Futuristic The Editors | [Closed]

[Osthavula]

The Nightingale was shot! Soon enough, the entire hospital was talking. It took an ambulance's time for the journalists to get wind of it, and it took more than an ambulance full of people to stop people from getting close to her. Luckily, and suspiciously, the hospital had kept all irrelevant personnel in safe distances, and Olympia got a single room providing her status. She herself was sent to the emergency room for examination, while Bernadette was allowed to sit in the room. She couldn’t see Olympia immediately out the surgical room, but the doctor had assured her that the songstress will be sent here at once, and a person like Bernadette being in the corridor will attract more unwarranted attention. From the room, the uproar at the entrances seemed but an echo in the shower. The window was shut tight and curtained, a bouquet stood wearily in its shadow. The stale light shone on the painting above the bed, making the blue sea washed out and pale. It was a decorative patient room, but no matter the effort of making it comfortable and vibrant, it was still in its essence a treatment room for the ill.


After some hours, someone opened the door. Collette was the first to step in, with a strange expression that she was frowning and confused together. Then it came Andy. The usual quiet man now carried a tense demeanour, and he would have been intimidating with his tightening fist and strong arm under his work-man shirt. His expression, however, didn’t tell his thoughts. He walked towards Bernadette, taking his bowler hat off and pressing it on his chest. “You have my gratitude, Mrs Horowitz. Are you well? I heard you have witnessed the incident.”


Collette was behind him, but it seemed like her thoughts had floated somewhere else, leaving an elegantly standing husk.


Upon the arrival of the actress’ husband, Bernadette shot to her feet, the pale light bringing out only the whiteness in her cheeks, allowing the blue eyeshadow to give her entire face an arctic appearance. Only her thin eyebrows expressed her emotion, betraying her experience of relief and terror upon seeing Mr. Carlyle. He was steady-hearted despite the circumstance, but he was someone Bernadette felt quite indebted to.


“I’m so sorry, Mr. Carlyle, Andy,” she grasped his hand in hers, “I only wish I could have done more for her, this incident is a terrible one indeed. And, as you say, I saw it happen, but I was hardly any use to the force. If only I could remember more, I’d track the assassin down myself. Oh, Mr. Carlyle, please forgive me for my ineptitude in this situation. I don’t deserve your gratitude, not at all. Oh, and Collette, thank you for being so level-headed. I am discovering my own emotions are rather helplessly hard to control.”


In her journalistic life, Bernadette had seen a lot. She had spoken to people whose families had been devastated by some consequence or occurrence, and remained static and approachable throughout every one. Even at the death of her own father - a rather slow, painful death she had been privy to - her lip scarcely trembled, and her tears were released in her own time. Not once was control lost, except in her privacy, or in the company of her wife. Yet here she stood, in the room of the Siren, who was having her wounds tended to elsewhere, facing her husband and confidant in the aftermath of the situation hours after it, and yet she was still struggling to stand still.


“Come, sit down, I have been told our Olympia is in capable hands. They were kind enough to put her in a private room to avoid the stares of fans, after all,” Bernadette said. Upon leaving Andy’s touch, she closed her eyes for a second, feeling her breath in her chest and heart within her, and managed to exhale slowly. With her breath came the tension, the adrenaline shock, and some of the fear. Not all of it though. The true fear was lingering somewhere behind her sternum, threatening to ring in her ears: the assassin knew where Olympia was going to be. The meeting point of the Inn was a good one - in public, but inconsequential enough as to not matter to the public. No one would merely run into the star there. If one wanted to find the Nightingale, they would do better to hang around Soso, or Klokklsby. And yet… that hadn’t been the case. It was a calculated thing, Bernadette decided, judging by the assassin’s exit. He left nothing useful in Bernadette’s mind but a vague height and a masculine presence. Nothing concrete. That is what scared her the most - Olympia had been targeted, and she was targeted at a specific time and place.


She sat down, and expressed her relief that both Andy and Collette were safe.


“I hope dearest Norberto and Ruth will be able to cope with the news,” she said after. “Lord knows, I must be. Any help I can provide any of you, Mr. Carlyle, do please tell me.”


Andy sat down quietly beside Bernadette. On his way to the hospital, he had thought long and hard about what to do in the future. It didn’t take too long, for they already had planned ahead. It was hundreds and thousands of starry nights before that Olympia and Andy had sat together and discussed what they should do, should anything serious happen to both of them. The process was hardly common in a normal household, but they saw it necessary in their long marriage and yet longer and darker career planning. The difficulty only lied in how to explain it to someone else. Someone like Bernadette.


“I thought I will wait for my wife to be here when I explain, but it is easier for me to explain it first. You might have noticed that the hit was preplanned, and that implies that either my wife or us both are under surveillance. In this circumstances we will approach all action with caution. However, with our hands tied, our children are free. They have their own life and we are determined to stay separated…”


But Bernadette must have known they too have the membership of Editors. Andy put it carefully that his intention was not to separate them from the society’s life, but to let them free of consequences of their action… Perhaps separate them from their action completely so that they may achieve what they want. It would be difficult to manage entirely, but it had always been that each member of the family leads a different life. Including Andy and Olympia.


“You need not bear any guilt or responsibility for my wife’s misfortune, for it initiated long before today. From what I have heard you have taken care of my wife the best that anyone could have offered, giving her the company in her difficult times. But I ask you of this favour, should our children…”


He paused, like a cow regurgitates its food he chewed his words slowly and cautiously.


“... Or their close associates look for your help, Mrs Horowitz, and only if it is convenient and not jeopardize your position, then consider giving them your aid. Even so, I understand if you turn it down, and you have right to do so. I hope I am wrong but even you are in a delicate situation.“


Collette caught his eyes, and came to herself from her swimming of thoughts. “He had mentioned you today. We were given tasks to study activities in respective cities. He had given your position to someone else due to your convenient absent.”


“Whom we have no idea where their loyalty lies.“


A delicate position… Bernadette had not paused to consider her own standing on the earth. Olympia had been targeted, and that target, as Andy had confirmed to her, was related to the Editors. She never even thought of her own danger. But it was real. If Olympia was almost killed… who else would be next? Her back straightened as Andy spoke, and she slowly digested his words, until Collette began speaking, to which she looked up. “My… position?” Bernadette asked. “You mean, my position in the Editors? Or my occupation?”


It seemed like the ambiguity had created some misunderstanding, but to explain plainly in a room that they didn’t know if it was secure enough, was a little too dangerous. Collette stepped closer to Bernadette and spoke lowly, while her eyes darted to the corners of the room. “We were given tasks to research about cities, the task for New Neptune was given to two other writers. “


“I see… well, perhaps I will speak to Inge if I can, try to involve myself. I fear being apart from Inge will put me at risk more than if I am close enough to keep an eye on him. We’ve already discussed our chagrin over Inge, and I’m only more on edge. Andy, I do hope you are filled in on our anxiety over Inge. If not, I believe you should be.”


“I do share part of the worry. My discussion with Inge had lasted a long while, repeated after each meeting on the topic of Cassiopia. But he had, I should say, stronger opinions as compared to our last. “


“That’s what twigged us off to his changes,” Bernadette said. “Collette, Olympia and I met yesterday to discuss how we would work to keep each other stable and safe in the face of a potential threat from Inge… perhaps this is why I feel so indebted to you, I didn’t manage to fulfil the deal, and it was just one day later… of course, you are Olympia’s husband so I trust you as much as I trust her. So… if Inge has set people jobs to do, perhaps we should keep a closer eye on him. How we should go about that, I am not certain of; I have methods through my occupation that I could exploit to keep close to him, but I will not put my staff, my paper or anything else of the sort in jeopardy. I just won’t do it. And considering Olympia’s… well, this occurrence, I wouldn’t imagine her to have the strongest capabilities at the moment. I feel we’re in a weak position…”


Bernadette closed her eyes for a minute, leaning her head back. Weariness was weighing her down. The light of the place, the stress and the unknowability of the future made it impossible for her mind to shut down, as much as her body begged to.


“If we are to… keep an eye on Inge… or to do anything like this, we need a stronger group… but that won’t come easy… tell me, who did he put up to look into New Neptune instead of me?”


“Mr. Arris and Miss Johie.” Read Collette from her own memory pages. “I’ve never met them personally. From my understanding, Miss Johie was from New Neptune. “


Bernadette nodded, “Explains why he’d put her on New Neptune… Mr. Arris though, I thought his background was tourism. Cassiopia and Oriyon are much more tourist-heavy. Well, I’m sure there methods to his madness... I’ll get in touch with them, it’d be a place to start. And of course, I didn’t answer you earlier Andy, I had to think about it awhile but… if… anything does happen to you, I’ll do whatever I can, within limits, to help your family. As I said, I have my own rules, but I’ll do what I can. I trust you. I want you to trust me with your hand as well.”


“ And Mrs Horowitz, we placed our faith in you too. We don’t normally disclose our business but I think we should place exceptions for each other. Not only have we lost our old source of collecting information. “ He paused, hoping she would get the reference. “But we have enough new recruit that we didn’t know of to confused us. Stay vigilant. “


Collette’s lips twisted as he mentioned “new recruit”. Whatever she thought of did not seem to comfort her.


Source of collecting information… yes, that kickstarted this whole thing. If the Smith was referring to who Bernadette thought he was, then his death was the one that seemed to be the change of Inge’s attitude, as far as Bernadette was concerned. She nodded slowly. “Then we must convene as a group. We cannot afford to fall behind. When Olympia is better, or even before. We mustn’t allow anything to happen to the Editors.”


From the corridor they could start to hear a ruckus. There were people talking, almost arguing. One of the voice was directing them, almost roaring. In the midst of it was the voice of something being dragged and rolled through the floor. Andy sprang up from his chair to peeked at the window on the door, then he seemed to become relaxed, and pull the door open. A band of staff rolled in Olympia on her wheel bed, and together they moved her carefully onto the sickbed. The ruckus remained, from the sound of it some journalists managed to slipped through the entrance. The doctor who followed the bed in now explained to Andy that Olympia’s was stabilized and should recover with plenty of rest, and intensive continual care for the next two weeks. Apparently, the bullet had avoided critical organs but some tissue still needed healing. She also regained some consciousness but still under the influence of the anaesthetic.


Bernadette stood up as Olympia came in, catching a glimpse through the door of the scuffle. News travelled fast, and the hospital must have been the source. The hospital, and the minimal people around the Inn. The power of social media saw to it that the world would soon know about Olympia’s fate, and the world included journalists. But, even though this would be the perfect story for any journalist, Bernadette was sickened by what she heard, and what she anticipated happening. Could a lady not have her privacy? In fact, as she considered, some of the people causing the cacophony must have been from the Capers. What else was supposed to happen though, they were doing their job, telling people the stories they wanted to hear.


She shook her head, approaching Olympia, “I’m so relieved to see you’re getting the care you need. I won’t see you down like this again, my girl, rely on that. Thank you for being so resilient.”


Olympia in a surgery gown had no glamour like she was at stage, and the rare sight of her with no painted lips made her appearance pale. But there was no more convincing look of a waning vampire duchess than her current state. She parted her lips contemplating a reply, while her strength had failed her and so she smiled, moved her hand to Bernadette’s hand and patted it remarkably gently.


Bernadette smiled, took Olympia’s hand and kissed it. She didn’t say anything more, and simply stepped away, to make space in case Andy or Collette wanted to speak to her.


Andy pulled his chair beside Olympia and said no more. Collette nodded to each and everyone in the room, before bowing out and left through the corridor. From the window, the flash of her blonde hair disappeared opposite to where the sound of journalists came. The woman and her husband made a solemn picture when Andy was so absorbed he heard no more of the environment.


It was time for Bernadette to leave husband and wife alone. Olympia was back in the hands of the man who could truly shield her. “Goodbye, Olympia, Andy. I’m glad to help as little as I did.”


She turned and exited, asking a staff member for a quiet way to exit the building. She did not want to battle through journalists, even if she recognised some. She would not be saying a word. Not about Olympia.

 

[0stinato]

Lull didn't have a ringtone. No merry reel to announce the incoming call, or message. Instead, one beep sounded, a subdued, muffled noise. It was enough to draw Lull's attention as he alighted from the public transport he'd been on. A bus, the most mundane of any vehicle on the road. Inconspicuous. No one sat by him. Probably because he reeked of tobacco smoke. Either way, he got his privacy.

As he pulled his phone from his trouser pocket, feeling the material tug against the holster on his thigh, he saw what the time was - 7:35, 55 minutes after the hit had commenced. In five minutes, he was due to make the call, tell his underworld he'd done what was asked of him. But he was getting a [Redacted] number coming through to him, instead of the other way round.

He accepted the call and raised the phone to his ear. The voice that came through didn't surprise him - a voice corrupter was employed on the speaker, creating several different frequencies and different timbres of sound.

"Your target was checked into the Cassiopia General very recently, she is alive."

Lull cursed internally. He wasn't surprised, but he was annoyed. He could think of several reasons why this development - the Nightingale's survival - wasn't his fault, but whether anyone would listen to his theories was highly unlikely.

"Right," said Lull, as he walked. "What now."

"The usual course of action is a highly strict discipline, factoring in past jobs, reliability, et cetera. No matter how good anyone is, though, strict discipline is always enforced. You are aware of this. You have failed, and so the natural course is discipline, except not in this case."

Lull kicked a pebble and carried on walking.

"The difference is that the client who requested your skills has demanded you be disciplined by his own hand. Rules have been laid out for this, including your death will lead to charges pressed against the client. That is the only notable decision. He will be in contact with you, as per his demands, very shortly."

"The guy with the beard, correct? Really dead eyes, like diluted " said Lull, pulling his keys from his pocket. He was nowhere near home, but just enjoyed swinging them on his finger.

"Information will not be disclosed."

"I've already seen the fucker, it's not a secret. Well, I don't know who he is, but--"

"His identity will not be disclosed. He may choose to disclose it to you, when you meet. Your dwelling has been disclosed. Remember, your discipline is in the client's hands."

The [Redacted] number hung up. Lull hadn't been bothered about the whole thing... up until he was told the client had been told where he lived. That he did not like. He picked up his pace, putting his phone away and clutching his keys tightly in his fist. What if the client, that bearded guy, was at his home already? With Lois? There was no worse discipline. However, Lull had a gun. So if the guy did anything Lull didn't like, he'd not hesitate to load the next round.

He walked, and he thought. His mind was made up about what he wanted to say about the client's choosing of the time and location. Those two factors, rather than Lull's inability with firearms, were the main reasons, he rationalised, for his failure. He'd give that bearded fucker a piece of his mind.

The keys finally came into play, with Lull injecting them into the door to his apartment. It being locked was a big relief - it meant no one except Lois was here. It meant she hadn't opened the door to a stranger, and forgotten to lock it afterwards. He stepped into the apartment, greeted again by that odd odour that had no pinpointed location, and scanned the room. Sofa, with its back to the kitchen breakfast-bar, sink with dripping tap, his chair beside the thin window, television in the corner, dead pot plant on the windowsill. Down the corridor, a bike took up most of the room, but that was usual. Lois' door was open a crack, while his was shut tight. To cap off the tubby corridor, the bathroom door, always open unless occupied.

He went straight for her room, pushing open the door to see her lounging on her bed, tapping away with lightning thumbs on her phone. So uncaring was she that she didn't even acknowledge her skirt, which had ridden up so high it was exposing her slim thigh and delicate black underwear.

"I need this place to myself, it's important."

"Oh, is it a client or something?" Lois asked, sitting up.

"Something like that. Well. It is a client."

"The one that wrote the mystery thing you printed out? I saw it when it was printing, is it good? I thought it looked good, one of the characters had a cool name."

Lull shrugged. "I need the house. D'you mind going out?"

"No I can go somewhere, that's fine. I'll walk somewhere, if you don't want me taking the taxi."

"Do whatever. Just be back by eleven and that's fine. I just want focus when I'm talking to this guy."

Lois was already up, organising a cardigan, pulling her dress down, and priming her lipstick, ready to go out. Lull watched in silence, narrowed eyes on her clothes and attitude, scrutinising her choice of purse, of shoes. Black leather clutch bag, ridiculously steep heels, and a pout. She threw a few things into her bag, including lipstick, her purse, her keys, and approached to exit her room, to which Lull let her pass.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Not sure yet. I'll work it out. I think one of my friends is doing something."

"Which one?"

"Like... Analise and that lot."

Lull grunted. Told her to be careful. Shut the door after she left, and heard her heels trotting down the stairs of the building in a rhythmic ta-tap, ta-tap. Analise and that lot. A stupid but harmless group. One of them seemed to have foresight past the next hour of her life, in that group, from what Lois had told him. She was a wannabe businesswoman, but she was constantly distracted by her babble of friends. At least they were harmless. And even if they weren't, they were infinitely more harmless than any tie to his true occupation.

Who was that bearded fucker? Why did he think it was even remotely a good idea to approach his hired hitman at any point? Was the man thick? Stupid? Slow? All three? Not only that, why did the guy organise the hit in such a ridiculous way?

Lull took up residence on his chair. He rolled a cigarette, but didn't have the attitude to smoke it, merely flipped it between his fingers as he stared at the television's black screen, contemplating nothing and suspecting everything.

It had been years, decades even, since the feeling of dread could strike his lungs so badly as they did when the knock came at his door. To enter the building, one had to either punch in the code, which all the dwellers of the apartment - and, for some of them, close friends - knew, and that code changed monthly. That was the sound he had been dreading, the raucous buzz, the audible equivalent to sandpaper. Yet it was a knock on the door. There was a chance it was Lois, that she'd forgotten something, but the girl had keys. She'd just let herself in again. And maybe it was just one of the neighbours, come to complain to him about something or other, perhaps not to smoke out the window while there was a south-westerly breeze, since it wafted the fug into their kitchen, how dare he. But he wasn't smoking, nor did he feel particularly happy to.

He got up, holding the cigarette between his fingers, if only for comfort rather than anything else, and unlocked the door.

It was the man with the beard. As soon as Lull laid his eyes on the guy, the fear vanished - there was no point in its existence anymore. In its place stood emotions of focus and forward planning. No point in being scared of the man in front of him.

"Good evening," the man said, revealing his accent again. "I hope you were informed I'd be with you."

"Yeah," Lull said. He moved aside and the man came in. Lull locked it again. "Sit down," he said.

"I don't think you're in any position to tell me what to do, Lull Lyster."

Lull half-turned to the man, and blinked at him.

"After all, I paid for a killing. You didn't deliver."

"For several good reasons."

"You didn't deliver, Mr. Lyster."

"For several good reasons, Mr. Rimmer."

The man didn't find this funny. But it did prompt him to introduce himself. He extended his hand, "Inge Antolij, the man you've disappointed."

Lull shook his hand, and sat down in his seat. He didn't care if the other man sat down or not. "I failed, yes. I was told the client wanted to discipline me. I assume that's you."

"I am the client, yes. And yes, I wanted to discipline you myself, for your inability to deliver what was promised," Antolij sat down on the sofa, leaning towards Lull. Lull matched him, turning his snarl up a notch, fighting against Antolij's stare. "Now - you know who you were supposed to kill. You know you failed. And, fortunately, I have the ability to turn my misfortune into advantage. With your failure comes cover for me. I won't go into detail, but I can stay afloat in my life. Your failure is, too, advantage for me. You're a killer. A man who's taken the lives of so many individuals in Cassiopia and beyond. From Oriyon to much further afield, I was told you even travelled up to Ward's Point and poisoned a woman. True?"

"Yeah."

"So many unsolved murders, so many broken hearts, so many families distraught. They'd want to see you brought to justice, wouldn't they?"

Lull raised his eyebrow. "Probably."

"And, at this point, even if you run to your organisation to defend yourself, because obviously they have ways to protect you, they won't protect you in this instance."

"And why's that?" Lull said.

"They don't want to get on the wrong side of me either."

"So..."

"Your fate, yes, that's the next thing. I won't mince my words: you do as I say, you get to keep your life as it is. Your organisation will protect you. But, go against me and I'll make sure you lose your life here. And, considering who you're living for, you know you don't want that."

Lull blinked. His heart picked up its pace, his thumb twitched. The motion of gripping a pistol felt so far away, yet he craved it in an instant. Point, fire, take care of the body after. His mind raced, how would he do it? Pull the man into the bath, most likely, dismember him with a sharp implement, get a few trash bags, travel beyond Cassiopia and spend time in the countryside burying everything at different places. Oh, and potentially frame the woman he failed to kill, with a beard hair of Antolij.

Only, Lull didn't have any of his firearms on him. Nor was it plausible. Well, that was a lie, it was perfectly plausible. And, if it was plausible, then it was plausible forever. No point acting rashly: if Lull found a need to murder the guy, he was sure he could. Even if he had to track the guy down to do it - the Crook and Shot had information-gatherers on their payroll, non-lawful PIs, et cetera. Inge Antolij wouldn't be hard for Lull to find, he was sure.

No point in acting rashly.

He blinked himself back to reality, to see Antolij smirking. It was clear a lengthy pause had been established while Lull thought.

"I..." Lull cleared his throat, rolled his neck and set his eyes back onto Antolij's, "Fine. Just don't push me, don't ask for stupid, unreasonable things like you did with this fucking contract. Next time, don't fucking specify a time, don't fucking specify a place. Doing that made the entire thing stupidly hard," Lull said. Antolij didn't seem to be interrupting, so he continued. "You said where and when. Where was a public place, and when was pure daylight. You said you cut the power to cameras, and whatever, but that hardly matters. If that bitch was alone, she'd be dead. But she wasn't. She was in public, and she wasn't alone. I can kill in public, I've done that before. Did that not even a week ago. But, even if it was a public place, I could take my own time and work out when she was in a prime location, alone, for me to do what I do. You didn't give me that, and you have the gall to blame me for the entirety of the failure. I argue most of the failure rests on your head."

Antolij smiled. His eyes did not. "You missed."

"Because of factors."

This time, Antolij only smiled. He stood up. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer. I have many things to do, including cleaning up your mess."

"You gonna mop the blood off the stairs personally?" Lull spat.

"No. But metaphorically, yes. I'll be in touch."

"Right," Lull muttered. He stood up, unlocked the door, held it for Antolij.

Antolij passed into the corridor, but turned. As Lull went to close the door in his face, he raised a hand so suddenly Lull winced, at which point Antolij grabbed his chin, and held Lull there for a second. Lull couldn't move, it seemed Antolij's grip held not only onto his rather rounded chin, but onto his soul as well. Antolij had alluded to Lois' existence. Antolij knew more than he was letting on. It was no surprise: Lull's personal life was recorded quite vaguely in the Crook and Shot's records. Not many specifics, but Lois' existence was known to them. The fact Antolij knew about her, and what she meant to him meant he... he'd done his research.

"You look nothing like her," Antolij said, and let go of Lull's chin. He recoiled, pushing the door closed and locking it. He couldn't move away from the door, not until he heard Antolij smirk... and move away. His footfalls on the stairs closed off Lull's brain, and he stared at the door. He fell to his knees, twisted around, leaning against the door, and held his head in his hands. His emotions were closing off. He was stuck in place, in time, in space. Whatever he wished his brain would do, it was incapable. Did he want a plan of disposing of Antolij? Or did he simply want to get back to his feet? Or did he simply want to smoke that damn cigarette?

The thought of the cigarette spurred him to his feet, but he had been on the floor for a while. How long was it? Lull didn't know. And, upon picking up the cigarette, he knew its thin self wouldn't be enough to calm his brain. No, he'd turn to pot tonight. Lois wasn't here, she couldn't be affected by it. Lull retreated into his room and rolled a joint, hands steady as a corpse's. Too steady. Not shaking at the revelations of the evening. He'd gone through such a severe boost in anxiety and arousal that he'd short-circuited.

Lull left the apartment quietly, with the joint and roll-up, and smoked outside. The pot did nothing, hardly influenced his head nor his body, and he went back inside number than he was before.

 

[0stinato]

With the newfound information given to him by the bodyguards, it took Hieronymus mere minutes to discover the room he was looking for. As he passed Debenham at the front desk, he gave the man a smile, and said that he "won't be long," before taking the corridor to the rooms. The neighbour had moved to the upper floor, so Hieronymus bolted up them, a spark in his heart and in his leg muscles. Journalistic leads, journalistic integrity and personal curiosities on top of a murder, it was all a boy could want.

