore. "Our ways are simpler, but infinitely more rewarding."

"Only for those of you born into power." Finch hissed quietly. "The mastery of the seas used to be only for those whose families owned a sunstone. The ability to heal a fellow creature used to be only for those born with a certain hereditary trait. Chronometers and medicine are for everyone."

There was a pause.

Then Madame laughed. "Oh, but this is wonderful. I haven't enjoyed such marvelous conversation in far too long. Mr Hawthorne, you and Miss Keelie simply must come to the ball the Embassy is giving in my honor at the end of the week. I won't take no for an answer, it is the least I can do, given the entertainment you have provided me this afternoon."

And that was all that Finch and Clara needed. A chance to further look into Madame, the Prince and their suspicious behaviour.

Once they were back in the carriage, safely, on their way back, she finally had a chance to speak with Finch freely.

- "That was excellent."
- "You've made yourself a target."
- "How much of that outburst was because she flirted with me?"
- Something else.
 
"How much of that outburst was because she flirted with me?"​
Clara's body and mind relaxed as the pair entered the carriage, leaving any Vlaski presence behind, besides perhaps some perfume lingering on them.

They'd achieved something. A chance to get more intelligence. But until then, it was a job well done. So what was the harm in some banter? "How much of that outburst was because she flirted with me?" Clara raised an eyebrow quizzically towards Finch.
 
"Ten percent." Finch answered, leaning back into the cushions and closing his eyes. "Another fifteen was actual righteous outrage at the drivel coming out of that young idiot's mouth. The rest was the tactic of the moment. We'll have to play up our philosophical differences next time we're around her, so she draws closer to you, her supposed ally." He opened his eyes and grinned. "We've got an invitation to a ball. We can learn more there, but we have some information already. We've learned she seems to find it appropriate to flirt with other men and women, despite her liaison with the Prince. And we've learned that she believes in using subtle manipulation to slowly influence the people around her. She said herself that's what art is for. I think we can dismiss the idea that her manipulation of the Prince is unintentional."

Clara would have a bit of free time before the ball. While Finch still had his Detective job, she hadn't fully returned to it, despite this mission. She had her clinic to attend to, as well as the matter of Jed and the suspicious wine.

- Take it easy.
- Analyze the wine.
- Check on Jed at the Temple.
 
Analyze the wine.​
"Percentages?" Clara repeated with a disapproving shake of her head, "Of course you have percentages." She grinned in response to Finch. He was right, their mission had been what could be considered an overwhelming success. "'Supposed' is the key word there. I never want to be an ally of hers. Nonetheless, we've done well." It was then Clara's turn to lean back with her eyes shut, until they exited the carriage.

There wasn't exactly time to rest, despite the short break before the ball. Clara returned to the wine she had to neglect, with the intention to study it. She was no professional, but that hardly meant she wasn't going to try.
 
It was as if she could see tiny specks of gold inside the bottle as she looked it over, mulling the wine inside of it. She was just a makeshift nurse and while she could treat wounds and minor ailments, she was not a proper chemist and would not be able to analyze the bottle in depth. However, as a sun touched, she felt the energy of the liquid inside the lavish bottle. It also seemed like it was singing to her, drawing her to take a sip, to just try it, after all what was the harm in it.

The harm was that she would become unable to control herself, just like Jed. She knew that much, thankfully.

That was all she could learn out of the wine. It was dangerous and definitely tampered with, it was no normal wine. She had to hide it somewhere, lock it away so no ones comes close to it, lest they be tempted to try it.

- Go to the Temple to see Jed.
- Spend some time with Finch.
 
Spend some time with Finch.​
The wine was certainly peculiar, especially it's ability to entice her to try it, if only a sip. It took an unfair amount of will power to resist whatever sorcery was manipulating her mind. She couldn't let Finch find out, so it wasn't a hard decision for her to lock the wine away in the clinic. It was in the back, where only a few of the staff would be nearby. Hopefully none of them went investigating due to strange sensations, if they were a sun-touched.

There wasn't much else she could do, and in light of recent events, Clara hadn't spent as much time with Finch. Clara ensured the bottle was locked away, taking the key with her before returning to the flat in search of Finch.
 
In the following couple of days Clara did her usual work in the clinic and not much else. Finch was on minor assignments and had enough time for private life once they were both in their flat. Their relationship flourished. They even managed to go on a shopping trip. Although, Finch was not a good shopping partner. He tended to over-analyse the prices and quality and never really gave any useful insight on the things Clara put on.

Eventually she received a letter from Christopher Taggart speaking about Jed and his recovery. It seemed that the effects of the wine were not permanent and they were already fading for the young man. Those were good news at least.

--

The night of the Embassy Ball arrived. Clara would be spending the evening in the Vlaski Embassy. Surrounded by Vlaskesari. Behind enemy lines.

She pulled on her formal white gloves, covering her hands to the wrist. For a moment she could hear the echo of Sergeant Thippe's voice, getting the lads ready for a raid, back on the warfront. "Cover every inch of skin. All they need is one touch."

Not that a ball at the Vlaski Embassy, with the Mercian elite and the Crown Prince himself in attendance, was the same thing as a Goraska prison camp raid. Of course it was not.

- Be nervous, but resolute.
- Be anxious.
- Be sick, but try to conceal it.
 
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