He moved along the corridor eagerly tracking down the room, and in his searched passed a few of the patrons, to whom he paid no heed. They couldn't see his eyes, so why would he have to worry? They couldn't see the ravenous glint in his golden eyes. This was an indulging, a moment where Hieronymus was bathing in his own desires.

At the appropriate door - which he double-checked to the description given by the two guards - he raised his hand and knocked. A confident, rhythmic knock, borne of his belief that he could strut around wherever he needed to in this murder hostel.

A rather elderly looking man opened the door, and he carried with him a suspicious expression. A regular of Klokklsby he seemed, both by his dress style and by that raised eyebrow... everyone in Klokklsby seemed to have a heightened awareness, as if they were constantly on the lookout for an 'Other.' Hieronymus, dressed on that line between sophisticated Victorian and modern convenience, believed he fit in well enough, but had second thoughts about openly presenting the dictaphone to the man.

"You're not room service," the man said.

"No, no. I'm with the Cassiopia Capers, would you like to be named or remain anonymous upon your words entering the articles on the murder here?" Hieronymus smiled and put his head on one side. "A pursuit of the truth is very important to the police, and to the minds of we citizens, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, definitely," the man straightened his back a bit and blinked a few times, "How long will this take, only I've not got much sleep and I have got room service coming in a little while."

"Not long, I assure you, Mr...?"

"Oldman."

The name came as a slight shock, but it was a shock Hieronymus managed to internalise... he was calm, composed, friendly even. The old man... Mr. Oldman... seemed friendly enough, it was the least Hieronymus could do to accept the name. "Mr. Oldman, it won't take long. May I come in, so we can be focused in our conversation?"

Mr. Oldman let Hieronymus in, and the two took up comfort on the seats. Hieronymus ran through the formalities, something he had not bothered doing with the two drunk guards, telling the man his intentions with the interview, asking if he was happy to proceed.

"I won't ask anything about grisly detail," Hieronymus said. "Selling shock value isn't what the Capers is about. As I said, it's a quest for the truth. So much so, that there have been preliminary interviews conducted here a few days ago by my team. It's all about being thorough. Now... as I understand, you were in the room beside the victim's?"

"Yes, I asked to be moved to another one, to this one, mind you, because of the disruption by the police, also I didn't really want to be shot in the middle of the night in my room. It's supposed to be safe here. Don't misunderstand me, I'm very glad the owner was accommodating enough to do as I requested, but..."

"Mm, well, it's probable the culprit was after simply the victim, and no one else. And, you mustn't blame the owner. I've spoken to him and he really is doing is best to recover his business."

"I guess. I mean... the assassin probably wasn't after me. I'm retired, I just wanted quiet twilight years, a closing statement to my life."

Hieronymus nodded, "Admirable. Poetic even. So, you were right next to the victim's room, you must've seen a lot."

"I saw... well, I'm not sure what I saw. It was a vile act by a vile person. I've heard the murdered guy wasn't..." he lowered his voice. "That he wasn't very well liked, but I don't see it an excuse... I can try and tell you what I saw, but I told the police several times."

Hieronymus nodded, "My team's talked to the police too, so I imagine we'd simply be going over old ground if we did. I'm certain I have available testimony from the preliminary interviews my team did," Hieronymus was completely bluffing at this point. His 'team' - rather, Infante's team - did have some words from the police, but mostly the police interviews were very dry. After all, the police wouldn't give out valuable testimony to the press of all people, would they? Still, Hieronymus wove the truth of the matter into a stained hyperbole, but he carried on regardless of its accuracy. "Did anyone else witness the murder besides yourself? Granted, you mightn't have been looking at the other patrons, but--"

"Actually there was one boy that saw it, and he was quite memorable, purely because he, well, how to put this delicately... his stomach couldn't handle what he saw. But I don't know what he saw, he was behind me and even I can't remember seeing much... I suspect my mind is saving me from the details..."

"Oh, he threw up? Oh dear."

"Yes, he was quite young. I'd say Klokklsby folk have quite thick skin when it comes to goings-on like this. I remember being quite calm... but he was anything but calm. He was helped out by an officer."

Hieronymus nodded, aware his heart rate was picking up. "Do you know what he looked like? So I can... ask the owner for his room number? See if he'd be willing to talk to me."

"He seemed sort of bedraggled, a sort of floppy fringe that lots of you main city kids are doing these days. I've not seen him around recently."

"I'll ask the owner nevertheless..." Hieronymus had to keep a smile from his face. That had to be Talon. The age, the bedraggled nature, the hair... he had looked lost when Hieronymus had declined his offer of investigation. And that decline was something Hieronymus almost regretted.

He had declined it officially. But, outside of the work environment, such as where his head was now, that decline didn't matter. He was pursuing the damn kid, who was so easily slipping through his fingers, but not for long.

"Oh, I should definitely leave you to your room service," Hieronymus said, standing up. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Was this an interview? You didn't write anything down..." Mr. Oldman said.

Hieronymus gave him that smile again and tapped his temple, "Eidetic memory when it comes to audio inference," he said, this time outright lying. "Why do you think I'm top journalist for the Capers, sir? Now... I'll leave you to yourself. I hope your room service is exquisite. Don't be too harsh on this place, I rather admire the owner for his attempts and making things better."

Mr. Oldman blinked, and stood up, seeing Hieronymus to the door. "I'll... remember this then."

"Next time, remember the actual event, if you please," Hieronymus said, and left the man, returning to his confident strut through the corridors. So... Talon was indeed one of the two Oriyon individuals mentioned in Infante's headline. The smile on his lips evolved as he walked, as he thought, into a half-dreamy, half-carnivore grin.

The chase for Talon was on. He'd return to the office, tell Infante just enough to tide the man over and fool him into believing Hieronymus' stint was worth it, then continue his private search. Yes - it was all coming together.

 

[Osthavula]

In the secretive light of fore dawn, Mr Carlyle finally reached the stairs of his doorsteps. Unlike the many other nights, the metal shell of the Carlyles house was not quiet. It drummed rhythmically, supporting the fireplace and the hanging lamps in the living room, going through the parlour and emitting the only warmth in the alleyway. Not that his eyes were so keen that he could see who was sitting still there, but his common sense announce louder than the light. It was with firm steps that he walked through the door, letting the sound travel before him. By the time he reached the living room, everyone looked expectingly at him. His daughter Ruth sat in the centre of the sofa, with Talon and Lorretta on each side of her. Lorretta with a pasty face held Ruth's hand tightly, but Andy's attention was not mainly on them. Talon might have noticed the subtle difference in his gaze, his awkward posture tensed up further. Andy breathed. Deeply. Enough that the smell of brandy was caught in his senses. His eyes then moved to the bottle on the counter. His beloved vintage, not something he would forbid them to touch, but it was old and strong, enough to dispel numerous long winter nights.

The man walked towards the bottle, flipped a glass on the tray, and poured a full shot of the vintage for himself. It downed like a mixture of honey and spices and liquid flames. The children were, expectedly, startled. In their eyes, whatever comes out of him the next second could only be bad news.

With the effect of alcohol still in his chest, he faced them and assured them first. "Don't worry. Olympia. My wife. She is in stable condition with the best security." He added the explanation for Talon. Then Ruth with a sigh of relief leaned on Lorretta's shoulder, who too smiled when she patted on Ruth's head.

"But it was another matter I must discuss. My wife and I, as you know, now have our hands tied. That means you must now take on your torches of the Editors. Ruth, Lorretta, and you. Talon. "

Not a whole lot of words, but these combinations of words carried the most dramatic effect. Ruth and Lorretta sprang up from their seats together and displayed a soundless panic, while the boy mentioned sat there confounded. He could sense that there were more meanings but failed to register the reason. "I'm sorry, sir." He asked, shrank from his echo in the closed room. "Does that mean something? The...... Torches of the Editors?"

"It is metaphorical torches. It is a role, Mr Marlow. A secret one, and one that your father had carried before. I don't believe that you being here is coincident, nor do I hope you will end up anywhere other than with us. It is difficult to explain now, but the situation is grim and I'd like you to be ready. My wife's injury could be one ring of the chain, your father the one before. Possibly, we being the next one on the thread. "

Talon gulped. "I have thought of this before. But do you know about..."

"I don't know enough. That is why I must ask you three to investigate. Without Olympia and me. Right now I suspect me and my wife will be watched, while you still have the freedom to do what you need. "

"So... He is one of us, all along?" Ruth yelled in a whisper, with a face to protest this newfound betrayal. "You meant he knew all along?"

"I didn't know. I told you everything I knew. " Talon protested back, feeling the jab of her accusation.

"I do not think the knowledge of his father's identity comes easily. " Andy interfered. "You must remain vigilant, and remain together. It is hard to know allies now, and you must not consider anyone is. "

"Norberto is with us too." Lorretta added with the remainder of her braveness. "He is investigating who attacked Olympia. "

A bitter choke entered Andy's throat. Any remind of his son who grew apart from him stirred bitterness, but he took notice of the gladness he felt at the moment. At the very least he observed that he and his son's quarrel didn't damage Norberto's view of Ruth. Ruth may feel difficult to trust her brother, a damage done by the past, but any help for her is surely welcomed.

"I don't think finding the hitman will be the end, but it is a help." He concluded that. The maiden took comfort in the polished harshness of Andy's word, warmness appeared in her expression under the warm fire. It was then the quietness finally dawned, along with the ray of lights from between the curtains. The house rumbled lowly and obediently, its voice comfortable enough to start lowering their eyelids.

"They won't mind if the shop is closed tomorrow. " At last, Andy said to them, his tiredness showed after a weighty conversation. "Sorry I cannot answer more question. But you will find answers in time. " He said that to the boy on the sofa, then walked towards the shop.

Talon himself wished he was as sure as the blacksmith. At the end of the conversation, he found the way to the bed, but only discover his journey to the dreamland was more treacherous. The composure he displayed to the man easily collapsed like cotton candy in fire. The dream and reality clashed together, that he was travelling in between them, until the end of hundreds he looked at the cloth of his pillow, waiting for it to grow teeth and claws. This time, it didn't turn into anything.

 

[0stinato]

An oil-stained palm dropped a wrench onto a worktop within a sprawling room underground as its owner tilted her head and counted the chimes of the Klokklsby clock tower. There were twelve in all. Twelve, to mark the start of the new day. Her subterranean existence was to save her hearing. To be below the chiming bell was to experience, over time, permanent damage to one's hearing. As a result, the caretaker of the clockwork was forced to exist beneath a layer of ground. And the ground did its job. It absorbed the majority of the sound and vibrations, though the caretaker could hear the muffled bell chiming high above her. Not only that, but if she touched the supporting metal pillars, she would feel, faintly though her fingertips, the vibrations of the bell's call.

Her name was Schoe Sharma, and she had twenty minutes before she'd discover a new world within her own.

Twelve o'clock meant it was the end of Schoe's working day. Sticking to a rigorous schedule of daily life, Schoe started work at nine o'clock every day, and ended it at midnight. Nine o'clock was when she would spend an hour traversing the clock tower, heading up, up, up, and winding the mechanisms for the first half of the day. She would repeat the process at nine o'clock in the evening. After that, she would return to her piece of commissioned work, and spend the remaining two hours solidly constructing, measuring, searing, heating, sawing, energising, wiring, nailing, radiating, painting, oxidising, perfecting her commissions, getting them one step nearer being ready for the client who had asked for them.

Schoe never had many commissions though. A lot of the time, she could work on her own projects alongside the commissions. Still, the whole thing twisted a nerve in the back of her mind. Why was she not being commissioned more often? She advertised, she advertised as much as she could. Word of mouth, visual prints on billboards, created with a stencil and paint, but still her name seemed never to be spoken in Klokklsby.

It would never be spoken outside Klokklsby to be sure. Schoe did big tech. Schoe made revolving doors, vehicles, furnace-enhancers, door-manipulators, collapsible chimneys, fire-churners, aga-automators and whatever else she dreamed up during her knockout night rests. And, she always asked herself, who wouldn't want a collapsible chimney?

She stretched her neck after wiping her hands of as much oil as she could, and pushed her tools to one side. The workshop was not neat, not by any sense. But she liked it like that. For one thing, it meant Ira and Shivani, her two older siblings, never visited. Ira's picky ways saw his house laid out like a showroom. He liked to put things away, out of sight. Schoe never understood that. Clutter meant something was lived in. And Shivani, while not as impossible to manage as her older brother, would always wander Schoe's workshop, picking up tools, stray pieces of material, scraps of cloth or hand-rags, and asking, "Where does this go?"

No, mess kept them away.

Schoe advanced on her bed, tucked in the corner of the workshop. There were no walls separating her bedroom space from the rest of the room, only two rather large wardrobes, a chest of drawers and a few tall bookshelves created any privacy, providing artificial walls. In fact, the only space that could otherwise be classed as a room apart from the warehouse was Schoe's cubby-hole of a bathroom, which she'd had fitted with, as blasphemous in Klokklsby as it was, modern conveniences.

She was hungry for sleep, even if she never slept comfortably. Buying materials for rare commissions meant Schoe had to cut back on the creature comforts. But it suited her rugged attitude just fine.

She undid the hooks of her top-piece, taking it off to reveal a cotton top. She was half-way through stepping out of her trousers when there was a large thud from above her. After freezing momentarily, Schoe pulled her trousers back on and moved to the elevator, beginning to wind its mechanism to take her up. With a noise like that, she couldn't risk taking the ladder.

From the position of the sound, Schoe reckoned it was the door. Something had rammed the door, veered into it, or fallen on it, that was what she thought. With every foot she moved upwards, her mind wove webs of 'perhaps' thoughts. When she saw the door intact though, her mind only spun more.

"Hello?" she called out, seizing an oil lamp from its hook. She lit it, and, when no answer came, opened the door.

A body fell into the room, causing Schoe to back off a few steps as it slumped. A bedraggled woman, clothes unwashed and distressed, lay unconscious on the floor, the only indication of breath being the shallow changes in her nostrils. Schoe bounded outside, glaring around the streets for an attacker. One Klokklsby star had been shot earlier on, how was she to know some attacker wasn't trying to attack Klokklsby residents in general?

The thought spurred her to pull the woman to safety. A rare spark of camaraderie, a gesture of altruistic kindness, and Schoe found herself kneeling on the floor of the clock tower next to the woman, who she'd put into a safe position. What to do? What was she doing so late out, in such a state? Schoe tried to blink away her weariness - there was a Klokklsby resident in distress, and her pride insisted she help.

Osthavula

 

[Osthavula]

It must have been a hundred nights before when Clay finally mustered up the courage to climb out of the walls she hid in. The darkness of the corridor, the eerie silence, they all came back to her like a lost but familiar friend. That strange familiarity along with her exhaustion helped the once abused girl crept soundlessly through the corridor. Only the stench and the blood trails along the corridor threatened her senses, the pale wrist of Lily limped at the door of the kitchen, the abnormal sights perturb the already heightened fear at the back of her head. She made her way past the garden passed the shrubs behind the gazebo when she heard a crude roar of an engine coming from afar. And it wasn't until she hid in the tree and stole a peel behind her, that she realized what the engine meant. Vivid smoke rose from the fields, from the once beloved mansion, and turned every carved wooden flower into flaming cinders, and rare antique carpets into meaningless char. But most importantly, the faces and everything that her fingers touched was incinerated by someone's crime. She does not know who. She does not know why. It took an evening walking along the forest till she remembered where she needed to go. Klokklsby. It took less time, however, for her to realize she must avoid crowd as much as possible. The enemy might come back, and she wouldn't know them by their faces. She must stay safe. She must go to Siren.

It wasn't easy, of course. Her master's mansion was built in between cities, in other words, in the middle of nowhere but the fields of greens. On foot of an experienced traveller, it would take weeks to a month. For Jane Clay, it took a week to the first friendly household that offered her a drink, another week to flee at every sign of danger, then though she never got on the train, she followed the tracks until Klokklsby was in sight, then she took a long way around to avoid the station. The city was no longer known to her, and unfortunately, she didn't know which block of those buildings would lead her to the theatre. By then, the thirst and hunger and stressed had already robbed most of her senses. The cross that hung above all ceilings, and the bell that towed, became the only signs that guided her.

Little did she knew just how fate's wheels turn in the city of steam.

If she had made a few more steps to the church's main door, had she fell before she reached its marble walls, her future would be dim and thorn-full. At the last minute, with the help of fond memories, she knocked on the back door. Albeit she knocked finally not with her fist, but with her own forehead.

So after a long month since the fire, the escaping governess finally fell into a deep slumber. Her body could no longer bear her own weight with her current diet and exercise, with little water and the constant fear and stress. Like a hibernated poorwill, she lied cold leaning on the cool stones at the skirt of the church. And when the door open, and no matter if she was moved or transported, her senses abandoned all knowledge.

 

[Osthavula]

“As you can see we are currently near the room of the hospital of Nightingale. The hospital staff was guarding along with the security, and it appeared that the famous songstress had returned to a special ward after the shocking incident of the shooting happening in …”


On the long lounge sofa, Edna boredly tossed an empty packet of crisp on the pristine glass coffee table, and turned her eyes locked on the screen where a suited journalist narrated calmly while a nurse pulled his trained arm futilely. She had little concern for the man, if not holding a little judgemental look on the likes of them, acted like they are different than everyone else when they are the same lots with thick skin and run around rich heels to beg. Not that she had much insight into journalists and all, it is just that she imagined those people were delusional that they were of any moral status compare to the crowd she grew up with. The crowd she belonged. Anytime they got on the press the journalists always carry that look of judgement, the look of pity.


Ain’t no rest for the wicked. The whole lot of them. The whole lot of us.


And right now all her wandering attention went to the door downstairs, the ridiculously giant pair of doors that were loud enough to hear if anyone should come through. If anyone does, it won’t be the couple who owns the place, they have a new favourite summer spot in New Nooptoon. It won’t be the mailman either, all the bills were paid automatically through the couple’s bank account and the bills were sent to the mailbox by the gate. By some very kind mercy of her Edna took them in and check them before throwing them into the bins, instead of, let say, stealing from their bank account. In exchange, she has a luxury mansion to use and to play around. She wouldn’t sleep here. Something about the tall soft bed made her feel uneasy.


But if this kept on, she would have to spend the night here.


The crystal clock soundlessly counted the time, and the more it moved, the more Edna felt annoyed. In her line of work, no one likes to be late. Even crooks have their manners of being punctual, because if you pay money late it just might start a war and kill a few people. And if the person hired them is late, then the job is called off, and ends up being a complete waste of time.


This is neither of those case. She wasn’t here for an official job, or she wouldn’t be in her favourite spot of meet up. She was here to meet someone she knew for a long time, long enough to do a job without payment. But now, admittedly, not even friendship was enough to comfort her impatience. After all, the crisps were finished. The cookies too. She eyed the bag of peanuts she prepared, but she wasn’t in the mood for it. That bowl of tiramisu was there, but then she wanted to save it for after the meal. Which, because the meeting delayed for so long, she didn’t have time to go out for dinner. The man who she was waiting for better come now with some food in his bag.


And he better not have come with a whole crew of gunman with all the guns pointing at her head.


Like her own rules, she didn’t ask too much questions for official business. But Edna is not daft. The dark pupils turned once again to the television screen, where a distressed bartender was questioned. The pub was left empty due to the investigation, the pub where her man Terry shorted the wire to the surveillance cameras, where she herself tampered with the fusebox, and she sat in the middle of the crowd when the gunshot happened, and saw the policeman came in. Then she saw the hospital crew took the songstress away, and slipped away from the many journalists storming by. She will be plain stupid if she didn’t connect them together. Unlikely too, for the man who knew her from younger age to think her a complete idiot.


What exactly was this man’s plan? She knotted her brows and even then it didn’t help the feeling stirred up in her chest. He unsettles her greatly. She knew the rumours and she knew the man, and if she had a second chance she really wouldn’t want to get involved with this person. But without him, her many heists would have dissolved to nothing but shackles and jail bars. The humanity in her insisted that she paid back the favour. What a favour that she just paid for, though.


The sharp heels nearly poked through the white fabric of the sofa. The woman changed her position so that her high heel boots rest on the sofa back, and she herself rest her head on the arm of it. A dangerously relaxed position.


But she had to trust him. He did trust her to some extent. The trust in their ring of crowd usually is brittle and thin, and for that it is worth some preservation.


It would be best if it rained. Something about the off-white of the exterior walls looked ugly against the dry air, and only served to quieten the degree of beating hope within him. Meeting after meeting - the Editors’ get-together, then his deal-making with the failed assassin, and now the next step could be taken.


Antolij approached the meeting place, aware of his lateness. But it was excusable, he considered, knowing he would be bringing a trump card to their table. To enter the front lawn was as simple as pushing aside the once-alarmed gate. Edna must have dismantled the thing on her way in. Trust her to do such a thing. Antolij pushed the gate closed and proceeded up to the path to the front door. He moved quietly, pushing open the door with the back of his hand, leaving him completely able to defend himself if there was any creature inside unhappy to see him. But there was nothing in the hall, and only the blare of a television upstairs, filtering through the dusty air, broke the otherwise silence of the house. Commandeered by a criminal, Antolij walked into her domain and eyed the stairs. The entire thing reminded him of where he had just been, only on a much nicer scale. No mould-infested handrail which creaked under the weight of any hand. No sighing ventilation system that breathed lukewarm air onto his ankles on the landing.


He ascended. No point in wasting more time. Get the news out and leave with a new understanding. His eyes scanned the room, surfing across the figure of Edna, his ears insisting they were essentially alone. And if they were not, it would be foolish to look. No one would catch him off-guard though: this was a practiced and competent sneak-thief with a crew he was dealing with, and one whom he owed a favour. If she decided to take that favour in another way, he was not going to be left high and dry for it.


Edna heard him coming, and her senses became tense for a moment --- seemed to be a common reaction in their line of work. As Inge ascended, she could see the very same caution. But to show her trust, she did not leave her casual position --- flat on the sofa, hands away from the pocket, and a casual greet with a lazy smile. “I hope you have a good reason, Inge. As busy as you are, you will prepare at least a lousy excuse for me, hmm?”


Antolij approached the sofa as she spoke, taking in the crease of her eyebrows, and raised his briefcase, laying it on the arm of the sofa. He unclicked it, letting his eyes wander from here for only a second while he retrieved a thin dossier, which he spun to her.


“This is my excuse. An opportunity arose from the unfortunate failure of my hitman. This meeting came secondary to that opportunity,” he quietened for a few moments, allowing her time with the dossier. “Skullface. With his failure to kill my quarry, I’ve pulled him into service with me. Of course, it’s simply, at the moment, a preliminary service. I highly doubt he’ll be willing. In fact, he looked far from happy when I broached the entire thing to him. From what I was told about his attitudes, he’ll need some reigning in. A lot of reigning in. But, aside from the fact he will be terribly rough around the edges…” Antolij licked his lower lip, “... I am confident in saying I - and by extension, we - have a killing-machine. I was not going to pass up an opportunity of that sort just to see you.”


For the first time in the night, he smiled as he stared at her.


With a sigh, Edna put down the dossier, eyed Inge with his (in her word) shameless smile. “That is a lousy reason, Inge. What if this man you employed is on my trail too now, hmm? And I think I missed that very little detail that all those power cutting is a hitman job. “ She had to stop herself from complaining about his hit target which would cause a very thorough investigation on the case, dead or alive. “But very well, we have a killing machine, Inge. Good job. What will you have him do then? And sit down. Uh…” She looked around to the pile of empty packages of snacks, and shrugged to him. No snacks for him, well, not that he seemed to be waiting for them.


“If you wish to perform background checks on the man, I can assure you you won’t find anything I haven’t. His profile, as you’ll read in the dossier, states his occupation is the only criminal activity he has done. Never has he attempted to get information extraneous to his next kill. I doubt he knows anything about you, considering all that. As for what I’ll have him do, that’s besides the point at the moment. As far as I am concerned, he is an asset. One that will have to be controlled, but one that is certainly no waste of time. Consider him, if you do not believe him to be of any use, security. Consider we are discovered. We merely need to deploy him against our discoverers, and the rest will be sorted out with a few awry pieces of evidence.”


Antolij didn’t make any move from where he stood. He wanted to speak. Edna’s informality versus his starched personality. He blinked.


As usual, this man made Edna feel very irritated. Her rational mind stops her from the questions about to bursting out her lips. What business are you in? What exactly are you planning? Security against… Who? Why so much work against an achieved singer? And if the hitman won’t come after me, what about you? Somehow, Edna felt she was in a position so… Well, she hasn’t found a description yet. But it was irritating, so infuriating.


“Very well. “ She ended all her questioning thoughts nonchalantly, picking up the dossier again. The hitman’s information, like he said, look very clean. It didn’t look like he was interested in any other development, nor did he look very murderous. If anything, he looked like any depressing down to luck person you see on the street. “So, what’s next? I did your job. Quite a heavy job consider the consequences. And don’t you say I didn’t do my part, they did not get any footage on the man.”


The reporter rambling on the wide screen television became an unwelcomed noise, so she finally took the remote, silence him to a jaw exercising clown. Then, the professional hired thieve looked at the man, with a long and pondering gaze before throwing her hands in the air.


“You make my head hurt, Inge. I have no idea what you can do for me in return. We had no requests for the past few days, and the one man we planned to rob ends up dead in his hotel room. Just my luck. Keep an eye out for me then, alright? Do be careful of your precious neck while you are at it. “ Saying the most tender thing she could possibly conjure, Edna switched to another position of crossing her leg and kicking the one on top, waiting for him to add anything or volunteer. Normally she wouldn’t be so restless. “Any good score that can earn back my meal someone smashed during that disaster?”


Well, it was only a plate of chips. But let’s gloss over that shall we?


Antolij’s smile never wavered. Even as his eye slid from her to the reporter on the television, where he could take in what he already knew from the scene… his lips kept together. His eyes turned back to her, magnetized onto her attitude. So much she didn’t know.


“No idea what you want me to do in return for you?” Inge said. “Perhaps you ought to have considered that. Accepting a job with no foreseeable payoff is foolish, don’t you think. As it happens, though, I have the perfect consideration for you, something you will be needing me for. It concerns a few unhappy pasts that are threatening the position of Cassiopia’s servers. A few unhappy eyes looking for gauzes to cure their past wounds,” he paused. He tired of analogy. “Questions are being asked and I chose the target for assassination to break away from those questions. Given how this assassination has turned out, I know we both benefit. I gain, and you gain, access to a killing-machine. And this unfortunate circumstance can offer you a little slice of power. In fact… more than a little slice of power. When a crack forms, it is an Editor’s job to fill it. If I can fill this crack caused by this… scenario… I’d like to fill it with people I don’t even have to say I trust.”


Editors, and cracks. Did he meant more like… painters? In fact just any worker with resins? But then she had heard his voice talking about editors sometime before. Perhaps last month? Or before? “Like I said, my prepared method of payment is now invalid. Stop your riddles, Inge. For the sake of our friendship, or whatever this stinking thing is, spit it out. “ She sighed again, as if that took extra strength like a short run. “I’m no person who enjoyed high offices and a million troops to order but go ahead. Speak like a normal person please. “


“High office is far from the true descriptor. The Editors decide everything. From how big lake park was all those years ago, to how many pages the Capers are allowed to have in their papers. But that’s all I’ll say. You don’t work as a criminal in the underground of Cassiopia as Skullface does. You made a name for yourself in whispers apart from that. My payback for you is you may fill the gap the Nightingale left. But it’s up to you. I won’t do all the legwork for you, or else you will owe me. Every inch of this city will become an asset to you when you join me. But find it yourself, Edna. Be creative,” Antolij dipped his head a bit. “Skullface is at your disposal. I will reign him in accordingly - to you he is the queen on the chessboard.”


Is he talking seriously? Edna wondered grimly at her long acquaintance if he had finally lost it. But at the same time, she believed he was sane just enough. Doesn’t make him any less of a madman by society standard, though. But Editors? Decide everything? And he talked like the entire city was his personal chess board. Which helped her figured out one thing. Very possibly, she is another one of his pawn. Even though she was supposed to be on her own. Her independent self, as he had pointed out.


“I really don’t understand what you are playing, Inge. But I don’t think I’d like to play. Or more specifically, Inge, I don’t like being played. In any sense of the word. If your ‘Editors’ are the players, then you should know one day you will end up on that fate. “


She got up, brushed down the crumbs on her tight-fitted leather suit, and walked towards the stairs. On her way she stood in front of Inge, looked at that face and remembered when they first met. That was a time when she was younger, bolder. More innocent, more reckless. And those were good times. “My target is dead now, so I will find something else that you can possibly compensate my service for. Your offer of Editors sounds like an excellent offer, but it is just not for me. You know where to find me, hmph?“


Mouthing “take care”, she gave him a queen-like smile, as a farewell before she descended. She has not yet see the value in this hitman he said he provided. In her mind, her own defence and offence were skillful, and whatever power play Inge was at was one too unfamiliar for her. By the time the comfortable night breeze blew her hair sideways, the meet up with Inge already felt like a lucid dream. Or, a willingly avoided worry. One that she like to throw behind on her motorcycle to the storm of dust it disturbed.


Antolij merely cocked his head at the sound of her bike. There were two ways this meeting could have gone, and it had indeed taken one direction. He surveyed her used space, the place littered and uncomfortable with foil, the television remote between couch cushions.


He put Edna out of his mind. Tricky one. And another tricky one would be Skullface. As the dossier described him, ‘docile, but coiled.’ It was that last word ‘coiled’ that confused Antolij. Until, that is, he had visited Skullface. Coiled as a spring is coiled. There was a tightness behind his eyes, a tightness that only wound further at the veiled threat Antolij had suggested.


Well. If Skullface was going to be of use to himself and Edna - it was a legitimate invitation for her - Antolij would have to be the one to control when he was docile and when he was coiled.

 

[0stinato]

The lift descended slowly as Schoe turned the wheel. It argued against her hand, as if trying to keep the lift raised, perhaps aware of some force Schoe didn’t know about lurking in her workshop. But whatever the wheel wanted to have the lift avoid, she did not let its catching teeth perturb her from transporting the poor woman down. Although the entire experience of descending into the earth beside an unconscious body filled Schoe with a deep feeling of claustrophobia; a burial sprang to mind, a voluntary self-preservation within the earth, next to a weak corpse. Still, despite the visions of wet earth, Schoe kept turning the wheel. For the first time in three years, she sweated doing it.

As the lift touched down, and Schoe swept aside the collapsing diamond-shaped grille protecting the passengers, she looked down at the woman on her lift floor. Another bout of maneuvering was called for. Fortunately, Schoe’s adrenaline was still in her veins. Through a system of kneeling and manipulating, she pulled the woman into her arms and stood. Then she began the trek of human weight past the various sideboards, high- and low-tables, past the floor gas-lamp that marked the edge of the artificial threshold into her living corner. When she got there, she knelt next to her bed again, and let the woman down gently onto her sheets. She breathed for a while, rearranging the woman’s collar so it wouldn’t affect her breathing in the night, but didn’t believe she would be able to awaken her.

Never one to remain idle, Schoe got to her feet and pulled out a spare lot of bedding from beneath one of her sideboards. Usually, one of her siblings might sleep on it, but today it was hers. Instead of laying it on the ground though, she adopted her disheveled armchair. Angling it so she could keep an eye on the woman, and huddling the material around her figure to keep out the constant chill from the metal floors, Schoe didn’t even try to sleep.

The woman’s apparel was nothing but a confusion. Certainly, it was a mimesis of mimicry that Klokklsby cultivated close to its heart, but its state was impossible to chalk up to circumstance. While deciding how to pick up the woman swathed in blue, Schoe had observed a number of marks and tears: ingrained discolouration, rips that had been sanded down with time, and a rumpled constancy that would never be ironed out. No one in Klokklsby would allow such disrepair to befall their clothing. At least, not that Schoe had seen.

The questions were buried beneath a layer of concern for the woman. And that layer made Schoe frown. She scratched her ear - worrying was such a Nish thing to do. And Schoe didn’t want to fall into the Nish category of person.

So Schoe wondered what to do. Wake the woman? Don’t wake her? If she was unconscious, and Schoe couldn’t believe that she wasn’t, then she would definitely need to be taken to a hospital in the city proper. A real brain-scan would be needed, and that was something Klokklsby didn’t offer.

She snorted as she considered this - she was worrying again. Nish would worry about this sort of a thing. She pulled the cover up a little more across her shoulders and glared at the woman on her bed. She would not be pulled into concern for this lady.

Even though her schedule called her to sleep, Schoe rose and exited her living space, where she approached a workstation and took up tools. Work would distract her mind. If the woman woke up, she woke up. If she died on Schoe’s bed, the worry wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

Trying to put the entire thing to rest in her memory, Schoe fired up an Bunsen burner and heated a precision knife, ready to shape the aluminium in her project.

The indoors and the sudden care befell her certainly did Clay some good. The change was too little to noticed at first. Slower and more regular breath, and a gently heaving chest. Also a mind that sprung to action when she first noticed that something was so distinctively alien in months, that she jerked herself wake the first thought appeared in her mind. It was, indeed, like a feeling of living burial. The air of wet earth, the humming of the closeted space, the ever drumming of what would be the dead man’s band or a temperamental earth god. Her limbs were tied with her own weakness, and she would scream if not restricted by the failure of her very own neck, where they were still desperately gasping for air in the sudden struck of terror.

Though something quickly tell the distressed governess that it was not such dire situation. The air was abundant, though it did smell closely to earth, distinctly metallic. There was warmth, and it was provided by the room and the materials around her, thoughtfully put to preserve the life in her chilled body. There was little doubt of who helped her, for in the spacious room her eyes only detected one other human, and a rather lovely one in her eyes. A woman was working against a burner, her silhouette held up what looked like a knife. By this point, however, Jane Clay had no worry of a hostile intent. Her desperate and kind mind wouldn’t permit so.

She tried to push herself up, but she wasn’t strong enough even before she treaded miles. So she tried to speak, but the sudden pain in her throat made her realized its ill state. What she really wanted to say was “thank you”, but if that was all she could say, it would be the ruin of her voice.

So with all her strength, facing the woman, what she could let out was a weak and cracked sound of “Woohtuhhhh”.

The voice didn’t rattle Schoe. She whipped her head round and eyed the woman. If there was something the voice did, it was confuse her, until she worked out what the woman was asking of her.

“Water? You want water?” Schoe said, dropping the knife. It hissed a slight bit when it contacted the table, but Schoe chalked the reaction up to a disintegrating slice of dust. Water it was. The mechanic moved back to her living space and drew a mug full of water which she brought to the woman.

“Don’t speak,” she said. “Just nod or shake your head. Can you drink this yourself or should I assist?”

It wasn’t a yes or no question, so Clay was confused as to how she should respond at first. But she nodded, and with her best attempt took the glass and drank it slowly. She spilled some water on her dress, but with her own drinking speed, for someone to assist her would mean choking and rude unpleasant coughing. Something her old master would frown quietly till she… Ah..

She nearly choked thinking of the poor master, who likely passed in his bed and now turned to char and ashes. But she steady herself, and the cool water rejuvenated her as it slided down her throat. She swallowed again, just to make sure they were operable.

“Thank you, miss.” She said to the woman gratefully, with a gentle and meek smile. “It is my first water in days. Without you I surely would have faded in the wind too.“

Blown away ashes. Blown away dust.

She then remembered the journey, remembered her purpose. When her body was so desperately in need of life, Clay couldn’t be sure if she had achieved the more important ordeal. “If you will, kind stranger, can you tell me where I am? Am I within Cassiopia? Am I near Soso? “

Then she remembered her manners. “And, if it is not too rude to ask of, what is your name? “

Schoe leaned her weight on her back foot as she perceived the girl. “You’re in Klokklsby. Soso isn’t far by vehicle. And I’m Schoe Sharma, I look after the clocktower. You collapsed just outside the clocktower door, I couldn’t leave you outside. Not when there’s been an assassination in Klokklsby. I suppose you also have a name.”

Jane Clay was always a sickly woman. But after hearing that, she did become paler. “Assassination? What? I didn’t hear of it? “ It threw her in a wave of panic, and she pressed her heaving chest when she waited for an explanation.

“I…” Schoe didn’t get anywhere before the woman’s breathing sped up. So quickly did the panic grip her that Schoe almost expected to see a spectre floating out of the wall. “Alright listen to me. Listen to me. Hands behind your head, push your chest out, open your diaphragm, it’ll stop you panicking.” She had to assist. She wasn’t going to put in jeopardy her effort in getting the woman down here. If the woman was down here, and somehow died, that would be a massive annoyance for Schoe. Not only would she have a body to move, but she’d have explaining to do to the police, investigations into her business, Klokklsby people unhappy at her choice of modern lighting in some places… oh, it’d be a migraine to deal with. So she elected instead to try to assist the woman with her breathing, to calm her down.

“The assassination was a few days ago now, only one person was actually killed, and there haven’t been similar assassinations since. Nothing’s going to kill you down here.”

Schoe said nothing of the mechanical automaton in the corner of her workshop.

“But who?” Clay desperately gasped for air, but followed her instruction to relax down. The corset which was around her waist made it a little tight to raise her hand, or to move her chest, but it was the last protection where the dress was torn, and she won’t take off her dress to remove it. “My name is Jane. Jane Clay. But I would prefer not to let too many hear me…” She took one deep breath. “Alright, I am closer to… Do you know where is….”

She can’t remember, all the hunger and weakness torn that knowledge straight out of her. What was Siren’s last name?

“Do you perhaps know the residence of… Nightingale, I believe. Can’t quite remember her name. I need to find her, it is something important. It is, very important. ”

She repeated over, as if to remind herself of the importance. But getting worked up caused her breath to thin once again, and she looked towards Schoe pleading with all her life within her. The shadow of the wealthy household she worked for ceased to reflect on her, but something older shown in that tone of pleading. Like nothing was worth to strive for, and the only thing she wanted was between her two clasped hands turning into vapour. “Miss Sharma, please, how can I get to her?”

“The Nightingale. She won’t be hard to find. This must be why you asked if you are near to Soso. But I can’t very well send a clearly injured woman out onto the streets with vague directions can I? You should stay here, or we’ll find a hospital for you, Jane. I can’t very well encourage you to drive yourself to your death, can I? I can try to find out where the Nightingale is, though if she’s doing a performance or something I can’t take you to her.” It did cross Schoe’s mind to wonder why this woman wished to see the Nightingale, but Schoe’s own curiosity kept her from asking the question. A straight answer wouldn’t satisfy her.

“Stay there, just relax. I can find out where she is, but I won’t if you insist on exhausting yourself.”

Schoe moved away from the bed, with only one look over her shoulder back to Jane. She did indeed have ways of finding things out. It was called the Internet. A subject in Klokklsby that wasn’t at all welcomed. So Schoe kept it to herself. Klokklsby wasn’t her original home, but rather somewhere she’d eventually settled and found a calling. But just because she slotted into the odd world like a jigsaw piece didn’t mean she felt Klokklsbian to her soul. No. Her siblings all allowed themselves the obvious pieces of life that Klokklsby didn’t have, and Schoe felt she needed them too. That’s why she had the LED strip lights disguised as gas strip lights. That’s why she kept a fridge in her living area. That’s why she allowed herself the internet. Schoe hadn’t considered what the Klokklsby people would do if they discovered her modern conveniences, but, in her mind, why would they care? She did what she had to do to keep the clocks running, and none of that involved anything unsporting. It was pure clockwork, weights and physics that kept the clock running. She put her manpower into tightening the springs to allow the clock twelve hours of correct time, and then tightened them again.

But the reason Schoe moved away to check about the Nightingale is because she didn’t know who Jane affiliated with. The Nightingale - a Klokklsby-Soso divide. Two lives. A proud Klokklsby resident, and a stunning Central performer. Should Jane’s allegiances fall mostly with the true Klokklsby way, Schoe did not want to risk alienating her with such a small gadget as a modern tablet. No, Schoe wanted to keep somewhat close to Jane… asking after the Nightingale proved to Schoe one thing - this lady had a passion. Schoe did not let herself look over her shoulder as she, a good thirty feet away from the living area, withdrew from a compartment in a work surface, a tablet. It was in good condition, and from a company based in Oriyon. Another reason why she kept it from the Klokklsby public was just that - capital and government sympathies were implied in her ownership of it.

Schoe got online and subtly began searching the Nightingale’s residences. However, what emerged from her results wasn’t any forum conspiring into where the woman resided, nor was it proof that she lived in Klokklsby, nor was it an expectation of some upcoming plans she had. She frowned. She pushed the tablet back into its drawer.

She turned and walked back to Jane, her hands behind her back. “I guess you can understand a celebrity like that would prefer to have her privacy. What I suggest is we get you to a hospital because I’m far from the appropriate person to be looking after you.”

Feeling her throat a bit dry, Clay took another sip of water. Her own identity card was left behind, burnt. But then, this did admit her before her previous card was made, long long ago. “Per, perhaps. I don’t think I can afford hospital now, but I can’t ask you to help me with that. If you don’t mind, I will just wait until morning and I will go to Soso. “ Ignorant to the news, she put all hope in the Siren, the person who saved her long ago. Unknowingly, she were then possessed with the idea that with Siren, all problems will solved. Certainly, with that beautiful and fearsome woman.

Schoe raised an eyebrow. “You want me to lodge you overnight when you’re very clearly ill?” More words wished to tumble from her mouth, but she realised that, to be charitable, she couldn’t disagree. Shivani would never disagree. Although Shivani had more than one bed. She put her hands in her pockets and stared at Jane. Telling the girl the Nightingale was at the hospital wasn’t what she wanted to do. The woman this girl was asking for had been shot. How would that play out in the mind of the girl, a girl who was so frantic and unaware of her own condition? Exhaustion was probably the primary factor of Jane’s condition, and stressing her mentally would only add to that. If, however, she was to reveal the Nightingale’s location was within the hospital too, at least she’d have the right people around to treat the shock.

“If you’re not going to the hospital, I’ll fetch someone myself. You understand I am not qualified to nurse you, nor to I know your condition. I will not allow us to be together alone. So - will you come to the hospital, or will I get someone from the hospital here? I don’t want you to take a turn… and I’m unable to save you. You’re the one who’s in peril here. I’m the one who’s dealing with it,” a hint of vulnerability formed in Schoe’s eye, but she blinked it away. “Choose,” she said. “Which do you prefer?”

Whether it was her purpose or nay, in Clay’s eyes in became of another gesture. It was terrible, Jane thought, that she seemed to have become a nuisance. “If I caused any trouble, kind stranger, I didn’t mean to. I will go to the hospital then.” Taking another sip of the water, which was already lukewarm by the time she did, the woman stood and brushed any dirt she got on the blankets. “Was it still where it was, five years ago?” That was the last time she heard of the hospital’s location. So many years ago. The master had a travelled doctor. Whatever happened to that man?

“The… Cassiopia General is still where it has been for upwards of two hundred and fifty years. Bring one of those blankets with you, I can’t have you catching a chill as well. I told you, I’m dealing with this, and by the sounds of it, you implied you’d have trouble getting in on your own. They’ll listen to me. I’ve been there several times,” Schoe opened the gate to the hand-crank operated lift. “It’s amazing how often blood gets spilled when you work with metal. Got my shin sliced right open three years ago. Come on then. I’ll point out the nurse who hit on me. If he’s still there.”

The sensitive girl winced at the description of skin being cut open, but then she realized years ago that would have been a common thing to see. Wrapping the blanket around her like a shaw, she entered the lift and smiled to Schoe, both gratefully and apologetically.

“Let’s just go up. Sooner you’re there, the sooner neither of us have to worry. If you have nowhere to go by the time you’re dismissed from the hospital, then I’ll make a bed up. Won’t take long to build a frame. I have spare parts lying around.”

Surprised to hear that Schoe was still willing to keep her after the hospital, she muttered a weak but heartfelt thank you. The traveling to the hospital was much easier than the tread through the woods or tailing the train tracks, but by the time they reached the old hospital ward, she had spent most of her energy. The flower bloomed quietly still in the darkness of night, a delightful welcome for the two woman visiting at the hour. Fortunately, the lights were still on where the medical staff worked and resided. It still lived, the Cassipia General, and not any less than century ago. A flute was even heard somewhere from their garden, strange time for certain, but it was pleasant and light when the rest of patients slept soundly with it.

Schoe did not ignore Jane’s weakness and took the cox’ position, striding into the General and to the desk. After being greeted, she nodded and gestured to the woman behind her.

“I’d say this woman is struggling with a rather severe case of exhaustion, perhaps also dehydration, or the like, though that’s just what I can discern from the surface-level symptoms. I’m afraid she’s… how do I put this… off the radar in terms of who she is, and I don’t yet know why. I’m just helping her,” Scho explained. At a question of identity from the front desk, Schoe smiled, and spoke a little quieter. “I know she’s of no harm - her character is clear. If you have any doubts, I know the Nightingale can vouch for her. In fact, ask the Nightingale about her. It’s not my place to make a request, but she’s worn herself out asking about the Nightingale. As soon as I found her it was all she would speak about. Oh - I found her in Klokklsby, passed out with exhaustion. I took her in and gave her water and rest, but as soon as I realised I couldn’t treat her I brought her here.”

Schoe looked over her shoulder at Jane. The frailty of her body was nothing compared to the frailty of her atman. But, as her atman went, perhaps there was a rod of sturdy strength in it. Schoe didn’t know Jane’s relationship with the Nightingale, but something told not to ask but to discern. Asking so urgently about her location told Schoe this woman was one of two things - a rabid fan or someone Jane thought could help her. Given that she called the actress ‘Nightingale’ pointed at the former, but it could also be a salute of some sort.

“What’s her name? And what’s your name? Have we got contact details?”

Schoe turned round. “I’m Schoe Sharma, I’m positive you do have contact details for me. I’ve been here a few times, I should be on your database. And she’s Jane Clay. Again,” Schoe dropped her tone, “ask the Nightingale about her. I guarantee it’ll help her wellbeing.”

By ‘her,’ Schoe herself wasn’t sure if she meant Jane’s wellbeing or the Nightingale’s wellbeing.

At first the attending nurse, who was young and looked like a student, laughed when they mentioned the Nightingale. But as Schoe explained, he realized that she was serious about it. “I… I will go ask. Hold, hold on…”

Leaving his flown papers and a nearly tumble stool, he ran off into the door behind him, and out of the sides, straight upstairs on the old-fashion double staircases. It took a while before he came back, but it would have seemed like his collar was grabbed and loosen, with the face of a child being scolded. At the same time, some corner of paper was peeking out of his gripping fist.

“The madam said you are safe, she will vouch for you. But none of us should mention she knows you again. In fact, it will be good if you will leave your contact, miss Sharma. ” He said gingerly, Of fear of what influences the two women may have, “She said or we will be in trouble.”

It was like a jab in her fragile heart until the boy mentioned “trouble”. Trouble, like the men who murdered her household. She nodded, and trusted the boy when he led her to a room on top. It was a single hospital room, with a window to the garden and some very old brick walls. It was awfully dark in the night, Jane could recollect some very lonely nights when she was here. But there are more fearful things than the impenetrable darkness. The boy left but returned quickly with a tray, with a glass of water slightly spilled, and some sandwiches on a plate. They didn’t look very presentable, but someone had put entire ugh filling to make double the sandwiches.

He whispered, “Don’t tell them I’ve run of like that right? They will fire me if they know. I hope you didn’t not nick anything. Not saying you have, you know. Just a couple of the… Strayed ones. Well. Enjoy!”

With that he left the tray with them, and ran off to his post. His hat again flown off with his speed. Jane thought that running in the hospital hall was perhaps not a very good practice for him, but she was only too glad to find support from the furnitures that she forgot all else that mattered. All besides Schoen who helped. With the support Jane stood, not trusting herself with a curtsy but resort to a stable bow of the head. “I thank you, dear Schoe. If not for you I certainly will be wasted on the streets. How is the nightingale here, though? Was she hurt, too? ”

If any other time she would have been more alarmed, but slowly her energy was at her limit. Her eyes were shutting, only stayed open with her will.

Schoe judged the mood of the room, and Jane’s strength, and decided to leave the answer vague. “Yes, the Nightingale is here because she was hurt. However, she is safe here. So are you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to put your mind under the stress of worrying,” she spoke firmly, and seeing the girl’s eyes close, simply added: “I’ll not let you stay alone. I’ll visit.”

She left Jane in the room, returned to the front desk, and informed the young man of where she resided. She wasn’t finished. Not really. Her involvement with Jane might be over, but Schoe wasn’t done. The girl had no records, no identity, and a strange mind. That told Schoe either she was keeping herself off the radar… or someone else was.

Adjusting her collar, Schoe returned to the darkness of Cassiopia, a frown gracing her smooth features.

 

[0stinato]

Teenage boys don't act well when they are pulled from their slumbers by an excitable father insisting he has a great plan. Although Chauntecleer was quite used to hearing about these schemes, especially from the realm of his father's workplace, and was never tired of hearing the creative machinations that manifested in the man's head, but, when the plans involved him specifically, he felt somewhat different. On one occasion, a few years ago, Chauntecleer had been pulled from school to assist his father in what he had called "loophole recording." It had essentially been a way of eavesdropping something without getting in trouble with the law. All Hieronymus had to say was that he had "found" or "coincidentally come across" the recording, and it was fair game. Of course, Chauntecleer was the one recording.

This time, his father assured him it wouldn't be anything even remotely illegal. As he left Chauntecleer, demanding him get dressed and get in the hall in five minutes, Chauntecleer mumbled his miseries and slept for another minute or so. When guilt jolted him from the wakeful dreams of sunlight, he gave a half-hearted snarl and pulled his legs from under the covers.

Chauntecleer was a thin lad for his age, and tall. His limbs, which hadn't been given the chance due to puberty to flesh out yet held a spindly appearance. The clothes he wore almost fell into the creases of his body. In the mirror, he gave his hair a brush, pulled on his cap, and laced his belt around his hips. Without that, the trousers were far too loose. He walked into the hall and awaited his father while he put on his boots.


"We could have taken the car."

Hieronymus found this untrue. "We're going to Klokklsby, and a very specific area. Can't be having a car turn up."

"There were cars in the, what is it, the Victorian times. Weren't there?"

"Yes, but they were rare, expensive, and weren't Audis."

Chauntecleer shrugged. "Horse and cart."

"Yeah, I'll just pull it out the garage, I forgot I had a horse in there."

"Alright, alright. Well you could have parked outside Klokklsby then we walk in."

Hieronymus admitted they could, but they weren't.

"Well, why is all I want to know," Chauntecleer said.

"Too visible. Too obvious. I don't want that. No, no more questions about the car, we're not in it and I have a reason. I just don't want to tell you yet."

Chauntecleer shrugged again. He was quietly irritated. Usually his father would tell him a plan no matter what. So bubbled over with excitement, so keen to express himself that sometimes he spoke the plan even with no one in the room. On one occasion, Chauntecleer got up for a glass of something cold - what it was now, he couldn't remember - and his father, upon acknowledging his son leaving with a tilt of his head and raising of his eyebrow, turned his attention to the black screen that was the television. He spoke at it, animated as if it was replying.

Perhaps his father simply needed to speak to let off steam. So his tight-lipped silence on the subject now concerned Chauntecleer.


Klokklsby came into sight and Chauntecleer was beginning to get hungry. Perhaps his father, in his haste to conduct his secret plans, forgot humans needed food-fuel to live. He decided not to broach the subject, and let his stomach simmer.

Hieronymus led Chauntecleer through Klokklsby by the means of several quiet streets where only bakeries were open thus far. Chauntecleer recognised some of them, some from his own explorations, some from running with his gang of thieves. Others he didn't recognise at all, yet Hieronymus weaved through them as if he had the brain of a homing pigeon. Chauntecleer just followed quietly, his own mental map drawing itself out inside his brain.

Hieronymus stopped in one of the streets and turned to Chauntecleer.

"Right. Okay. Have you heard of Talon Marlow?" he asked, his voice quiet. Chauntecleer read into the situation, and stuck his hands in his pockets, casually shaking his head. "Well you have now. Your job is to march - or, yeah, perhaps, not march, but look quite... yes, look quite discontent - into the police station that's two corners away from here. You will be asking for Talon Marlow. You will say you are an important friend of his from Oriyon. You will say you know he was moved to somewhere safe by the police, and you must find him, because you have important information about his father."

Chauntecleer could not help but frown, "What do you mean? What is it you're sending me to do? Is this illegal?"

"No, but I have a suspicion Talon Marlow means something. Remember. Talon Marlow. Friend. Oriyon. Police moved him somewhere safe after the shooting in the hostel. You have important information about his father."

"Who is his father?"

"Ah... mm..."

"Do you know? It is illegal!"

"No... listen, my boy, listen. Fine. The name of his father... that's not the important part. Hah... Look, go in and be convincing, and do what I told you."

Chauntecleer scowled, "How am I supposed to do this when--"

"Hush!" Hieronymus hissed. He stood back a way from Chauntecleer, his arms folded and eyes focused on something above them. When Chauntecleer looked up, he could discern it was a washing line of some sort, stretched between two buildings. There were pegs still dangling on it. Finally, Hieronymus sighed. "The Messenger. But don't say that unless you have to. That's his father, who is dead, so don't go messing that up."

"You know all this, why are you sending me?"

Hieronymus smiled. "Look at me."

Chauntecleer did, and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I am, so?"

"That's the problem. People do look at me. People know who I am. Yet you... not only are you much more anonymous, but you're much more similar to this Talon Marlow than I am. If you came up to me saying you were Talon Marlow's friend... I'd believe you. Chauntecleer, this is a pursuit of truth, a pursuit of the unknown, something that must be done. You are not in a position to walk away from me."

Chauntecleer pulled his hands from his pockets and folded his arms, his mouth opening to form a defiant sentence, but his father put a hand on his shoulder and arrested his words before they even began. His father then smoothed his shirt under his jacket which he then rearranged, took his flat cap, and offered him a hairband instead.

"What! Hey!"

"Put your hair up. Come on. You can't talk to police all scruffy like that."

"Give me my cap."

"No," Hieronymus proceeded to put it on. He frowned. "Your head must be bigger than mine."

"I have more hair than you, that's all," Chauntecleer said with a thin-lipped pout as he gathered his hair into a fist-sized bun. "My head's not big."

His father wasn't listening. "Next time Infante calls me big-headed, I'll refer him to you."

Chauntecleer snorted. He tried one more time to grab his hat from his father, was unsuccessful, and so stalked off to do his duty. As he walked, his gait increasingly more confident due to the slight annoyance he'd just experienced, he reminded himself of his vague script. Talon Marlow. Friends, Oriyon. Shooting? Hostel? Information for Marlow about his father. His father, the Messenger.

Chauntecleer felt increasingly as if he was stepping into a circle of fire without fire-retardant clothing on. But that was what uncertainty did to you. As it was, he simply carried on at his pace, aware that his father was mere corners away should he need help.


With a quiet shove, Chauntecleer pushed open the door to the Klokklsby police station. His curiosity caused him to look around, and he noted how different it was to the stations he’d seen in Cassiopia proper. He had never been taken to a station out of criminal charges placed upon him, but had seen inside one on a school trip years ago, and seen inside another as he helped the more experienced members of his gang in preparing to hit it. The Cassiopia proper ones were grey inside, with clean walls and upright officers. Within this one, the upright officers had remained, but the colours were different. Even the uniforms were different. No high-visibility stripes or fluorescent colours adorned the chests and backs of the Klokklsby officers, whose appearances were well and truly suited to the colloquialism ‘bobby.’

Chauntecleer approached the desk, and said a quiet, “Um, excuse me?” to the man behind the desk. His voice had adopted a meek air, a result of amateur acting borne of any good petty thief.

Across the desk the constable was writing on a notebook, and didn’t raise his head to the boy’s call. Not until he tapped the last full stop with his fountain pen, that he look up from the paper and gaze at Chauntecleer. “Klokklsby sector police station, please state your name, age and your purpose for coming. “

Chauntecleer nodded. “I’m… nineteen, and my name’s Gail Rubin.” He had taken the name of a dark-haired boy in his old school class. “I’m here because… my friend Talon Marlow came here from Oriyon, and I found out he wasn’t where he was staying in the hostel, and I found out he’d been moved to a safe place by the police here. I really must find him as soon as possible, I’ve got some really important information about his father. You must be able to help me find him.”

The constable began to write down his name, slowly and neatly. When Chauntecleer finished, he was just finishing up the last alphabet of Rubin, and lifted his eyes --- one of his eyes, to the boy. The other eye stare dead and straight to the notebook. “You need to find one of the constables? Do you have a name?”

“No… I didn’t think to get that. I just came straight here from Oriyon and tried to find him and got turned here.”

“Who referred you here?” He asked with a stern face. His pen got around to write down 19 on the paper.

“One of the hostel people. I don’t know,” Chauntecleer glanced at the man’s brow as he looked down - it wasn’t a good direction this was heading in. He swallowed, as any worried friend would do, and decided he had no choice but to play the ace. “It’s really important I see the Messenger’s son. I really must see him.”

Constable Stiglitz paused, letting his active eye stayed on the boy’s worried face, but the pokerface did not speak any of the thought process that was happening. The fountain pen moved to the longest line of the column, where he wrote down “Looking for an associate sheltered by a constable. Urgent matter. Referred by a hostel’s member. Came in at 8:45 A.M. “

“Please wait here.” He ordered the boy before he stood up, dusted the uniform and his hat, then and only then did he went into the door behind him, and vanished for a few minutes.

Chauntecleer was going to ask a question, but as the man disappeared, all he did was wait. Well, all he did was wait… and read the documentation from where it sat on the desk. Nothing out of place there. Chauntecleer even knew Gail Rubin’s phone number if the place so desired but, as this was Klokklsby, he wondered if they even used phones, even in the police station. Either way, he could only wait for someone to be fetched for him. It had seemed, at least to Chauntecleer, that the ace had, perhaps, not worked. The constable’s face hadn’t changed when he’d mentioned the Messenger. Perhaps he would try again. He scratched the back of his neck, all too aware of the breeze on it.

The door open with the sound of a pressed handle. It wasn’t the same door. The door on the other side of the hall opened, and out came the two constables. It was unintendedly intimidating to have the two constables walking towards them, Stiglitz thin and the tallest in the peckless uniform, and Norberto in his fedora and sleek outfit, different but not the less challenging. The grim flame still burnt in his eyes with the chase of his mother’s hitman, but with his practiced smile appearing, that flame was hidden too. “Gail Ruben, you say? What business do you have with Talon Marlow?”

Upon seeing the previous constable return alongside a man with fire in his eyes, Chauntecleer felt his position was being questioned. He straightened his shoulders and retained the open, clear face of a distressed friend. “I… mentioned to the other officer there, I have some really pressing news I must deliver to him. I came all the way from Oriyon but found out he wasn’t in the hostel because of a… a shooting, and found the police had moved him. It’s about his father. It has to be him that hears the news first, his father always was important to him and it’s by his memory that his privacy be maintained. Uh… do you know where he is? You seem to look like you do, you look like you recognise the name.”

“What kind of news are you addressing? We are the police, there shouldn’t be news that you can’t relay. It is not criminal, is it?” Norberto pressed but chuckled, as if it was a joke.

“Criminal? No I don’t think so… uh… it’s new insight into why he died. I thought his son might want to know that so he can come back to Oriyon and look into it further…” Chauntecleer shook his head. He had to play the ace again. “I mean… I didn’t know the Messenger well but I know his son, and I only want to help him. You must tell me where he is, I swear I am not up to anything criminal.”

If Norberto didn’t have inherited the perfect acting from his mother, his surprise would had come out vividly. Even among the Editors, that name was confidential but too a few. However, who is this boy in front of him then? There was no information of a Gail Ruben in the member list. He would know. He studied. But this was no place to question the boy, when Stigwitz stood tall beside him and watched with his healthy eye. Something told him that constable Stigwitz always listen and remember.

“How may I be sure you know him?” He asked again, “Tell me a description of him. “

“Well... he’s around my age considering I’ve known him a long time, and we stuck to the same Oriyon fashions for a while,” Chauntecleer put his head on one side. He was recalling what his father had told him to do many years ago. The way to lie, he had said is to believe it yourself. Chauntecleer only had to do what his father had instructed alongside that advice. Keep a level head. Be confident.

“Last time I saw him he didn’t look like he was eating well, very stressed. He came here from Oriyon all feverish, like,” Chaunte demonstrated, “I know I’m pretty thin but he was almost challenging me for that. I… don’t want to burden you,” he added. “If I can’t get you to get me there, tell me and I’ll leave and go back home. He came to Cassiopia to find out about his father and that’s all I wanna help with. That’s all.”

Norberto smiled, and handed him a piece of paper from his pocket. The paper was torn from a notebook, and an address was written along the dotted lines. “It is not far from here, but you need to go through alleyways to get to the middle of the block. You won’t mistake the bell, it’s special. “

“Oh I…” Chauntecleer grasped the paper and skimmed it. He realised they’d passed it on the way here. “I… thank you! I… please tell me your name so I know who I’m thanking? I’ll tell Talon what a wonderful help you have been.”

“Norberto. He will know where I am. “

“Th… thank you then. Uh, Norberto. I’ll… see to him right now,” Chaunte held the paper tightly in his hand and smiled, and picked up his pace as he left the building. His step was almost jolly in gait.

“Is this wise?”

Norberto turned around and found himself facing Stiglitz, the tone spoke all he needed. Even though the boy’s word may be true, Stiglitz was skeptical. Sometimes it would seem like he sees clearer than the rest of the constables in the station, who was trustworthy and who was not. Lifting his face, Norberto showed a more genuine smile at his colleague. “There’s no problem. The witness is well guarded.”

“Very well. “

Stiglitz climbed back into the small chair and desk with effort of making himself comfortable, while Norberto left the building to lit up a cigarette. Without hearing any news from his sister, he had no way knowing how Talon was related to the most elusive of the Editors. But then, there are ways he could learn more about it. Take the constabulary archive, for example.


Chauntecleer, having dropped his guise, pulled the hairband out of the messy bun he'd made, but it caught on his hair causing him to hiss a curse into the air as he moved. He rounded the first corner, truly allowing himself to shrink back into his usual bravado, then rounded the second, holding up the paper, only to see the street did not contain the man he thought it would. In fact, his father had completely vanished from where Chauntecleer assumed he might be. Chauntecleer didn't want to risk revealing his phone either, so just carried on with the paper in his fist and began searching.

The smell of a bakery had been too enticing for his father too, it seemed, and Chauntecleer discovered the man in one, leaning against the doorframe on the inside and speaking in low, half-smiling tones to the girl manning the counter. As Chantecleer neared, it sounded to him like his father was speaking about some fable with a major plot-thread relating to cherries - a common sight on some of the cakes in the glass case - and the girl, in response to his father's hands-in-pockets expression was to smile many dimpled smiles and occasionally giggle and say "what then?"

"Well the mouse gave them back, of course," his father said. "After the tree told the mouse it could grow many bigger and better cherries if only the mouse would wait. It was better for the tree to grow more, and the mouse could feed her children. Your goods reminded me of the tale, you know. The cherries on the tart there look divine, after all. You could even tempt me."

The girl put her hand to her mouth and moved away as Chauntecleer forced his way in.

"Here," he said, pressing the paper to his father's chest. "I can't believe the trouble it took. Why didn't you tell me how the kid looked? I got grilled in there! I was practically interrogated! I was asked what he looked like if I knew him so well."

"Hush, Chaunté, hush, wait. Hang on. Open your coat."

Chauntecleer scowled, but did so. His father reached into its inside pocket and withdrew a thin device that he fiddled with for a few seconds before shrugging and returning it to his own inside pocket.

"What the... wait did you plant that on me?"

"Yes. Now, what's this?"

"It's where the guy is."

Hieronymus opened the scrumpled piece of paper. Chauntecleer watched his expression change from placid and open to a scowl of bewilderment, then followed by a shocked glare as he looked up.

"I know, we passed it," Chauntecleer said.

"Are you... is this a joke!"

"No, the police guy gave it to me! It's real, I had to go through interrogation for that. You should be grateful, I'm annoyed you didn't give me more information!"

Hieronymus' expression cleared for a second, "Yes, you're right. I forget people don't know what I know." Then the glare came back. "So the bugger's been under my nose all this... no way, I walked past it yesterday too!"

Chauntecleer scowled, "I think one of the policemen had a glass eye."

"This is ridiculous, how can it be just round the corner!"

"Can I have a cake? Or something?"

"Three streets away! How many turns... six? Seven maybe, at the most. Eight if you count turning into the shop. Seriously. Seriously?!"

"Can I have your wallet?"

Hieronymus hardly noticed Chauntecleer take his wallet. Well, that was the point. The little thief was good at what he did. He'd also taken his cap back at some point, and Hieronymus hadn't noticed that either. But, then again, he'd managed to slip his dictaphone in the boy's coat, so perhaps he was just as slick as his son. When he realised he was no longer thinking about the address written down, he blinked and pulled himself back to reality, realising his son was talking to the woman he had been flirting with only a while earlier.

Unwilling to look foolish, he joined Chauntecleer at the till and ordered tea for himself. He then abandoned Chauntecleer again in favour of discovering which table he could lounge in the most lordly fashion at. He wasn't going to give up making that girl blush. He thought it was amusing. Her dimples seemed to spread red outwards from them, which was charming.

He selected a table and sat at it, watching Chauntecleer pay then, as he turned, slotting change into the wallet, caught the girl's eye. He dipped his head slightly, with the most subtle of subtle smiles appearing beneath the mask.

"I got victoria sponge. After not telling me anything useful, you owe me I think."

"I'm so sorry," Hieronymus said, taking his wallet back, "that you had to help me."

 

[Osthavula]

When Jane Clay was just about to sleep in the comfort of the hospital bed when someone knocked on her door. It was a dumbed and careful knock, like he didn't want to be heard. But Jane knew what it was about. She shuffled down the side, tied her long hair with her ribbon, and let the visitor in. A man in the guard uniform gave her an arm, which obediently she leaned on it. With the extra help, she could climb the stairs to the third floor. The cold walls of the hospital seemed to be their aid, as the sound of her soft slipper got absorbed by the wall, and vanished completely off her trail.

She felt more alive. But it did not mean she was having a quick recovery. That fidgety boom in her chest, that leathery feel on her tongue, that pull with every hair that stood on her neck, could only remind her of one thing --- fear. How awestruck she was as a child, to gaze upon the beautiful figure of the woman who once saved her, but at the same time how ruthlessly chilling her figure was in the slave's eyes. Hope, wonder and fear struck Jane, grasped her ankle when the man pushed open the door, nearly tripped her when he gently ushered her in. Then, when the door once again clicked on its knob, the slave girl once again faced the Siren she hoped for.

Time had matured the beauty of the Nightingale. Black hair flowed down the frame of her face, poured over the pale blanket; moonlight grazed her shoulder and neck, the shape only ever seen in masters' paintings; the dark eyes captured the moonlight that escaped her, and held the lights its prisoners. In awe, Jane stood looking at the woman she realized could be a statue of a goddess. But would it be Venus, she asked herself? No, definitely not. It was Minerva.

"Jane. " Minerva spoke, in the voice of mortal voice. "You have asked for me?"

"Yes, I bear news from Baines."

"Is he well?"

"I, I can't say for sure."

Sadness appeared in the Nightingale's eyes and brow. Could she be worrying? Or was Minerva merely imitating the mortals? Jane shuddered when the night breeze found its way to her.

"Tell me everything, Jane. Come over here, sit on my side. You look very worn. "

That offer was not to be refused. Despite Jane babbling words and shaking her hands, Olympia insisted that she rest right beside her. Upon her bedside, then Jane noticed the shape under Olympia's gown. Olympia's hand grabbed hers, with a warmth reassuring. She began to count the incidents happened at her master's house. Every sob Jane let out, Olympia had comforted her, by gentle clasped of the hand or sympathetic gaze.

"......And then I was helped here by Schoe. She lives in the Bell Tower of the church. "

"So I've heard. They have assigned you to a room. Is it comfortable? "

"Thanks to your grace, it was everything I needed."

Then the Siren smiled, the twinkle in her eyes showed a glee that Jane had not yet understood; and the hand that was comforting had held Jane's hands, not in any way painful but firm. The smooth and enchanting voice arose, befitting of her title. "So it must be, then. Jane... You will take Baines place. "

Strong tremble went through Jane's body. It sent the startled governess's body off the sheet, but not far to escape the Siren's grasp. The fearful woman gasped. "No, I can't! I don't know what he does, but I can't!"

"I have no one left, Jane. No one."

"But the chase! I thought it was over!"

"Quiet, Jane Clay. I have given you a life, have I not? I have given you a name, I put you in Baines in a household where your master will never abuse you. You are now a governess, not a laundry maid. "

"Y... Yes. "

"Now, many face the same fate as Baines. Many less fortunate. I need you to find them, Jane. I need to know they are safe."

"But I cannot..."

"Baines was the same as you, my child. " Siren pulled her closer. Now the voice won't accept any rejection, it slipped into her skull and echoed. "He was the first child that served me. Find him, Jane, and find the others. Whoever pursued him will not stop pursuing you and me. I am safe in the hospital, and they have not seen your face nor know your name. I gave you the name, and I will give you the card again. I can only depend on you. "

"But what happened? I still don't understand..."

"I have a hitman after me, Jane."

"What...?"

Jane's voice went weak, and she finally found the bed again to stand properly. In closer inspection, the shape under her gown sketched the shape of a bow. It must be bandages there. And she understood now, that Siren herself cannot run so easily anymore. It was true, no one was more fitting than Jane to help her. And oh, what a dreadful thought it was.

"Now go to rest, Jane. We will not meet again in the hospital. Say no more that you know of me. It is for your safety as well. "

When the governess stumbled back into her bedroom, she can no longer sleep. Fear and dread loomed over her with the new responsibility. The entire night she flipped and turn and gasped fearfully until her body could no longer withstand the turmoil. She passed out, blanket shielding her neck and back. There was no energy left for any dreams.

 

[Osthavula]

Among the tangled blankets, thin as paper, the woman stretched her limbs lazily. The smell of musky wood, burning ends of cigars and tobacco, occasional pop of the liquor evaporating into the air. She breathed in all in and exhaled in the close state of ecstasy. It's home, she called it lovingly, slipping into her long strapped leather boots and grabbed her alarm clock. It doesn't work anymore, but she greeted the old friend and placed it by the sink, started brushing and washing.

By the time she joined the people downstairs, there was already a band at the corner, a singer with smoky voice performing at the gentlemen in chairs pulled around her. Bar table was nearly empty due to the attraction of the performance, but making the scene unbalanced was the group of burly men gathering on the stools at the end of the bar table. To add to the absurd scene, Edna grabbed a stool and dragged it to join in them. They expected her arrival, one passed a cigarette and another pulled out a lighter. She leaned forward to watch the cigarette end caught the flame, like a dying firefly.

"Bad season, boys. " She pulled out the fad, blowing the smoke on their collars. "Anyone heard anything, speak up. "

"Not much." The bald man spoke, and though he was much taller he spoke crouching to the woman. "We try to hear something in the hostel but their tongues are dry. Barren like desserts. "

"They won't stop asking us questions. Not like the man's death worth much to us. We repeated so many times how we saw the scene, right?"

"We didn't even take out the..."

He hushed after receiving the strict glare of Edna. The lady took his glass from his palm and downed it, returning an empty glass to the puppy looking man. "Who asked the questions, exactly?"

"The police, the newspaper from all over Cassiopia. Mr Debenham himself asked us many times, wanting to know whether it was their fault of getting the man killed."

"That man will soon die of his own weight." Edna commented quite emotionlessly. "But dump all these out like bucket of water. We need to feed ourselves. I won't explain, but we can get in trouble anytime and we need enough to get us out of the depths. "

"There is one thing... " The scarred companion spoke. "There was an old guy, someone who defended us when we got treated mean. He came over after a journalist interviewed him. Well, we referred the journalist to him, and he scolded us for disturbing an old man like that. He mentioned something more, like the journalist was quite rude and strange in his manner, and we should stop him from interviewing a boy."

"Did you?"

"We didn't. But now to think about it, the man did come later than other journalists. From the Capers, he said. Unlike them to send someone late. "

"Hmph. Not much, pretty much useless. But if you are too free with your time you can scoop it out, see if it worth anything. Till then, scatter. Make your ears wide and clean."

The five men obediently left, leaving all the seats around Edna empty. Not sparing a moment she called for the bartender to fill her drinks, and lowly whispered together, before another person joined her in the chair. This time it was a skinny boy, wearing a peaked cap and faded light-brown jacket. Ignoring her impatience he bluntly asked. "Any job I can join?"

"Not now, fern. I'm as poor as you are. "

"Rubbish. You got more bucks in your bag than the rest of us, yet..."

In a blink he was pulled forward violently, head pressed a hair away from her shaking liqour glass. " More words, Ferdinand, and you will die a fool. If you are looking for an easy way to get job here, you will sooner end in a deeper swamp. Get out."

That hand restricting his pipe meant business. Ferdinande realized he overstepped the line, and forced his greasy voice out. "I... I don't mean it. I just wanted to say you kept up your beauty..."

"Save your lines, Fern. Those lines never worked on anyone, dear boy. Only your cash did. "

"Ow, what do you... Right, alright. Any errands? I'd deliver things... Donuts? Liquor? Wallets?"

At one point the boy seriously thought Edna would stuck a broken glass down his throat. But fortunately, she let go of his collar and his scalp. Every breath of hers still printed on his skin like marks of death, and he had the fantasy of returning from the pool of blades. Edna looked at Ferdinand with comtempt, yet at the back of her mind she knew, the kind like him always survive. Some what, some how. They're the kinds that thrive in the shadow of back alleys.

"You want jobs?"

"Yeah."

"I want information. " Throwing the fad end in the glass, Edna produced a pen and notepad from her chest pocket, scribbled something and stuffed it in his collar. The teen's eyes did not leave the pocket, so naturally didn't catch what she wrote. "Get me the words, and I will determine the pay. Got it?"

Seeing he absent mindedly nodding, she changed her mind about his survival chance. Boy have something else on his mind than paying debts, it would appear. But leaving with errands that was more about shutting him up, Edna left the table, cleared her mind with another gentleman's cigar, and left the bar in search of a next score. Whatever was happening in the area, Edna did not like it. It didn't look to work to her favour, at the very least. Not if a man thought she would need a hired hitman.

 

[0stinato]

Tottering was the only way to describe Lois’ movements. She tottered on high heels, heels so thin they may as well have been toothpicks. Her feet were not used to the shoes, but still she hopped along with her artificial height into Klokklsby. Every so often she glanced behind her, causing her long hair to pirouette around her shoulders somewhat. Urgent glances and hand gestures did nothing to spur the man behind her on, and he kept his own lethargy quite happily while he smoked a neat roll-up. He stalked along the streets with an unimpressed eye and a bad posture, snorting smoke like a bull, only stopping when he drew level with Lois, who stood looking confused at the oppressive door of Credne’s Emporium.

“What’s wrong,” he said, as if it were a statement more than a question.

“This is the place,” she replied. “I just don’t know if it’s open? I mean…”

“Well it says ‘Closed’ right there.”

“Yeah that’s what I was saying,” she gave him a little scowl. “I don’t know… are we too early? What time is it?”

Lull shrugged. “Thought you were going to get your watch-- oh wait,” he turned unfeeling grey eyes on her. “Oh wait. You can’t get in,” when she didn’t reply he rolled his eyes and pulled the sleeve of his hoodie up. On top of the bandages wrapped around his forearm was a rather abused digital watch. “For all intents and purposes, it’s 10:24. So it should be open. Unless you got scammed. Which wouldn’t surprise me. Cassiopia is such a shithole after all. Klokklsby more so, it’s a fucking geographical folly.”

“No the girl was nice, she didn’t scam me, I just gave her the £40 and she said she’d do it for today. I was just excited. And I like Klokklsby…” her voice got quieter as she spoke, and Lull retrieved the roll-up from his lips to expel an extremely dry “Hah!”

“Well I’ll… I’ll knock, if she said it was gonna be ready today maybe she has it?”

“Unless you were scammed and there’s nothing to be done.”

Lois didn’t listen because she was already rapping her knuckles against the door and peering in through the glass of the window. The Emporium was just as she remembered it being. Large, open and swathed in bits and pieces Lois didn’t know could exist.

But strange enough, the shopkeeper was right behind the counter, only she didn’t look up from whatever she was doing, working with some tools behind the cashier. Not all the merchandises were out like the last time Lois visited, but the ones displayed still twirl and turn or glimmered in the warm gaslight. In short, the Emporium didn’t look closed, besides the fact that there are no other customers, it was still very lively due to the contraptions on the shelves.

“Oh she’s in there! Wait, can I go in?” Lois tried the door much Lull’s dismay, and went in without so much as a second thought. In she tottered, a few steps bringing her close to twisting her ankle. Lull had to go after her, so he dropped his cigarette end on the ground, crushed it with his heel, and followed. While Lois turned a bright-eyed and delighted glance on every piece of tech that was way above her head, Lull fixed his eye on the woman at the counter.

Lois approached. “Hi hi!” she said, cheery in her pursuit. “Do you have my watch? I wonder what you made it look like.”

Lull’s expression changed - his eyes widened slightly, “You don’t know what it looks like? Then what the hell did you buy? I knew it. I knew it.”

“Ignore him,” she said, keeping up her facade. “I hope it is nice.”

Ruth was focusing on the piece on her hand, and her hand was holding something that looked like a sponge on the end of a wand. So the visitor did surprise her, and as she looked up suddenly, her curls bounced on her shoulder. “Hi!” She greeted Lois with a smile, as the back of her mind urged her to ignore Lois’s companion. “I was just finishing up with polish. I thought it will be tomorrow but I finished it early.”

As she said that, she took what was in her hand —- a delicate frame or carved bone of metal bronze, polished and reflective —- clasped it with another around the main clock piece, and finally a shell of coloured glass, fitted tightly into a lightweight design. Ruh had gone for something floral and with merges of animal outline. The turning gears through the metal frame was visible, as if that deer was walking, or the bird in flight.

“See if you like the design? You are putting a photo in and I went for a more modern design. If you don’t like it I can tweak it, of course.” Ruth handed the finished watch over. After the event with her mother she decided to take a more relax schedule, but then finding herself not being able to sit still. The watch was done long ago, but then she decided to change the gears and modify them, and she had done more than one design. She had polished every single parts, again, before the duo came in.

Lois made a delightful squeak as she took it into her hands. She examined it between slender fingers and looked at location the frame was to be in. It was a good size, she determined, and she would have to find a photograph that suited it. She raised her eyes to Ruth to confirm it was a fine design. “I did want to put a photo of me and him in it. I don’t know if we have a good one though. But I’ll find one, because it’s such a nice watch.”

“Congratulations,” Lull said to Lois with such a lack of mirth it was as if he was sapping away Lois’. “You weren’t scammed.”

“Well I told you I wasn’t, she’s a nice person Lull, she is, really.”

Do not frown, self. Ruth repeat that to herself, but inevitably her brow raised at the interaction. “Thank you for coming to Credne’s Emporium. Our quality matches our reputation, and if you need repair you can come in for a discount price. Mainly repair fee is for the material unless it is overly damaged, but with bronze it should be very cheap. I would advise against going elsewhere to repair it since it is custom made, but it is up to you. “ She said, unsure if she was talking normally or reacting to the customer’s brother. The dressing of him was as if rebelling against the entire place. “Is there anything else you need? “

She ended there. With the brother, she don’t believe Lois will purchase another item.

“What the hell are you, a self-service checkout?” Lull said, half-bewildered by her tone and half-irritated by it. “You’re not even open today, for some inexplicable reason.”

“There’ll be a good reason…” that was all Lois said and apparently all she was willing to say as she inspected the watch at every angle. She pouted occasionally, and Lull just stared at her like she was thick. She didn’t know what she was looking at, or for and yet she pretended that she did know. But she seemed pleased.

“How about,” Lull said, parting his hands, “you don’t sell a stupid girl things on a whim? Ugh… what does it matter, you’re an entrepreneur, it’s in your nature, I suppose. Take money first, ask questions later. Every single penny of it,” Lull didn’t even try to hide his emotions. With his visitor yesterday, his stress today and this fantasy world, someone had to be his punching bag.

“We were close for family reasons that I would not disclose.” Ruth had to suppress that internal scream she had to yell the stranger out of her shop. For every word that he spoke, the more Ruth regret closing the shop so he had time for this rude chat. “I had explained and showed samples of other watches. The button to open is the button where the chain linked to. The compartment is under the clock surface. The compartment for the photo is under the lid, press the shell on top and it should open.” Her temper drove her on, and though her mind intend to stop, Ruth did feel like she was going to punch him in the face. Oh, if that sweet girl wasn’t here. “And if I am money driven, I would not have given a discount, not would I charge a price close to a ordinary pocket watch. It is custom-made, sir. And my craft is well above the other competitors you will find.”

He sneered. “Can’t fault your persistence in trying to convert me.”

“Can we go?” Lois asked, putting a hand on his arm. “I need to find a picture of us. Do we have any? I’ll take one maybe.”

“To go in that? Spare me, fucking spare me, Lois.”

Lois’ head spun round at the sound of the door opening again and Lull only glanced over as a man better dressed for Klokklsby than Lois was walked in. Even the cufflinks of his shirt were antiquated in their appearance. Lois turned her head to Ruth, “You get lots of customers, don’t you?”

“Two? Fucking two? Two customers?” Lull said. He glared at the man, “You walked into the lion’s den, just you wait, she’ll sell you some useless crap with her patter.”

The man turned golden eyes on Lull and remained quiet, but he did glance up at Ruth, smiled, and finally spoke, “I’m sure that’s not the case, sir.”

“What are you looking for, a pocketwatch with a… a fucking knife in it? Useless. All of it. Fucking useless.”

Something clicked in Ruth. Her pride did not shatter, oh no. She knew her craft was better, it was a fact. Klokklsby locals would know it is a fact. But the problem is her pride also can’t stand anyone who dare to question it. “Useless”. “Crap”. Ruth put her hands firm on the counter, pressing her hip on it so her hands won’t reach for that holster and whatever it was in it. “Sir, excuse me. Did you just come in to critique my merchandise and what your sister bought? I do get customers when the sign is flipped, and my craft is customising so it fits the customer’s need. But I think you will find even my samples more than what it seems. Sir.” She added the last word, trying to control but they carried that anger still, her pride waving its armory ready to fight. And the mind to greet the new comer was there, but covered by the rage of all things. She did recognised him though, from the photo on the magazine. No, Ruth didn’t remember if Mr Hartley come into the shop before. She couldn’t remember or think, period.

Lull stared at her, his eyes a vicious pool of waves. He took in her words and believed none of it. All he saw in Lois’ hands was £40 of his rare funds squandered, and the woman who had sold it to her a sneakthief. “It’s tat,” he said. “Complete--”

“I suggest,” said Hieronymus Hartley, invading Lull’s vision. He was a little taller than Lull, but stared him down with placid eyes, “you control yourself and leave. Your transaction is complete, and it looks perfectly wonderful. To a woman trying to make her living, and to Klokklsby as a whole, you are being most rude.”

“How so?” Lull spat.

The man smiled almost hopelessly. But it wasn’t an internal hopelessness, it was a hopelessness he was drawing from Lull and using to his advantage. “The world runs on order. Klokklsby runs on order. Your decision to not conform is no statement, it is simply disrespectful. Please. Leave before my hand is forced. Harassment is a crime.”

Lull opened his mouth to retort back but Lois had already accepted the invitation to escape, and was tottering out the door. Lull cursed, glared at Ruth, and stalked out, grabbing Lois by the arm when he was outside.

Inside, Hieronymus watched the interaction between them briefly before turning to Ruth, “I’ve not seen such disrespect in Klokklsby for… a long time. I daresay people are more forgiving of one another here than they are in the city proper. Though, I suppose Klokklsby was built on foundations of moral fiber and platonic respect, yes?” he had an eyebrow raised although his eyes beneath the mask carried a hint of unease at the situation. “I’ll give you a minute if you need, please don’t feel rushed by the likes of me.”

“No, Mr Hartley, you have given me all the break that I need. Thank you so much.” The brunette girl smiled in relief. “I can’t outburst in front of a customer or they might spread rumours. And the girl was sweet, I just didn’t imagine her brother to be in this manner.”

Could she though? She has a brother. And Norberto might just put the guy in jail if he was presented. Ruth refused to think that Norberto was a good brother, but perhaps he was. Perhaps.

“Anyways, what can I do for you, sir?” Ruth greeted again, hand relaxed and rested on her corset. “Like I said, best craft in Klokklsby. We do orders as well.”

Hieronymus smiled, “Best thing only few people are like that around here. I am just glad I could keep your peace. Now,” he stepped a little closer and frowned at nothing in particular. He paused for a moment, before inhaling quite deeply and continuing, “I wish I could say it is your craft that brought me here, but it is rather a different matter that has. Indeed, that reason is a person. A person I know to be under your protection, so it is down to your discretion whether I meet that person now, or never. I ask your assistance though. Miss Carlyle. I fear there are tremors in this city, tremors I don’t know how to fix. My love for the city is deep and simply your recognising me is proof of my transparency. It is my citizen’s duty to discover what I can, and my political duty to lend a hand in fixing it. So, tell me, may I meet with Talon Marlow?”

Ruth panicked. It was more because that help he had offered earlier, and she would not hoped to treat a Cassiopia man rude. She did send Talon to Capers, but in all the journalist he met Liar Hartley? In all the people he could meet? “I’m sorry, Mr Hartley. I did not quite catch the name. I don’t think I know such a person.”

But it was a moment too late. She saw that he saw she panicked. She knew. He knew.

“I can tell I’ve… hit upon something neither of us wish to be involved with,” Hieronymus said. “But we are involved. I know you know what I said, and you know I ought not to be here. But this is the way the world turns, and I wish to keep Cassiopia turning with it. I could offer you a lot to talk to Talon, I could offer you money, I could offer your products and your prowess fame, I could offer you a comfortable life. But that would be indecent. I offer you only my word that my meddling will be for the sake of Cassiopia, for the sake of Klokklsby, for the sake of… the important people in our lives. I am certain you would rather have my word than my coins. And, for the sake of my being transparent,” Hieronymus pulled from his jacket pocket a piece of paper. Chauntecleer had crumpled it more than he liked, but it still stood that it was a precise and specific location, “this is what led me here. This piece of paper and an assurance that Talon Marlow is here. Do please consider my words. I am here only for the sake of the city, and those within it.”

“Mr Hartley.” Ruth responded with a stress. “I do hope you will not insult me by implying that any coins or material can buy my words.” She took the paper. It was that dastardly brother of hers that wrote that note. What trouble did he bring, again? “Nor do you think that words are going to …”

But before she finished the door behind her open. Out came a boy, taller than Ruth, with hair reaching his shoulder. It would take a moment to recognise that he was Talon Marlow himself, for he was well taken care of, and the strength is back in his limbs. But his manner didn’t change. Ruth waved him back in at her back, and Talon hesitated. But he stayed. “I heard you talking.” He continued. “What is it that you want me for? I thought you won’t help, and you won’t tell it to other people either.”

Hieronymus had been keeping his voice and persona very stable and was fully prepared to walk away so as to not antagonise the woman. It would be easy to find another way in, he theorised, but fortunately that became unneeded. When he noticed and recognised the man and voice behind Ruth as Talon Marlow, his eyes got back their zeal and fanatic gaze. Ruth was still trying to hide Talon from him, but it was too late - Talon was speaking to him, and he had all the justification to reply.

“I also tried my best not to help,” he said with a self-conscious smile, “I really did. For a few days… no, hours… I felt fine. But it was after I interviewed the Nightingale that I began to get restless. And believe me, Talon, despite what title you might know me under, I have not spoken a word of anything to anyone else. That is, what we talked about remains only in my office. What I know remains only in my head. I’m not so much a blabbermouth as many people take me for,” his serious tone had melted into a mischievous lilt. When he noticed, he cleared his throat and straightened his body, and addressed himself to Ruth again. “Pardon all this, my dear. But I feel those tremors. And you feel them too.”

“I can’t tell you much, Mr Hartley.” Talon said, gingerly. Though he is fed it seemed his nervous demeanor hasn’t changed since. “You know my father passed away, and I doubt that there may be foul play. But I have no more I can give. I gave you the names too.”

“You told him that much?” Ruth whispered to Talon, and the boy flinched, then nervously nodded.

“I remember it all, Talon. Now… I’ve had a lot of information in my office for a very long time. Information I got told to never publish or do anything with, as I had originally been planning to. Thus… I have a lot of old words that people have forgotten I know. I fear I am putting myself in a very precarious spot by even coming here but… as I said, this is my city, and it’s under my protection. If I must face a threat to myself to bring about a stable future then I suppose it’s what I’ll do. Your eyes are the ones that should see what I know, Talon. Though of course… as these Carlyles are involved with you now, I could not hide a thing from them.”

Under his protection. What a very strange thing to hear when her grandpa was one of the founder of Klokklsby. But Ruth doesn’t hate it. It is what his father would say, and mindset like that wouldn’t be harmful for Cassiopia. “Please do remember if what Talon said was true, then he will have very powerful people after him.” Ruth said, leaning on the side counter and arms crossed. Her expression is now her normal self — grumpy looking but not aggressive. “Please come in, Mr Hartley. It is visible from the street and not safe for him. Plus it sounds like something not suitable to discuss in the open. Talon, lead him to the parlour."

It seemed like Talon had already acquainted himself with the house, and once Ruth let Hieronymus passed through the counter, he walked in front of him. It seemed also that he now listen to the young girl quite obediently, and Ruth did show that she could order people around. From who she inherited it was a mystery.

Soon they prepared tea and snack with the strange contraptions Ruth had built, they settled on the sofas. The radio was self built too, and Ruth pulled down the small handle on the side to shut it off. The entire place was visibly hand built, self- crafted. As if they couldn’t stand any other person making their furniture and buildings.

The house clearly breathed with its creators, even in the parlour. He took a seat when offered, and took tea when prompted, requested a dash of milk when asked, and took a mouthful with pleasure as he got comfortable.

“I take it a good sign that your protection of him is so strong,” Hieronymus said. “Although that would be the case. Is he to stay with you for the forseeable future? No hostel seems appropriate for you. I think it is best to talk quickly about all this. And very much under the radar,” he looked at Ruth. “Your mother, indeed your family, is in a spotlight. I conduct my job forever in the spotlight. Since these are unshakable truths, they seem quite inconvenient. We are not nobodies, as might be useful here,” he then addressed Talon. “You came to me wanting a lot more than I was willing to give you. Or willing to pursue. Well, I couldn’t shake it from my mind. Here I am, your servant,” he gave another smile, and it had beneath it the inner-workings of a whirlwind.

“He will stay here.” Ruth answered for him instead. “Unlike you and my mother, my father and I tend the shop here. He promised to work at the back end for rent and some wages. There will be always people here, if you are questioning the safety.”

She offered Hieronymus some biscuits. Talon then found the time to speak. “ I told you what I knew, Mr Hartley. I hope you will tell us what you know as well. I am sheltered but far from knowing any leads as to who caused my father’s execution.”

His voice trembled at the mention of his father. Ruth didn’t catch his sign, but continued to stir the tea. It was her way of thinking. Hieronymus’s visit made her nervous, but she could no longer consult her parents anymore. Andy implied that they had to make their own decisions, even when it comes to Editors. This one proof too strange for her to decide. That is, to trust the journalist, or not? What is his intent? Ruth couldn’t tell at all.

“I have scraps of information. And that’s just it: scraps. For some of the time I cannot make head nor tail, and all my work in deciphering them is fruitless. I know what your father called himself, yet I don’t know why. Although, at the time when I received this information, I was not in a position to make it abundantly obvious what I was looking for. Even now, I know I shouldn’t…” Hieronymus looked away. The parlour wall was unassuming and simple, and for a moment the journalist felt within him the heat of a comfortable life. “Even now I… I have my second thoughts. But… it was as I said,” he took another drink of tea while he gathered his suddenly-scattered thoughts. “I love Cassiopia. I loved your mother’s performance. I love… knowing things. There is a lack of control here. But… where was I… I… can either bring to you everything I have, or I can provide it to you some other way. I will do as I am instructed, or as I feel I should act, and if that includes some true prying into what exactly happened, then I’ll do that. Something I feel I should tell you was that your father’s death was not reported in the local Cassiopia Capers, nor was it covered in the Oriyon section of the Capers. I was told to say nothing of it and to write nothing of it. I was not prepared to pry then. But I’m ready now.”

Hieronymus sat back and gently let his eyes close, his piece said in uncertain sentences held together by a gluey hope that the two that beheld him as an outsider might give him the chance. These two were not any two he could lord himself over, nor did he feel he could bluff knowing everything. The woman would likely see right through him with a lens of scepticism, and Talon could be in the firing line if he even dared lie. The uncertainty of facts and simply admitting he ‘didn’t know’ pained him, especially as his eyes were the self-appointed oracles of Cassiopia. But it was the truth. He knew not why Talon’s father was called the Messenger, and why that word never appeared in Finley Arizona’s tiny obituary in the financial Capers. In fact, the word appeared nowhere except in the hearts of some people and on the tongues of others. But whose hearts? And whose tongues?

He opened his eyes, and thanked Ruth’s offer of a biscuit, though denied it with a weak smile. “It won’t do to get crumbs in my lapels. Honestly, it’s a recurring issue I have. Never grow a beard, Miss Carlyle.”

With that, Ruth found that she had to look up from her cup. Aiming her dark eyes into the man’s golden eyes, she saw that he was in ways intimidating. He was older, more experience, better in talking and no doubt more charming. But she saw, after they gleamed with pride upon mentioning Cassiopia, now they looked confused. He may be telling them the truth, yes. And though she did know a bit more than him about the messenger, she wasn’t knowledgeable enough still.

“You humble yourself, Mr Hartley. “ She said in the most gentle way she could be. That is, really just an ordinary speaking of tone. Noticing she couldn’t imitate her mother, she also sighed. “Talon’s father was actually an old family acquaintance. Even then we know next to nothing about him, and the things we know is changed through time. But you mentioned that you had to hushed in the paper. Is there anyone that can make that happen? You are esteemed in the Capers, so the person must be in high position."

Hieronymus straightened his back, realising he could answer Ruth’s question with a fair ease, “Why, the director of the whole newspaper. The boss boss. The, what is it… the daughter of the daughter of the son of the cousin of the Cassiopia Capers’ original founder. That is, at least, they have their passion in the bloodline. Ink in their veins. Dr Reno Ashley. Though of course she has people doing all the work under her, like me. But then again, I have people doing all my work for me too so… it’s a nice cycle. So, when I was told to not write anything on the subject, I had that message delivered to me personally by Dr Ashley, and it was reinforced by one of my colleagues. Bernadette Horowitz, she is the head journalist for the non-Cassiopia news, and I suppose she knew my… affinity… for… ah, bending the rules, shall we say? She kept me away from it too. I suppose at the time I was quite resentful for being practically scolded for something I hadn’t yet done, by a person who was not only my equal but my counterpart,” Hieronymus frowned as if he was considering deeply why this might be, then sighed. “I feel I should apologise, if only to you Talon. I really believed my knowledge, however small, was an incredible help, and I’m sure it will be, I suppose I am just learning how much I didn’t know that I should have known.”

Hieronymus paused again for a beat or two. Then he spontaneously expelled a full-bodied laugh and drained the teacup immediately afterwards. When he put it down, he was smiling again, at the pair.

“So take that as you will. Dr Ashely, Bernadette Horowitz. Played the major roles. And of course Finley Arizona actually had it published in his section, but I don’t think he was much involved.”

“Why the exception of Finley? Is he much different from the rest of you? And this Dr Ashely, do you know more about her? Who she might be associate with?”

“Mr. Arizona? He isn’t in the main branch of the Capers like Bernadette, Dr Ashley and I are. Dr Ashley handles press covers and says essentially what the Caper’s view of certain topics is. Mrs Horowitz certainly had some affinity with your mother, our poor Nightingale,” Hieronymus recalled. “So they might’ve had a friendship. Mrs Horowitz is always extremely well-meaning.”

“I never met her in person, but I heard she visited." Ruth put the tea and its plate on the table, vacant her hands and took a straight posture, formally addressed him. “Mr Hartley, I know you are very skilled. If we assume Talon’s father used that title as his code name, and had secret activities, can you find out what it is?”

Talon, startled and stared at the girl beside him. Was she mad? She knew very well what the messenger was doing. Was this a test? Is it? She responded to his jump with a manner he had never seen on her. “Even if it is criminal, Talon, we have to find out. We don’t know why they execute him yet. And most importantly, we need to know if the allegation is true right?”

“But…”

“Talon, we must know.” Ruth turned towards Hieronymus, now completely ignoring the poor boy. Whatever she said she must know is not what she now implied to the man. “Please, Mr Hartley. Of course we will help when you investigate. But we have limited ways to find out what we need, and perhaps you would want to know too? What happened to his father and why do they hushed you?”

“You realise this involves me going explicitly against the orders of my workplace? I am prepared to do this, but at least understand I will have to do it as subtly as possible. Since I’m in a position to find out the reasons why, then I ought to be the one doing it. I had the aftermath, I just need to figure out what caused it. You think secret activities were involved, do you? Or, the… the kind to warrant code names?” this perked him up and he laughed again, although this one was more controlled and less manic. “This is real life, you understand, not some Young Adult spy story. My son was always into reading those. Perhaps you have read one too many yourself. Though,” he forced his smile away and attempted, unsuccessfully, to return to an air of seriousness, “if you think… there is a secret activity he was involved in, I’ll humour you. I’ll look into it. Um, and I’ll hopefully have something of my own to add to the scraps I possess.”

“When my family knew him, he had yet to hold big court cases, but he had promising future. But I did hear he was a very disciplined man, and the situation became tough. Then he met a case where it was cross Oriyon and Cassiopia, an unsolved case that forces him to stay for long. As the defense lawyer he proved the man innocent. It was during that case he met my parents."

“You must know too, Mr Hartley. Eight victims, but we never found the culprit… Until last year. He showed the evidences and arrested a politician’s brother in Oriyon government. I think people were shock that he could do that, since he came from a simple background with no other supporting relatives."

“I might recall a little. But as I said, this is Bernadette’s area. A travellster, that one. You wouldn’t think it. I’ll make sure to ask her about it… I can’t make assumptions without some basic facts… the difficulty will be being subtle enough to do what I must,” he laughed softly. “Not my strongest point… but we all must grow at some time, yes?”

Ruth nodded, and finally looked towards Talon. The boy was just dazed at what Ruth attempted, and took a second to understood it was his turn to speak. “I didn’t know much then, my father wasn’t home those days and I had studies to do. He came back worrisome, and mother was worried… If you think that’s a lead…” He paused, head tilted to an angle and frowned deeply. But then he shrugged. “He never let us see the work documents, and they wasn’t in the things he left us.”

“What about the bank? Safety box?” Ruth asked.

“Safety box…” He stunned. “That… I mean… actually……”

“What?”

“Now that I think of it, I have one. I never used it though, but I found the information…”

Frowning back at his carelessness with much impatience, Ruth crossed her arms tightly. “Check it then, is it in the capital?”

“No… It is a bank I never heard before.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I can’t remember… Mor.. Moriarty Bank or something…”

Hieronymus frowned. “Best to check it out, if you can. And I mean that: if you can. I think you might have a problem finding it though. What you’re referring to is Mordecai Bank, I believe, but that was absorbed over a decade ago. Forth Street took it over, I don’t know if you know that. I’ve seen papers and news from twelve, thirteen years ago… the recession that hit this part of the country is what did it in, at the end of things. I believe it first started crumbling at the edges after a railroad project was shut down suddenly, which was being funded in part by Mordecai. You know. History repeats itself and all that. Anyway, that was the original blow…” he stopped. He felt as if there was a name involved in either the railroad project or the leading voice of Mordecai that wasn’t surfacing. “I… I’ll have to triple-check all this just for the fine details… but essentially, my point is, if you want to have a hope of finding your box, you need to talk to Forth Street. I imagine all accounts were turfed over to Forth Street, including yours, unless your father had some other dealing and it ended up elsewhere. I… neither of you can remember anything about the railroad issue can you? I’m getting a thought that I recognise a name… but I can’t remember the name. Oh… don’t worry about it,” he smiled again. “You young ones, don’t worry.”

Well, it sounded all very worrying. But that was more than they had to go on just before the gentleman’s visit. Ruth looked at Talon but he seemed unresponsive. Was he overwhelmed by it all? Didn’t want to sit waiting in silence, she thanked Mr Hartley yet again. “We will try to find what we can. Thank you, we wouldn’t have known. Would you like to come over when you find out more? Or would you prefer to meet up elsewhere? Capers office would have been too obvious, though.”

“Considering Klokklsby is much more likely to be without security cameras and the like, I think Klokklsby might be the best place. Perhaps not always here, though obviously our young sir Talon needs to be kept safe. I’ll do what I can. I’ll look into the Messenger. I’ll look into his background. I’ll piece the jigsaw I have together… and I’ll tell you what I find. Now… I will take my leave. I shouldn’t keep you away from your business any longer… nor should I leave my son wandering around, lest he gets into trouble. Sticky fingers, that one,” Hieronymus stood and buttoned his jacket, then bowed fluidly. “Thank you for hearing me out, Miss Carlyle. We will meet again.”

“Next time you visit, Mr Hartly, come from the back door. Knock five times and we will know. There is always someone here.” Ruth stood up to performed a curtsy — Talon looked at it with a surprise. “It is we who will thank you, Mr Hartley. You have been a great help to us. My mother would have been pleased, too.”

After he left, Talon waited still on the sofa, until the brunette girl showed up once again from the door, reverted back to her usual grumpy self. She threw herself beside him, took the bowl of biscuits, and literally started stuffing them down her throat. She looked exhausted. Took her a good minute until she glare at the boy who kept staring at her. “What?”

“Why did you say all that? We knew why he is called the Messenger. It will lead him to us.”

Ruth munched on yet another jammy dodger before she answered him. “He will make a great editor, this man. He is a capable journalist, and for us a Cassiopia loving man is a great asset. But we don’t usually let outsiders know us that easily, and one more thing…”

Then Talon had to wait for her to finish another chocolate biscuit before she continued.

“Where is his loyalty. If he has one, that is. And I need to see if he is a good man, or else he will be corrupted and we have to get rid of him again somehow.” She paused, “I sort of wish we will never have to. But we will see. If he will find us and recognize us or not.”

The crunch of the biscuits continue to filled the room as they were being devoured. The next ten minutes was just Ruth staring blankly at the other sofa, and Talon at the fireplace. The place was otherwise quiet. Andy was out at the hospital, no customers and bell sound at the front, no door knocking at the back. The room hummed lowly, and the tea, now sat for too long, stopped steaming from the pot.

“You know, you are a lot smarter when it comes to the Editors.”

“Shut up.”

Osthavula

 

[Osthavula]

Back to the golden walls of Soso, where the colourful hat and period dress ruled the space and music never cease. The nonstop laughter and chattered bounced off the paper brocade, and invaded the little space Collette had left for herself. With a mind full of worry for her friends, the blonde actress walked through the long hallway of many doors, and realised a few moments late that someone was calling her from behind. Ledyard, the stage manager, trotted behind her with urgency. To save him some breath, she turned around and joined him. The other staff streamed past them. That vintage harpsichord in the practice room produced merry notes that danced in the background.

"Miss Holst, thank you. " He panted. "I was going to ask, since Miss Nightingale is in hospital, can you take over her show just tonight?"

"I thought I made it clear I don't perform those anymore. "

"Please, Miss Holst. It is too late to change the show. "

"I am sorry that I should tell you this, Ledyard, but I cannot help you. Nor is it my responsibility to fill the changed schedule. "

"It will be the attraction! Miss Collette Holst, reopening for her long friend and rival, for a throwback night ..."

"Listen, Ledyard. How long have you been here?"

"About a year?"

"Then let me clear this up. " She straightened his tie. "I am an actress, occasionally a model. But I am no longer a singer, nor am I a rival with Olympia. I understand this is an urgent stress, having tickets sold and the schedule canceled, but whatever you are suggesting, it won't happen. "

She then showed him a business smile, offered a comforting gesture, and then continued down the hallway to her original destination. It had been too long that she almost forgot people still wanted that. The long rivalry between her mother and Olympia's. Today's megazines still talk about it periodically. Then came Olympia and her who both inherited their mother's looks and song. Collette's mother did push her to compete, but she didn't do as her mother wished. On a full seated eveing, she just walked onto the stage, announced that she will no longer continue the musical career. The shock had lasted for sometime, and they won't stop asking questions why. Well, the reason is simple. She didn't want to continue to be compared with her friend. Because she knew Olympia's talent. And she'll never forgive herself if she came to become jealous.

It is easy to be blinded in the spotlight. What is truly important can be covered by the roaring applause and thunderous praises.

She took a right turn into a narrow hallway, to the very end corner of the Soso Threatre. This is where she had chose her belonging. Through the double door, and the roman arches, was the hall made into a movie set. But it wasn't the modern movie set. Currently, the light was turned low, with two to three strong standing light facing the set of what looked like an office. One of the light shot through the Venetian Blinds, casting zebra paterns on the other side of the wall. Another dimmer lamp was set beside the prop table, as the director greeted her. "I was worried that you may not come at all, Miss Holst! I mean, I understand if you don't. You and the Nightingale were close friends..."

"Thank you for the concern, director. Olympia will be fine. I know she is safe in the hospital. " Letting the director took her hand, she looked at the set, deeply comforted by the familiarity. "I will miss the set too. It is the final shot today. "

"It will be fantastic, Miss Holst. Just you see. I've no doubt 'The lady in Muave' will revive the trend once again!"

He looked hopeful, and Collette felt joy for him. Although the revival of vintage movie was actually dire, as the equipment cost outweight the profit, but it was refreshing to see a dreamer who persist in his dream. Having spent months in the production, she herself felt pride for the movie. It may be a risk to abandon the stage for this, but it was a cause she was willing to work for.

And with a beret and suit dress she walked around the thin walls, turned the knob and walked into the office. Allowing the light pattern fall on her eyes, the camera turned towards her. The actor with his hair brushed back and dark suit turned towards her, pressed the cigarette end in the ivory ash tray. "Have you come to say your good bye?"

She kept silent. Only her heels knocked on the wooden floor as she walked to the window, step by step, until she arrived and pulled to peek through them.

The man then bitterly said, "Yes, they are leaving. All the employees but me. Me who you tricked into abandoning all then you toss aside. "

"Wouldn't you have consider that then, when you have done the same to my sister?"

"Your sister? You never told me you have a sister. "

"Does it matter? You won't remember her anyway. "

A longer pause. Leaving the lights Collette intidated the man, walking into him unfazed, and look into the actor's eyes. Frame froze. The light dimmed. Her hand brushed down his arm, one final time.

"Good bye, William. Live a good life. "

"Good bye, Mauve. "

Gradually, the light dimmed down to darkness. The light opposite the camera was the last one remained, allowing their silhoutter to be the last thing edged to the frame.

Then there it was. A pair of hands clapped, then a couple followed. Not a thunderous applase by far, but that is all she needed. In the darkness the actor released her waist, and bowed to kiss her hand. "Stunning performance, Miss Holst. I hope to have pleasure working with you again. "

"The pleasure would have been mine. "

She smiled. One that he would remember well into the night of Cassiopia.

 

[Osthavula]

While his father did his prying and scouring after the duo had left the café, Chauntecleer split from him and went his own direction. His father didn’t even seem to notice, seemed far too preoccupied with his own dealings to be aware of Chauntecleer saying he’d make his own way home when he wanted to. All he got was a brief, “Mm…” before the journalist was too out of earshot. By that time though, Chauntecleer was already half-way down an alley, his boots tapping on the pieces of junk metal lining the sides of the buildings. Bits of dropped scrap: a few bottle tops, and one thing that looked like the chain of a watch, which Chauntecleer of course picked up. It was, to his eye, merely gold plated, and covered in dust. The weather had taken away some of the gold already, but it could be salvageable. Either to fetch a few pennies or as a simple trinket for him to keep. The boy slotted it away in a pocket on his vest and kept walking, looking for an occupation. He felt particularly keen to get his fingers into someone else’s purse, especially after doing all this pretending. His hair was down, his hat was back on, and he’d rolled up his sleeves. He donned thin black gloves. To a glance, they would appear to be simple gentleman’s gloves, but to a look they would be seen to be rather expensive thin leather ones. The ideal dexterity for pickpocketing, gripping or even slugging someone.


Chauntecleer had never got into a serious fight: he had been in a few scuffles when rival gangs were involved, but nothing that required him to actually take a swing. A few shoves, a few instances where he learned how to use his body and not have it used against him, that was all he had experienced.


Chauntecleer came nearer to the edge of the alleyway and scanned the road beyond. It had a different feel, this one: less shops and more living. Not the place for a sticky-fingered youth. Too many eyes. So he slipped out and kept walking, then took shelter beneath a tree, leaning on the bars surrounding it while he gathered his bearings. The best place to be was a crowd. A crowd where hands were everywhere and eyes were too busy to focus on his own. A place where bodies became immune to the touch of another. You could be rough in a crowd and the victim would come out none the wiser.


The factor emerging suddenly made the sticky-fingered youth’s calculation a lot easier. Chauntecleer’s friend Ferdinand von Potter was at the bench on the other side, and he had noticed him as well. The tall and thin teen reached into the man’s coat, and pulled out a wallet. Not that the man would care, as he was sound asleep from the day’s work and the tavern’s strongest booze. But he will regret it, when he found that his nice leather wallet was so easily snatched. Ferdinand at least decide to keep the gentleman’s gloves untouched, and shamelessly walked toward Chauntecleer’s direction. The confidence was as if he only snatched his own father’s possession. Fearless and thick-skinned, he would have been notorious. Would have, but he was still nobody. A fact that he would mention a good minute later.


“Falling asleep, here? In all places? ” He made the snide remark. “Well, then who can blame me to take his stuff, Chaunte. Finder keepers. What you doing here? Tell me you got something fun?”


“I thought I’d come on a walk and look for things to do, relax a little. My dad wanted to do something here and he got me to help him. We split up a while ago though, and I found this watch chain,” Chauntecleer brought the chain out of his pocket and held it between two fingers. “Probably worthless but isn’t it kind of cool? I wonder how long it’s been sitting there. Anyway you look like you’re on a lucky streak with lifting wallets so…” Chauntecleer put his hands in his pockets, “we could make an afternoon of it. Where are you living these days? I don’t mind helping you pick a few pockets to help pay for it. You can’t just live on the streets after all.”


“Thanks Chante.” For once, Ferdinand smiled like a normal boy. “I found some beds in the church, but the men there and their tones are insufferable. I am seeing if more jobs can come up though. Maybe I will end up a jack of all trades.” He grinned, showing him a note. A name of Talon was written on it as well as the hostel’s address. “See if you know anything?”


Chauntecleer took the note and tilted his head, then looked at Ferdinand, “What’s this for? It’s not for our group is it, I didn’t hear about it. Why are you interested in that? Trying to rob the hostel?” Chauntecleer raise his eyebrow. “I know there was a shooting there, if that’s what you’re asking,” with the amount of secrecy that had been placed on that name by his father, Chauntecleer wasn’t sure why his friend wanted it.


“Someone wants the information, and they will pay. If I can do this I can become information broker or something eh?” He said, eyes already scanning for a next victim of their buttery fingers. “Like you said, I can’t pick pockets all the time.”


“Talking of that, let’s go find someone,” Chauntecleer said, a cheerfulness in his voice. He set off and when he was out of the eyeline of his friend, his scowl was deep. He didn’t know who Talon Marlow was, but he knew where he was. It was an odd circumstance: Chauntecleer felt he knew too much and nothing at the same time. But it wasn’t as if he wanted to inconvenience Ferdinand… Ferdinand was, after all, the only thief in the group of a similar age to Chauntecleer, and he had the same mind. A mind of opportunity and relentless occupation. A mind that had both nurtured and challenged Chauntecleer’s as the boys grew up.


“So…” he said, deciding to fish for information - it was only fair he did, if Ferdinand was asking him after all, “What’ll the pay be? And what is the ‘talon’ here? A person? Or an actual bird talon? How’s the hostel related?”


“I don’t know? She just… scribbled the words. She didn’t want to give me a job you know. But I’m very good so..” He implied. A youthful bluff.


Chauntecleer was keeping his eyes open, looking at a duo of young girls walking with light dresses and veils. If they had any money on them, it wasn’t in a visible bag. He abandoned the thought of them, and spoke instead to Ferdinand. His eyes were serious. “I don’t want you to live on the streets. I… know of a person called Talon. Never met the guy. He was at the lodge though. So that’s what your person must be wanting you to look into. Do you know the name?”


“I’m supposed to learn about the guy, Chaunte. I don’t really know him. And hey, anywhere is better than living with my old man. What do you know about this guy? He has a weird name.”


In the midst of it all, Chauntecleer managed to smile, “Do you know who you’re talking to? I’d say my name’s weirder. Yours is hardly any better. Um. So this guy, he’s… he’s from Oriyon, I think, and his dad is a big deal or something there. The guy’s also quite young. I don’t know him though. Who are you taking this information to, because it’s not the underground. Don’t mention my name, I don’t want to get kidnapped by the types of people you hang around with. No offence, I know you’re only trying to make your living but… you can find money in better ways. Ferdo, don’t…” Chauntecleer stopped. He couldn’t very well tell Ferdinand to not look into something. There was a blanket over this particular thing though that hid it from his sight, and left it unable to be judged. Why was Talon Marlow hanging out secretly in Klokklsby? It had something to do with his father, but that was a huge list of maybes and hypotheticals. Could be something as simple as changing his identity. Or it could be as serious as potential death.


“Tell me who you’re running for so I know what she is looking for. I don’t like doing business outside the underground, you know that, but I still told you everything I can about this guy. I don’t want you to be… you know, so unlucky in life. Why not just drop the crime and pick up a job you can be proud of? I’d hate to stop running with you but if our group isn’t paying your bills then why are you doing it? We’re young so we get hardly a cut at all but… oh… I don’t know what I’m saying. I told you all I know about Talon. Now you tell me who you’re working for. If she’s not a threat I’ll help you more, of course I will. I’m good at finding things out.”


“Finding a job I can be proud of? Outside of crime? Chaunte, hear yourself. Have you seen our leader? He is swimming in pools those fools in the shops will never do. You’ll see, Chaunte. You and me? We will make it there.” He whistled at a woman passing by, but almost got hit by her palm. With a relieve that the woman walked away, he continued on. “Well, Edna, the one you hear down the streets? The really hot one, the one always wearing leather… “


“Oh her… I mean, she’s okay. I guess she’s… well she has the boots doesn’t she. Couldn’t have Alessandro showing skin like that and enjoy it. Thing is, I bet she’d punish you if you was looking at her. Don’t think I’d mind that though. If she kept on the boots you know and, maybe nothing else?” Chauntecleer looked over his shoulder briefly and, upon seeing the coast was clear - although he wasn’t sure what he was looking for - he turned back to Ferdinand. “I heard a rumour she has her nipples pierced. Nipples pierced, and she got someone to do it in public.”


“Why didn’t I hear of this! Well I saw her zippers you know, she was talking and leaning towards me. I swear she is not wearing anything under that jacket.” Not that Ferdinand realised the topic had trailed off. A general teenager’s greed showed evidently. “And she saw me, didn't stop me or anything just gave me the note. Last time it was a heist. So it is like odd jobs. Just… secret odd jobs. They take contractors and what not.”


“Well, I guess wearing tight leather keeps her tits in check but… yeah if that nipple thing turns out to be true I won’t really be surprised. And… well… I told you what I know, if you remember it. I won’t ask you for any cut of the money she gives you neither, as long as you say all that came from you,” the doilies put on Chauntecleer’s new life that smoothed the corners and combed the hair of the teenager were stripped away when he interacted with his group, or with Ferdinand. The doilies had been put on by years of simply being Hieronymus Hartley’s son, but their control was relinquished at times like this. “ I don’t wanna work for anything other than the underground.”


“What are you on about?” Ferdinand gave him a scolding look, but his skinny build was nowhere intimidating. “If I get some money you will be there spending it with me. Out of question. I doubt what you know earn me much though. It’s only beginning. “ Rubbing his hands together, he imitated a mouse-like action. “Once I proof myself, heh. I’ll get money on both sides. You can stay safe, chante. You just spend it with me. “


The “spend the money as soon as I get it” is really the reason why all his work doesn’t get him out of poverty. But he will hear none of other people’s lecture. At least his old man is not spending his money. And he gets girls. In his own opinion.


“If you want to know where to spend money I saw a good few places new in Soso last time I was there. There’s a new place that does tattoos, piercings. I think I have piercings on the brain. But remember to save a bit of money so you can, you know, get somewhere to live.”


There was the doily again. It had floated back down and cooled the adolescent’s feisty mind. A slice of adult concern, a concern that his father didn’t even have. Ferdinand’s father was a fairy-tale villain with the traits of a soap-opera scumbag, while his own was a prince who, upon finding Rapunzel, got bored of trying to climb her hair and went off to find a wild boar to chase. But that was the difference: Ferdinand had money problems in his genes. Chauntecleer had money saving in his personality. Being given two pounds a month pocket money by the children’s care home was like being given a gem. A gem others tried to steal. Chauntecleer got used to striking before he was struck, and buried his spoils below a bush in the care home garden. It wasn’t about spending, it was about having.


Or, more likely, it was about proving a point.


But Ferdinand was a roundabout in his finances. The cycle didn’t stop. When it slowed, the young man put his foot to the ground and kept it going.


“If you were looking for girls there’s a club that doesn’t check you for anything. Even it lets you in if you’re drunk. It got raided by police twice but it’s still there.”


“Chaunte, Chaunte...That’s boring. I’ve been there and they are all the same… When you are drunk, anyways. I mean, I took you to see the girls I see. Aren’t they more fun?”


“Well yeah they were when they were kissing me and all, then I thought, I don’t really want to… lose my virginity to that? My dad told me sex is sacred so I just always think to that. But they were fun to play with sure.”


“What era is your dad from he sounds like… Oh… We are in Cassiopia.... But sex? Sacred? Have you not seen the windows at night when we do jobs? “ Said Ferdinand… Who really didn’t have any experience either. Oh well.


“I don’t remember what he told me exactly but it was when I was 10 or 11 or something and he just said it a few times then told me what sex was. So yeah I saw things the same as you did and I was touching those girls you took me to see but it just kind of stuck in my head. Anyway we… well if my suggestions are no good to you then take me somewhere else you like. We could go to the films and annoy people. Or just steal from them, people never watch their bags in cinemas. If you did want to get a girl at a club or something I’d wingman you, I think I’d be a pretty good wingman. I’m sort of shadow-wingmanning you this info on the guy aren’t I, after all?”


“Nah no point if you don’t enjoy the girls. “ Putting his hand in his pockets, Ferdinand started leading towards the cinema. Well, a cinema that they once robbed long ago, but they have toured and finally come back to it. No girls there, but a lot of old-timey folks with their eyelid closed like timed doors. “Anything you want to do? Not me, you. And next time, I wing-man you, and you can consider ditching them afterwards for your holy virginity and your old man. How does that sound?”


Chauntecleer shrugged, not taking the sting to heart, “I quite like the idea of getting a tattoo so I mentioned the place. And I’ll kiss a girl all, sure, you know that. You know, you got to go for the cheek then the neck and if they let you do that they let you do anything. Tell you what though, we have to avoid the club we went to last time ‘cause I saw my dad in it at the same time we were. He didn’t notice us, but that’s why I made us leave. We should go to any other one. Are we going to try the cinema shift now?”


“Your dad’s still in the fields? I didn’t notice. I mean, that girl Megan was dancing. “He nodded. “There is more clubs than we can travel around Soso. If your papa’s there just drag me out. I mean, who wants to be awkward?”


“Oh, and we can go to that tattoo parlour Edna went to. Maybe we will know if she did have her nipples pierced, or not. It’s a good gramps there anyway, he did Thames’s tattoo. He still a prick but, that’s a good tattoo if I’ve seen one. “


“Well he en’t married you know. But yeah he says sex is sacred then goes and does that, so I don’t really know what he means. Anyway yeah I have a few tattoo ideas in mind. I thought of like a pendulum for example. You have to be really delicate when handling a pendulum. Just like you have to be delicate when thieving. You ever used a pendulum? I tried to but I couldn’t find a pregnant woman.”


“I’ve used one for trying to hypnotised. That girl slapped that pendulum on my face instead. “ He pressed his face as if he just got hit. “It’s easier to just ask them to kiss you really. But maybe you will get those ones where it is like a lot of shadows of pendulum so it is like it swings? Where will you put it? I have a tattoo on my back, but it is just like cloud shapes. I was indecisive then. “


“Can you hypnotise girls to kiss you? It wouldn’t work in the short term would it? Hypnotisation takes a longer time. Unless you’re one of those savants who just go ‘sleep’ and people fall down asleep. Anyway, I thought about getting it on my hand, here.” Chauntecleer illustrated his ideal by turning the back of his left hand to Ferdinand and drew a large V-shape down from the first and last finger separations. “Like that. So it’d be like you’re setting it up. Pendulums are meant to respond to your own will, but most likely it’s body tremors or heat, but still, it’s a good reminder to me that I control my own destiny. So… that’s what it would mean. Probably be quite cheap too. But then again, I heard it’s painful to get a tattoo on your hand.”


“I don’t think a pendulum tats work, Chaunte. If you tattoo near bones it will hurt. But then people tattoo anywhere too, so it must be bearable. “ Said again, the boy who had tattooed his back only. “But it means more than my tattoo. The man just say my tattoo means lucky. Now look where I am. “


They were closing to the theatre. But before entering it, the skinny boy had another mischievous idea. A man walked on the road, pale and almost as skinny as him. He looked unfit with the dirty roads, waning trees and half-abandoned theatre. A lost man, possibly, nervously putting his hands tightly in his pocket. What’s more, he fidgeted when a lady and her bulldog walked by.


“A target. “


Without explaining to his pal, Ferdinand von Potter walked up to the man on his own. Putting his hands and with his peaky cap pressed, he acted as thuggish as possible. A local and natural fiend. “Hello there, gentleman. Having a stroll are we?”


There was no time to reply and Chauntecleer just had to fall in line with Ferdinand. That was the way things usually went: either Chauntecleer would act on instinct and Ferdinand would follow, or Ferdinand would put on an act and Chauntecleer would back him up. And it was so now: Chauntecleer put his hands in his pockets and sauntered up to join Ferdinand, his nose slightly in the air. Nothing Ferdinand had seen had missed Chauntecleer’s eyes. And with the hands in his pockets, the man was expressing all the body language of hiding something.


“I don’t think he knows who runs these streets,” Chauntecleer said easily. “But I think he knows it in’t him.”


“Well then, we all know what happens to people who are ignorant right?”


The man pleaded, crouching as if expecting incoming fists. “Please. Please be gentle.”


Seems like it happened more than once for him.


“We ain’t gonna hit you, that’d be stupid. Much easier to use a blade. But I don’t think you want that either do you. What’ve you got on you, if it’s good enough you walk away. If not, I’m not afraid to teach someone a lesson for dawdling on my turf,” Chauntecleer had a switchblade tucked between his belt and his trouser waistband, the fall of his shirt covering it. But he pressed his thumb to the body of the switchblade and left his casual, uncaring expression on his face. Showing he wasn’t joking.


“Please, please… “The man pulled out his wallet, and showed them the inside. Ferdinand soon see the problem. There were cash, changes. But mostly it was cards. Oriyon cards. They can’t really use them. The wallet, however, was good Cassiopia quality.


“Tourist. “ Ferd said, disgusted, like he saw the filthiest filth on the street.


Chauntecleer copied Ferdinand’s unimpressed stare before striking - he swiped the wallet out of the man’s hand and took a step back, turning to the side to inspect. “Because I’m feeling generous, I’ll help you. You shouldn’t be wearin’ digital out here, no one wants digital. Give it to my friend, he’ll keep it safe for you. Then get out of here. Cassiopia’s that way, Klokklsby don’t want you.”


The wallet was good, the cards were fine. Chauntecleer knew what they could do with both. The wallet would be an easy thing to dispose of, the cards would be more complicated but much more worth it. He kept an eye on their victim while he held the wallet.


“And we are not completely cruel. “ Ferdinand said, pulled out the one card with his photo. Not that he gave the man back the card politely. “You can have this. You’ll need this, won’t you?”


He threw the card to the far end of the pavement, as it hit the wall and fell closely to one of the drainage. And, as the man ran to get it, he ran the other way with a mischievous laugh. “Have a nice day, sirrah!”


Chauntecleer joined him and said, “Sirrah? That’s old, old language, Ferdo. Right, the cards, I can take care of them easy, we split the money, deal? I don’t think using ‘em is gonna be the best thing to do, I can take them to the underground and people can harvest his personal data, they pay well for cards, even better for multiple.”


“Whatever you say, Chaunte. You can take care of it and give my share later. We can use that change to get some ice cream. You busy?”


“Wow, all this talk of clubs and girls and suddenly you suggest ice-cream? What are you, six?”


“It’s a hot day. And you are the one with sacred sex and all that. “


“Fun’s fun, but it’s different when it comes to the do.”


“That’s my boy. “ Laughing, Ferdinand spread his long legs to get a bigger stride. “Owl’s Wink, first one there can have drinks with Rosamond!”


“Hey hey hey! You’re not the only one that can run, you know!”

 

[0stinato]

Even a recluse has an image. Volkovoi didn’t even have to raise a hand or show any identification when he entered Cassiopia General with Braithe. The theatre-owner approached the front desk and quietly spoke ten words, to which the desk managers leaped to their feet and came back with the Matron. By the Matron’s discretion, Braithe and Volkovoi were allowed to see Olympia Carlyle. The words didn’t even need to be spoken as to why. The Nightingale performed on Braithe’s stage. As for Volkovoi, well he had an image because of Braithe’s reclusive nature. He spoke where Braithe refused.

“She’s in here with her husband at the moment. Be patient, she is still to recover.”

Braithe didn’t look at her, didn’t turn his head, but said to her, “We shan’t be long. We’d rather she recover. But we must wish her the best. We must offer her our sympathies.”

As he spoke, Volkovoi felt the disconnect between them. It was nothing new, but, when Braithe said ‘we’ he did not mean he and Volkovoi. Nor did he mean he and the Editors as a whole. Volkovoi kept quiet and moved into the room when Braithe did. As the tall, suited blond man approached the Nightingale on one side of her bed, Volkovoi took the other, greeting her husband as he neared the gentleman.

“Mr. Carlyle,” Volkovoi said. “I hope you accept our presence. Braithe was insistent he see your wife. And of course, Mrs Carlyle,” he took her hand gently between his palms. Like a bear holding a paling leaf, “words are figurative in describing our pain for you. There are some things that can’t be spoken aloud, emotions and feelings being two. And of course you know… the Czech is the ideal man for all things silent.”

Volkovoi raised his eyes to the Czech. All things silent: that was his trade. The Czech turned unspeakable plains of the eyes and heart into volumes of human voice. He never said how, nor why. He dabbled in silence, and he listened to the voices of others. The audiences at his theatres was the bridge between silence and noise. One must be quiet when watching someone else talk, and yet must make noise when inclined. Appreciation too vast for words is exchanged for non-semantic clapping or cheering. The Czech absorbed it all and formed his own silent world with others’ words.

As it was now, the Czech was merely standing, the dark glasses impenetrable, as he absorbed the room. His head was turned slightly towards the Smith.

The Carlyles, at least the ones presented, were not surprised at the visit. Both acknowledged the two men naturally, and Andy, who didn’t usually see the Czech, still knew him from Olympia’s words and a few past interactions. Being a man of few words himself, he gestured to the chairs by the walls, and thanked the two with a slight bow. Olympia, now visibly recovering and accepted their greetings, smiled at them like seeing old friends. “How long have we worked together? There is no reason needed for your visit, though I do think we both would appreciate a chat in depth. Tell me, how are things going on beyond these tiresome walls?”

“People talk,” said Braithe, “like koi. They respond to the stone thrown into their pool. All trying to theorise who threw the stone and why. We are not koi. We have fifth eyes in our heads, we see the ethereal layer above the city. The ethereal layer is rotten from the inside. You are not the first casualty. Although the attack on you must become the focus of the mere few who have the light inside them. Your Collette. Volkovoi. Me. Your husband. Your children,” he fell silent after that.

“We have to root out whatever is rotting our companionship. If it was first the Messenger and now the Siren, we can connect the dots. If we do it quickly enough, we could find the cancer and kill it before another of us is struck down. We know we can trust all the people he just named. Do you, either of you, know of any others that will join us?”

When he mentioned the children, the face of the Siren grew dangerous. She knew that it was not the men in front that threatened them, but the idea long hung over their heads. “When it happened, Bernadette was with me. Though I am uncertain of most other members, she is a woman you can trust. “

“I would be caution, normally, if you talk to my son Norberto.” Andy added.

“There is a governess that I trust, as well. She is not like us, but after my other circle got cut down, she was the one remained. Her name is Jane Clay. She is now recovering in one of the ground level rooms.“

They both didn’t mention the Messenger’s son. Perhaps they were hesitant to do so.

“The Naiad,” said Volkovoi. “Norberto. A governess…”

Volkovoi put his hands behind his back and theorised the governess the Siren spoke of must have been part of her trade. An asset. And considering the Siren’s weakened position both in the physical realm and the realm of finance and life, it must have been from those ashes the governess was spawned. The Naiad would be an easy conversation, and perhaps a conversation that didn’t need to happen. Just a word to tell the Naiad the Czech was on-side. And Norberto… well, the way the Smith spoke, he was a rogue element. But perhaps that was what was needed. In a time of relentless confusion and hunches, a rogue element might be just the thing to break the defences of those Volkovoi himself didn’t trust. But his word was not Braithe’s. His word was not the Czech’s.

“The governess is unheard of by us,” Volkovoi surmised. “So treating her as so is what we’ll do until our research is done on her. I don’t distrust--”

Volkovoi stopped as if his tongue had been burned out. Out of the corner of his eye, the Czech was looking at him. The eyes behind the glasses, although impossible to see from that angle, were piercing right through him, right through his tongue.

“You may stay here,” he said to Volkovoi. And he left the room.

Volkovoi’s posture weakened, he felt a staggering in the limbs of his muscles, but kept upright. The Czech had imparted a strong scolding onto Volkovoi’s back. He moved uncertainly to a chair and let himself down in it. When the ghost of a dizzy spell had retreated he looked up at the Smith, and at the Siren. The bond between them was almost visible as an unwavering white line in the air. Like the streams of a jet, cutting the room in half.

“I apologise,” he said. “Forget what I said about your governess. Strike it from your memories. I don’t speak for the Czech on that.”

The Siren was unfazed, even abnormally calm to the exchange. But she offered him a comforting smile, and spoke gently, like what a mother would have. “I understand your concern, Volkovoi. But I can assure you, I will not trust anyone I am unsure of. She will not be what you expect, but in this situation, she will be my eyes and voice from afar. “

---​

It was to Jane Clay’s room that the Czech walked. He asked in the form of a simple, “And now, Jane Clay?” as he located the Matron and, when ferried to her room, went in without hesitation.

A stranger, asking of her name. Was it the people who came to finish what they were doing? Had they discover the escapee that didn’t suffer the same fate as they had hoped? The hospital was well secured, nothing of use could be used. In a helpless and impulsive attempt, Jane Clay lift up the full glass jar of water, when she turned to confront the man. A ridiculous weapon, not to mention her strength was too less for the heavy jar. “Who is this?” She said, ignoring her trembling wrist.

The Czech took his hand from the door that he had closed and turned his body to face her. He read her in a moment. From her action - reaching for a weapon - he could discern two major points: first, she had no clue who he was, an unusual thing for a layman in Cassiopia, even more unusual for someone in contact with the Siren; second, she perceived him as an immediate threat, which meant she was defensive over a stranger, even moreso a stranger with his appearance. From her circumstance he discerned one more thing: she wasn’t just here to keep the Siren company. She did not look like a governess. An aura of jeopardy surrounded her. She had none of the Siren’s grace. She had the appearance of someone who had fallen from the sky not long ago.

“What does Cassiopia owe the Siren?” he said.

“Siren. “ Repeated the word, Clay realised that it was someone sent from the lady. And what he spoke sounded like a riddle. With a light gasp, she held the water jar back, balancing it with both hands near her stomach, and took a more formal stance as she thought about his question. “What Cassiopia owe the Siren, sir? Cassiopia wouldn’t owe anyone, sir. No one owes anyone unless they had agree to it. The Siren will be willing to give anything to Cassiopia. “

She herself doesn’t owe anyone anything. The Siren said so. Long time ago, it was. Even if she was a slave, and money labelled her name.

The Czech smiled. The smile was a crack in his face, it was not a natural thing: the skin of his lips and cheeks were distorted as foaming pollution. But still, he smiled. He drew closer and reached his stiff fingers into his jacket. When his hand surfaced again, it held a card, plain white apart from the name and address that uniformed it.

• BRAITHE the CZECH •
Cassiopia Pinnacle
Penthouse
•

​

“My card,” said the Czech. “My only card. I saved it. I felt I would need it one day. It’s yours.” He proffered it to her and said no more. He offered no explanation as to why he had one card. He simply held it out to her.

It became too real for Clay. She is standing there, inches away from the man who knew of Siren. It was obvious right away that he was not one of the people she had traded. Here she was, talking to him, accepting his card, like Baines would have. She never even imagined what he does. He could be gone for days, and when he returned, he would be in his pressed butler suit, a flower in his pocket, and he would talk so cheerfully as if nothing had happened. For years his business escaped her mind besides the long interval of his absence. Being here… Felt like denying his position. It felt… Wrong. To be depended on by the lady.

“Jane… Jane Clay, sir. I don’t have a business card. “ She curtsied instead, imitating what Baines would have done in this situation. “Would you tell me what you will contact me for?”

“You will come to me. Whenever you’re ready. Question your Siren regarding me. I do not know myself well enough to answer anything you ask.”

Then she won’t question it. She wasn’t raised asking question. Putting the card in the pocket of her dress, she then waited for him to speak more. Talking wasn’t exactly her forte.

The face of the Czech returned to normal, his posture hardened again and he let go of his only card. He didn’t speak as he left, didn’t even look at the woman sitting there. He knew she would understand. Cassiopia didn’t owe anyone anything. Less so owed the Siren anything. The Czech agreed. It was the answer he had anticipated from her and any deviance from it would have merely disappointed him, and proved Volkovoi right. As the Czech returned to the Siren’s room, he eyed Volkovoi, who looked at him.

“We’ll have a visitor at some point,” he said. “I will handle her.”

Volkovoi, who had climbed to his feet, nodded. His eyes were hard as flint again, to which the Czech merely lowered his head slightly. It was a slight forgiveness from the Czech, Volkovoi recognised. Words meant nothing to the man. A ‘sorry’ meant nothing. It was what you did that counted.

 

[0stinato]

Bernadette’s office, a white-and-grey room warmed by the repeating gloss of polished cherry-wood furniture, was besieged. She was stood at her shelf combing through a few files on New Neptune, paying extreme attention to the criminal goings on. She had many clippings from New Neptune papers, and dealings with those papers. They reported some big Cassiopia news, she reported some big New Neptune news. Poking into their old files was, then, expected of a journalist and, as a head journalist, not questioned. Her mind was full of queries and questions: Inge Antolij wanted what from this exercise, she wondered? She reasoned she would find out, but only if she was careful. So she stood and read and absorbed until her assistant knocked and opened the door to the other head journalist a this branch of the Capers.

Bernadette smiled and laid the folder atop some books on her shelves, and approached her visitor.

“Well, Mr. Hartley, what can I do for you? Would you like to sit down? I don’t think you have spent much time in my office,” she directed him to the less formal area of the room, where a low table was surrounded by windows on one side, and two plush sofas on the other. The table carried the latest copy of the Capers, of course, but, piled up on one side of it were the Oriyon papers, including the First, the Central Star and Centurion, and on the other, various papers from other cities. New Neptune’s Daily Tides, and the Pioneer were there on the top of the pile. Bernadette sat down, and Hieronymus took up his own seat on the other sofa.

Bernadette felt he looked very serious, the eyes beneath the mask as solid as gemstones.

“What’s bothering you, my dear?” she said.

“I wanted to ask, out of courtesy,” Hieronymus spoke very slowly, each pause translating to the length of a breath. Paired with his low timbre, Bernadette became more patient, allowing him the time to form the sentence. “If you would rather write about the Nightingale. It’s a big story and my team are all over it, but I’ve put the article on hold. You, clearly, have more of a rapport with her than I do, perhaps a friendship, I do not know.”

“You’re referring to the time I sent you away while I spoke with her,” Bernadette smiled. “It is true, I do share a close bond with our Nightingale.”

“No, I mean… you were with her when she was shot.”

Bernadette raised her eyebrows. “Very accurate.”

“Going to a pub. The Old Theatre.”

“My, my, you have done your homework.”

“I told you, my team are all over it. I teach them to be like me, they smell prey, they hunt it. That prey being… a story, sorry, it sounds a little insensitive to say prey when the Nightingale was shot.”

“Well, she wasn’t someone’s prey, was she?”

“Wasn’t she?” Hieronymus scowled. “She was someone’s target. No one shoots at random. Especially no one shoots a stage-star without it being on purpose.”

“You make an excellent point, yes. However, we aren’t not the police or the detectives here. We simply report the facts, Mr. Hartley. We do not speculate more than a tad. As to your reason for coming to me, no, I am happier to leave the story to you. I think I would not do it justice, I have far too many raw emotions to write properly on the subject. But please, when you do, please write it personally, Mr. Hartley. I implore you to do that, if only for me. I am in a privileged position to where I can meet the Nightingale as a friend if I would like to, but I remain her fan. When you write, write as a fan, for the fans. They deserve the truth, Mr. Hartley.”

Hieronymus was quiet. Bernadette looked on as a bystander to his invisible internal thoughts. But she was an experienced bystander: her comment on speculation was getting under his skin, she reasoned. Her comment about delivering the truth was only serving to burrow into his psyche, to rear up against the assumed title of The Liar, and challenge it.

She decided to let that sit in his head. It wasn’t a damaging reminder.

“Now, I will be going to the theatre this evening, I want to meet with another of the Nightingale’s friends, to see how she is doing. She is also an actress. I’m inviting you to come along with me, for the article’s sake.”

He raised his golden eyes to her and said nothing.

“I’ll meet you in the foyer at eight,” she said, making the theoretical invitation a permanent fixture in their lives. “Prepare yourself to meet another actress. And please, don’t ‘misplace’ your dictaphone this time.”

“Oh, ah… well--”

She stood up, so he also did, and she corralled him towards the door as he dithered to find an excuse. He was running on the lines of, “Well, it must have fallen from my pocket,” and, “Do you think I would forget it, of course I wouldn’t,” but she just kept smiling.

“See you tonight, Mr. Hartley.”



The evening was still and dark. Cassiopia itself was not yet asleep, but the people within it seemed dozy. Everyone had their eyes half-closed, and if not their visible ocular eyes, their internal ones. People worried about their own issues that blinded them, and the world’s heart beat in the skin of those whose eyes never even blinked. The taxi driver was dozy, at least to Bernadette he was. He did his job, and no more. The doorman at the theatre’s offices was dozy, but did his job of checking identification. He did no more than that.

Bernadette was almost convinced Hieronymus had his eyes open, but she gave up that assumption after she noticed he had vanished from her side. Looking for him, she discovered he was about twenty feet away, his eyes on people who, by their faces, were his fans. He was straight-backed as a statue, spoke and laughed lightly, put his hand on a few arms. His eyes were open alright, but open to the wrong areas.

“Mr. Hartley,” she called.

He turned, but only to wave a hand at her and turn back. Well that was it then. She resigned to going up alone, escorted by the doorman and being quietly disappointed in the man she had come with. She thanked the doorman, and knocked.

“Bernadette? Do come in!”

Bernadette did as requested, slightly cheered up by Collette’s voice. It was the first time she had entered the woman’s office and she realised it was a comfortable, informal place. The room got more formal one moved into it though: where she entered, there was a sofa and coffee table, with framed posters of the marketing of films. Films that sought the revival of the art form Collette was enamoured with, framed behind glass. The Swing Dancer, with a shadowed sepia tone and a spotlight that bathed a single dancer on stage. The light was caught by the bodies of instruments before the stage. Beside that, Intrigue, one Bernadette had seen. This was purely greyscale. The poster itself featured a wilting bouquet of various, once passionately-hued flowers atop a gun. Bernadette remembered the flowers. It was a subtle thing in the film. The same bouquet of flowers featured in the office of the detective, but with every passing scene they died slowly, until the last scene of the office. The detective unceremoniously pushed them away and picked up the gun, and never did he return to the office again.

She drew her eyes from the poster, her inner eye from the film, and turned to Collette, who sat in the formal area - a desk, a file cabinet, personalised with a fish bowl atop it, and the actress herself.

Bernadette approached her with dignity, “Good evening, my dear. I do hope you are doing well, both in business and in life. You have coped admirably, despite the circumstances we have been put under.” By ‘we,’ Bernadette did not mean she and Collette. But Collette knew that.

“Thank you. I would say the same to you. I know it wasn’t easy but we must continue in our lives. I always keep busy so they ask less questions.” Collette welcomed her warmly and invite themselves on the sofas. A small stove behind where she stood was heating, and it emitted this comfortable bubbling sound as they settled. Collette looked at Bernadette, a bit concerned about the little traces left by the event. Would it help if Collette had stayed behind? It wouldn’t, on the grand scale. From the moment they became something, they must not let the personal thing slipped too carelessly. They must stay awake when the whole city is asleep.

“How were things going?” She asked, try to make her concern casual and airy. “As you can see, Soso is just as busy as usual."

“Since we have a little privacy,” Bernadette paused to listen, although no one was making their way to the office outside, “I think we really have to be careful of our own lives. Our Olympia was a target, we both know that. The Carlyles are a target. We haven’t got time to be cautious anymore. If… whoever it is… and we both know who we suspect… isn’t going to be taking any precautions, we can’t either. We need to bring a force with us, and take out the tumour that’s threatening the Editors. I don’t mean to sound so rushed, but I brought one of my colleagues with me so he could write a real article on our Nightingale. Through that, we can demonstrate our solidarity, it can be a beacon for those Editors who want to join us. He got distracted downstairs. I took the opportunity to speak to you like this now.”

“But we have to be careful. Every single move have risk of being watched, and an open message will put us in the toughest spot light.” Collette turned her attention to the door, which is now undisturbed and humble in the decorated room. Maybe she should hang a banner of “welcome”, Collette thought. Not that she received many guest, but her colleagues would appreciate the small effort. “You said your colleague was being distracted. Let me guess, are we talking about ‘Liar’ Hartley? That dreamy journalist all the girls were crazy about?”

Because not a lot of journalist would be having the same amount of distraction in Soso. Unless one is a die hard fan of someone, but they are familiar with the journalists and their behaviour, and Capers journalists only have a few that stands out. There were few tediously mundane ones, one or two with interesting habits, then there is Hieronymus Hartley. Collette didn’t know if Bernadette was aware of the cult built around him. If she does, however, the actress couldn’t help but wish to know her input. All Soso inhabitants like a little bit of gossip, and Capers was the provider and the centre of it all.

“From where I sit,” Bernadette was measuring out her words very carefully, “we might need a spotlight. The Nightingale has already been shot. We have to turn it to our advantage. And, Mr. Hartley is a clueless party in reference to the Editors, so he is the perfect funnel for us to work through. And,” Bernadette paused to chuckle bashfully on account of her colleague, “he’s… styled himself a pseudo-celebrity, so a pseudo-celebrity he has become. No doubt some time soon he will realise that coming here with me was more important than schmoozing…”

“It never is one-sided, especially not in Soso. “ Collette leaned on the arm of the sofa, coyly smiled. “If only you have heard all the things the girls here said… Everyone here need someone to admire.”

It was an interesting thought. Bernadette allowed her body to relax as she tilted her head, “And who do you admire? Or do they admire you?”

“I think you know who I admire, Mrs Horowitz. “ The smile gave way to a melancholy frown, like a flash of the camera, then she smiled again. “I do wish I can do more, but not in the way that some would hope. Their admiration is not what I would pursue. For an actress it was a strange thing to say, but, I’m content with the spotlight I have chosen. “

Bernadette lowered her head for a moment. There were two types of people who walked the world: those who wanted and those who had. Collette was the latter, and her colleague the former. Collette had her spotlight and was happy. She had her life’s full stop, yet some psyches would see it only as a comma. Bernadette thought about it, and realised that it was important to be something more complicated. One had to know when to stop seeking for a better gift, and when to push the current state away.

The timing for the knocking on the door could not be more apt. It was steady, staccato. Bernadette turned her head to the door.

“Come in, my dear,” she said.

He did. Strutted in like a peacock, smiled at Bernadette. “I’m sorry for abandoning you. But when the crowds clamour, it is rude to not entertain them.”

“Ah, of course. Evidenced by the trace of lipstick on your jaw there.”

“Hm? Well. Exactly,” Hieronymus said. But he did raise his hand to where Bernadette was looking and rub his fingers against the tell-tale mark. “Now, business talk, yes. Miss Holst, of course,” he came towards her smiling gently, offering his hand palm-upwards, for her to slot hers into.

Seeing Hieronymus Hartley in the flesh, Collette was quite amused. After hearing all the praises… What was it? A positive Giovanni, a sociable Mr Darcy, Hermes with the tongue of Zeus and the face of Apollo? Now that she saw him, she could agree that he was handsome enough, and have the dramatic flair the girls would certainly love. But of course, she will judge him herself. “I don’t believe we have met personally, Mr Hartley. But I’ve long heard of your reputation." She placed her hand on his, complying with his act.

He brought her hand up and pressed his lips to it gently. Then he looked up into her eyes and returned the greeting, “Nor I you. Of course, the Holst history is a long and colourful one. But, dare I say, the colours are much more vivid now you have brought the name out from beneath the Carlyles' shadow. ‘Tis better to shine in the brightness of a friend, and allow them to shine the same from you, instead of trying to overshadow the other. I admire your relationship with the Nightingale immensely,” he let her hand go. “Ah, perhaps I am jealous. The history of a name… Carlyle, Holst, Horowitz, even. And even then, the former two have writ enough into today’s stage to warrant a thousand biographies. However, I am not here to write one of them, at least not today. This is about honouring the recovery of your friend. I have been prepped by Bernadette. She trusts my hand to write it out. So, while I would be very interested in continuing the informalities… I propose we consider what, and who, is most important here.”

A tongue of Zeus… Collette could see that now. Know what to say to please, yet he was aware of the charm he could possess. The proudest Renaissance poet rebirthed. “Do not underestimate what you have built, Mr Hartley. We had long passed the time when people look on history alone. And because of our purpose, Mr Hartley, you can be more comfortable. We all have a connection with Olympia. You have a comprehensive article, twice, about your interview with her. I believe your audience would appreciate a less formal tone as well, she is often more than just a good songstress for them. “

With a keen tone and agile movements, she had prepared tea and snacks for them, and invite him on the seat where they all face each other comfortably. Exchanging a brief touch of gaze with Bernadette, she turned to the man once again. “Of course, you can ask your questions freely. Mrs Horowitz had trusted your pen, after all. “

It was clear Hieronymus was considering her words. His business-scowl got a little deeper as he sat himself next to Bernadette.

“A less formal tone?” he said, audibly mulling her words over.

Bernadette smiled, “That seems like a very good thing to consider. Write as a fan for her fans. It would make a much more intimate article than if you wrote as a journalist.”

“It’s not something I’ve tried before. But I’ll do it. If it isn’t genuine enough, Bernadette, shred it and tell me to try again. Anyway, now, the questions,” he pulled from inside his jacket a fountain pen, and from one pocket a slim notebook. From the looks of it, it was perhaps once a smart, well-meaning book, preparing itself to take in all the secrets the journalist’s hand had to offer. In reality, what it became was the wordy doodlings of a bored on-the-beat journalist, a Hieronymus in his 20s, looking for something more fun to investigate rather than the job he was put on.

“No dictaphone?” Bernadette asked, surprised.

“Didn’t want to risk losing such a precious thing again,” he said, unable to keep the mischievous smile from rising. “Such a hassle last time I dropped it, dear me what a stress that was. Anyway, tell me more about the Nightingale, the Olympia, you know. From the perspective of a fellow actress, from a family that was never far from the Carlyle’s side, tell me what you know her to be.”

The mischievous smile suited him, she thought. Better than the pretend smile. “Well, I supposed I can start from the beginning. We grew up together, and it was an interesting decision for our mother to put us in the same class. It’s only a speculation, but I think my mother intended for us to compete. But then it is very hard to just think of rivalry when the other person is helpful and kind. Take dancing class for example, I was always a bit clumsy. And Olympia --- we were just eight, by the way --- she will come and tell me how to avoid a twisted ankle. By the time we reach twelve we were already too close to be enemies. Of course, our parents were wary.”

She grinned, lightened by an inside joke.

Hieronymus raised an eyebrow, “How did their rivalry, your parents’ that is, become so long-standing? What gave it the life it had?”

“Our fathers never had any disputes. Our mothers were competitive, as the best celebrities do. A bit of it were exaggerations of course, fuel by their fans and media, and I think to some extent they secretly cherished that connection. For Olympia and me, we talked about this several times whether we would become that connection. I don’t think we ever actually had an answer to that. Back then, it would seem like everyone was vocal about how we will, and it was very stressful. I remember a fan came to me and started suggesting me how I should sabotage her. It was strange that someone would think either of us wanted that. “

“Is that a testament to your friendship, your occupational respect for each other, or something else?”

“Respect play a big part of it. I have seen how hard Olympia had worked. Her dedication didn’t come from the teaching of her parents. She always look in the mirror and perfect her behaviour, observe so she could learn from the seniors, and though she had talents she never did excuse herself from practicing her vocal. I am humble when she showed appreciation for my work. She did for everyone else too. “

Hieronymus, who had been diligently scribbling in shorthand without even looking flustered stopped and looked up at her. It was a human moment that he was witness to. An honest voice from an honest heart, a concerned heart. He lowered his notebook slightly. “You sound as if you are speaking in eulogy, although she is stable in the hospital. It almost sounds is if you were prepared for her to die.”

“Allow me to say, if you don’t mind, that Miss Holst, the loyal Collette, kept a far cooler head than I did,” Bernadette said. “She was present when Olympia was… well, almost assassinated. She behaved, at least to me, just as Olympia would have done if the roles were reversed. The coolest of heads, of wits, and the foresight to know not what had to be done by way of health, as I was the one making sure she got to the General, but what had to be done by way of occupation and morals.”

Hieronymus lowered his head a little, but it wasn’t long before he raised it to Collette. “In the meantime… were you prepared for her to die? You weren’t with her, none of my people mentioned you were, at the start. So while you weren’t there, what did you expect to happen to the Nightingale?”

Collette was looking at Hieronymus, with a look mixed of amusement and consideration. Intriguing, for a journalist to ask her that. But it reflected, if past his greasy exterior, either a masterful shrewdness or a admirable instinct. For, when it came to Olympia and her, the other ties caused the deeper connection, that should one of them fall, the other will help carry on. “It was an interesting take, Mr Hartley. At the moment when I heard she was harmed, I couldn’t think of the possibility that she could have… Ceased to be. I don’t think anyone would have wish that. Though some singular evidence point to it that she could be targeted…”

A chill crept from the air to every segments of her spine, to her hair, to her lashes, into the green eyes staring straight into his warm gold. It was a harrowing horror that, without needing raise brows or agape jaws, speak volume still through the shell of a confident blonde. “I will, I think, try to eliminate any possibility of that happening. But if my limited strength cannot do, I will remember what was important to her. Then I will try to protect those too. There is a certain powerless depression that this event inspired, but I would like to think that everyone was inspired by her more than the single bullet could ever do. You have seen me, and Bernadette here who had accompanied her, and you yourself may have been inspired. What do you think, Mr Hartley? When you met her, and when you have heard what happened?”

Hieronymus had not written since the word “targeted.” He had said that very thing to Bernadette earlier, and yet he was being only half-serious. He had said it as an excuse, as a reason. But when it passed Collette’s lips, it was not carrying the same definition. The word was surrounded by fact. Certainty. It was definitive, even if the actress had prefaced it with “could.”

Her words echoed in his head as his mind cleared its drawing board. The facts began unfolding themselves, but remained blurred. Only when she said his name did the world slam back into position, Only then he realised he’d been staring at her while she was speaking. And, if that wasn’t enough, Bernadette was staring at him. He could feel her eyes on his.

“She asked you a question,” Bernadette said quietly. “Are you feeling quite alright?”

“I heard… I… I met her and she… I met her after a show last year. I’d made an appointment with her. She was still in her facial makeup. It didn’t matter when I interviewed her, we spoke about her life, she mentioned you, your family line, and I went away and wrote an article. Then I met her again not even a week ago, and it was just like now, with Bernadette on one side of me, facing her. We spoke much more of the play, and what performance meant in her life. Then I went away and wrote an article,” his dialect had taken a dramatic turn, his language straying into the realm of simple while his mind was busy trying to connect two puzzle pieces. But he shook himself, apologised and sat a bit straighter, “Our fields overlap only in terms of a happy business for us both. I write about her shows so people want to see them, and people see those shows so they want to read about who was in them. A rare example of two businesses working in conjunction. That’s why I love the medium as much as I do, that’s why I respect actors of he highest to the lowest grade. We can help the wheel of culture turn in Cassiopia. To hear what happened to her… I’m ashamed to say but it hit me only now. I was highly sombre earlier about it, but I’ve… been humbled by your description. I know what you mean now. I can’t write as a journalist, I shouldn’t even write as me. I should write for the people like you, like her family. They’re the ones that matter in this article.”

“Sounds like you had the epiphany,” remarked Bernadette with a smile to Collette. “How does that suit you?”

“Well, I do appreciate the sentiment.” Collette said, but adjusted her position as she cross her legs and leaned forward to Hieronymus. “But I think, to exclude yourself would be a misunderstanding. If you would forgive my untamed curiosity, Mr Hartley, I was interested in what you personally think and feel about Olympia. Mine, and her family, had long stood beside her. But the audiences and you had seen the side of her we couldn’t see as clearly. If you don’t mind, Can I hear your take as a fan, and as one who had spoken to her closely? “

“Whenever I saw her on stage I saw a woman who does what she loves and loves what she does. I could look into her eyes as an actress, as I did, and see a thousand facades. Different identities. She could embody a character and there would never be a reason to read the story again. She’d give the story to you in a different way, make you see things you never saw in it. In short, she’s not an actress, she’s the actress. No disrespect to yourself, of course. But there’s only one Nightingale.”

Disrespect? If only there could be a camera that captured the sparks of Collette’s eyes in its lens, or one that could imitate her proudness displayed, or a palette that captured the beauty as she wordlessly approved of his words, and delighted. It was then, with every possible showcase of obviousness, that this actress would never even wish to compete with the light of nightingale. She adored Olympia. And when Hieronymus praised the songstress, she agreed with him with passion. “But she is different when you talk to her off stage, I would think? I have seen many people in Soso and many personalities, but Olympia… Even though she had achieved the status, she still has this natural way to address you, without making you feel small or belittled. And I think her personality showed when she… Well, you could probably state it better than I can. “ she chuckled, realising she was being overly ecstatic. At least Mr Hartley didn’t equip a camera. “I noticed she is very considerate, in a subtle way. She speaks to you and will show that her attention is catered to you and you alone. Even on stage, I think she never for a moment forgets the audience. The sound and the acting is only a medium, it serves as a tool to carry it to the receivers. The message, it could be a character, an emotion, a theme, a vision, just words carried through hymns and arias. Something that hope to resonance within the listeners. ”

Was she talking about the Editors? The theatre audiences? Hieronymus? The two present Lady Mays? Could work for anything. Collette brushed her strayed curls behind her ear, giving a pause to the sudden speech. The actress hadn’t talked about something so passionately, and in fact, it had been long since anyone listened to her talking like this. Feeling the sudden touch of… could it be? Shyness? Embarrassment? Nervousness? The blonde reached for her tea, and allow her gaze to fall on the caramel-coloured drink. Oh, the dark red lipstick for the film set wasn’t cleaned thoroughly. It left a mark at the rim of the cup, like a red rose-crown on a sheet of wool. That served just enough distraction for her to recover, and looked up to the visitors again.

“I hope I didn’t get too carried away. Though I am one of her many audiences, of course there will be different thoughts and perception. Do give me your insight, the both of you. And of course, if you have more you wish to talk about. ”

There was a brief silence, in which time Bernadette looked sideways at Hieronymus. His eyes, however, had set their course in the manner of a once-stranded vessel seeing its safe shore, towards Collette. Wisely, not yet thankful but still aware, acutely judgemental. It did not seem like he was about to answer her, so Bernadette sat forwards slightly.

“She has affected the hearts and lives of so many that for her to fall away is a fallacy. It is like asking the stars to cease shining. This is why I feel, even if she was taken from us she would remain as bright as ever.” She was, of course, speaking about the Editors first and foremost. The ideals, however quietly the Siren presented them, were hers, and she owned them. What she wanted would never vanish, even if she was to. They existed as physically as the Siren herself did, in the minds of her family and her fellow likeminded Editors. “We are in the unique position of luck,” Bernadette continued. “We can see what could have been, and yet she remains with us, safe. We feel what was at risk with the attempt on her life. We all feel it heavily against all our hearts. Now, we translate it and remember who she is, celebrate her not for what she has done or what happened to her, but for who she is. I was pulled apart and not thinking when it happened; the realisation of potentially losing her, to lose a woman who makes the eye of the world shine as it looks upon her… all at once it would be like losing the stars from the sky. But even if they did crumble, the memories, the poetry, the observations, the myths would remain. Such as with the Nightingale: all of her would remain, but we would have nothing to look to.”

“Have you talked to the police?” Hieronymus said. It was hardly in the realm of a question, although it was phrased as one. It was, to Bernadette’s ear, just as shrouded as her own allusions to the Editors connections were. A worry settled in her as she glanced at him. This wasn’t the Hieronymus who had so easily waved away questions about his dictaphone with a veiled lie.

Noticing the sudden change in topic, Collette smiled reactively to him, answering calmly. “I have briefly talked to them. Unfortunately I did not see the perpetrator, so I had little to offer than the journalists. They did say, however, they were collecting the informations from the civilians on that day. Exactly what details they haven’t disclosed. Understandable, since once they release the details, it is easy to cause a witch hunt. Pointing fingers at each other and severe paranoia. They will be conducting active search, however. Have you tuned in the Klokklsby police radio? Or have you pursue other traces? Nothing of significance came last night, but I was occupied since this morning.”

It seemed Hieronymus’ expression finally knew where to settle. The scowl dropped, the eyes narrowed, the expression made itself at home in his countenance and took up residence comfortably as a result of the facts and thoughts now present in the journalist’s head. His hand sprung to life on a new page, writing illegibly in scribbles only he could understand. He looked at his notes for a few seconds. When he looked up, the expression had faded slightly, and when he smiled it was thin-lipped.

“You mean to tell me,” he said, “that the woman you have raved about as a result of your inherent, deep devotion and admiration for her, isn’t at the forefront of your mind at the moment? If she was, would you not be spending every waking moment with the police? And - it’s hardly your choice anyway. You were present at the moment of the crime, I would have thought they would be hounding you for every scrap of information. But instead you - and you also, Bernadette - are sitting idly in an office, reminiscing. You were both witness to her getting shot. And yet here you are,” he stared at Collette. Radiant. “I don’t understand.”

Bernadette laughed easily, “Why, my thought was we would be privy to an interview. Unless this is going in the interview, in which case, it isn’t quite what I had envisioned you would be setting out to write, Mr. Hartley.”

“If you’re not satisfied by my line of questioning, you can write the article yourself,” Hieronymus said.

“I would never go back on my word. You have the floor. I simply think you are trying to stray us from the point of the interview.”

“Then stray we shall,” he said, an edge in his voice raising like a flint through chalk. “I don’t care how busy an actress you are, with all you’ve postulated about your very genuine adoration for the Nightingale, you would drop everything to assist the police. Not to do so is surely an insult to her. So why haven’t you?”

“If only one can have everything accessible to help, yes.” Collette answered, unfazed. “Should I have the information of the perpetrator, would I tell it to the police in length? I would. And should I have continue to hound the police, if that would open their mouths eventually, even though it would mean stopping their investigation? I can, certainly, but I would rather they question the people who have actually witness something and conduct searches instead of answering my questions constantly. I am an actress, and I don’t have the talent of interrogating or questioning, nor conducting investigation better than the police. Of course, if I do have the talent of the journalists at Capers like yourself, perhaps I would. For now I trust the police to do their duty. “

Then, changing her stance, she kept on with a slightly different, but not less challenging tone. Her gaze insisted on him, her smile persist, and her voice came to met his strength like silk-coated blades.

“Or, should I have cried constantly over her wounds? Should I linger at the station and wait for the answer that wouldn’t come? Should I have tears flowing down my cheeks right now, and woefully spout words against the one who hurt her? I can, but I chose not to. If that is what Olympia wanted and expected, I might. But this isn’t. Even if it makes for a better story on papers or magazines or tongues. My feeling won’t change no matter what I do. I wait for her recovery, and wait for the police to find the gun man, and rather than dwelling what I couldn’t do, I chose to focus on what I can.”

“Did that answer your question, Mr Hartley?”

She smiled, despite the edges she returned.

“Answers?” he echoed. He shook his head slightly, then continued, his tongue fuelled smoothly by thoughts of Talon’s heartache battle to find answers for his own tragedy. “Alas, you didn’t answer the question. Forget the police, you make it clear they don’t matter. But you just now implied you were doing what Olympia wanted you to do. And that you would do nothing she didn’t want you to do. So what is it? What are you doing to assist her?”

“Well, that is an interesting question, like all of your questions, now I think of it. “ Taking the teapot, she filled his cup again, and blinked to him appreciatively. “I have assist her during this event just as much as I have assisted her prior to the event. You may argue that is not very much at all. A heart’s wish is always grander than the hands can reach. And my hand…”

She took the tong, and placed a biscuit on his plate.

“I alone can only reach so far, regrettably. “

His eye followed the tongs as she manipulated them while answering but, as she spoke, his eye moved up to her fingers, her wrist, her arm, shoulder, jaw, lips, eyes. She was being vague. But then, she had leapt into a veil of vagueness as soon as he’d begun pressing. Every time he tried to rip a layer off her to see what she was all about, another presented itself. He was done with this one-sided waltz of petticoats. He sighed as she dictated how much tea he would take, which biscuit would crumble over his lip. But he played along. He drank while assessing her conduct. It was veils all the way down. There was, however, one subject she was raw on, and that was her admiration for the actress. Although it was ground well-trod in the interview at this point, it was something he had to use.

“So,” he put down the teacup and ran a hand across his hair, smoothing it, “you mean to say that the Nightingale is as much a sum of her parts - that’s you - as she is her own entity. I would assume, then, that her other ‘parts,’ as I have termed it, are her family. How do you and her family come into creating her persona, and securing her the title she has earned?”

He, of course, meant the title of ‘Nightingale’ but, beside him, the Naiad nodded. It was mostly to his line of questioning, pleased he had got back on track. But part of her was amused that his question could related to not just her surface title, but the other one that pinpointed her in Cassiopia.

“How we helped creating her persona… Have you ever talk to her family in person? Andy, and her children?”

“I spoke with Mr. Carlyle a few years ago while co-writing a comprehensive of Klokklsby. For the tourists, you know. Her children though, ah…” his eye wandered while he considered whether to lie or not. It was true had not talked to the son. But Ruth? Ah, Ruth. He decided to concede the truth though. There was nothing he could lie about if he was becoming irritated at the film-star’s veils. Plus, he respected Ruth to the point where he wouldn’t hide their discourse. “Not the son, I have only heard about him through various means. The daughter though, Ruth, yes I’ve met her. Good brain. I would deeply hope her potential as a woman and tinkerer will be honed. She could change Cassiopia if she wanted. Definitely has the pride to do so. Anyway. How do they support the Nightingale’s persona? Her family, you from a rival family… what do you do that helps her tick?”

“I like your thoughts on Olympia’s daughter. Andy and Ruth are two of the most significant smiths, and the very personality of Klokklsby. The Nightingale, quoting some papers, she is the personality of Soso theatre and the Cassiopia surrounding it. Andy and Olympia complement and support each other in their perspective fields. As Ruth took on some of her father’s work, they and Norberto are, I imagined, all she needed when she was herself. “ Observing Hieronymus and Bernadette’s behavior, Collette took a sip of tea herself, mirroring him. “The Nightingale is there, however, mostly due to Olympia’s own effort. Have you seen her performance in the play where she got her name? ‘The caged bird’, a play based on the story of the emperor and the bird nightingale. She performed brilliantly at the final act as her song chased away the reaper. We actually had discuss about the play, contemplated on the songs, but seeing it at the backstage when she was in the feather crown and presenting the melody to the audience was indescribable. Well, I may have gone off track. You were asking if I had contribute to Nightingale. I would say not much. But we are both passionate about theatre, and though I am most humble she had expressed her appreciation my skills too. So, I’d like to think we inspire each other in works and in personal life. We often share our views about scripts and performance and how to perfect it. “

Hieronymus was back to writing in his notebook, but the flint’s edge was still present just below the surface. He harvested the sentences of importance from Collette’s words, electing to follow the wishes of his colleague and the Nightingale’s colleague, and write the article he had been thinking of the whole time. It was clear anything else, any ulterior motive he had, whatever it was, was doing nothing but raising tensions and eyebrows at his expense. What was he thinking anyway? The idea planted in his head by Ruth was becoming too bothersome. The secret club, and suddenly anyone being remotely vague was connected to it. Still, it wasn’t a wild thing to believe. The issue was that his speaking with her had yielded nothing but defensive positions, and her ire. Not to mention, Bernadette’s defence of her against him was problematic for him. The three - Bernadette, Collette, Olympia - were a trio of sorts. Travelling together to a pub. Bernadette locking him out of a discussion with the Nightingale. Bernadette defending Collette.

His hand moved and his mind collected. He could bring up a thousand words that might reveal to him exactly what he wanted to know. Or they could make Bernadette and Collette raise their eyebrows. He was already blowing subtlety out of the water.

“I knew of the Nightingale’s influence all over Cassiopia, of course. You can’t ignore her. Not in this city. Her very name brings people here. You could say the theatre’s name, it wouldn’t turn a head. You could say the theatre owner’s name. Same issue. But say ‘Olypmia Carlyle,’ or ‘the Nightingale’... she brings people here. And it works the other way, if I heard you correctly, and observed accurately. I daresay… and here’s a headline for you: if you know her, you know Cassiopia. True?” he smiled very slightly.

“Mr Hartley, that is a lovely title. “ Collette replied. “She can represent Cassiopia and its spirit, because she was devoted to it just as much as the stage. She is a proud inhabitant of Cassiopia, and I trust that we can all relate. “ Then, what would that bullet be? The man behind the very person they say represent Cassiopia? The thought creeped Collette’s mind, but too aware of the journalist to show its voice.

“It should capture the attention of fans, tourists, even a cold-hearted businessman,” Bernadette said, her tone being quietly praising as she stole Hieronymus’ biscuit. “And if the content’s as good as the title, you’ll have done her image proud.”

“It will be.” Hieronymus flipped through the pages of his notebook, passing the one on which were words only his eye was trained to read. The others held neat but fast caligraphic memoirs that would serve to aid his recollection of the details when the article was being penned. “Needs to have pride of place to reflect her own pride of place. It’ll be the article people come to when someone asks who she is. An encyclopaedia of intimate metaphor. Unless there is anything especial you wish to tell me, we’ll take our leave. Kept you occupied for… quite long enough, Miss Holst.”

He looked at her with expectation behind his eyes. Head tilted slightly to one side, flipping the pen between his fingers as if it were a sport, his lips forming their usual, subtle pout. Bernadette chewed the biscuit beside him while awaiting his decision, and hers.

“It was no problem at all, Mr Hartley. “ Collette smiled warmly. “I myself can’t think of anything to add, but we can always wait till Olympia recover and add her voice to your pen. Won’t you stay until we finish the tea, though?” She looked at both of them, gesturing to the treats and the pot of tea barely touched.

“Well. I suppose I haven’t got anything to take care of at home, except for my son who I lost in Klokklsby this morning. Massive oversight. He could be anywhere.”

“Do you need to go search for him?”

“No, he’s 18, he’s street-smart. Much more than I am. You could drop him in the middle of Lake Park and he’d find his way home. Drop me in the middle of Lake Park, I’d drown.”

“I’m sure you’d find your way to some establishment or another?” Bernadette mused. “Soso’s gentleman’s streets maybe.”

Collette seemed to be quite amused. “Which one is your favourite, I wonder. If they allow drenched customer.”

“I don’t… well, it rains often enough and people still go into those places. Perhaps that’s how the steamy atmospheres get started. But anyway I don’t have a favourite. Perhaps the youthful Mr. Hartley did, but I will preserve his right to privacy. No one wants to hear about him… good god no.”

“Yes,” Bernadette retained an air of sophisticated playfulness as she crossed one leg over the other and retrieved her teacup. “Do you remember how the… youthful Mr. Hartley spilled an entire filing cabinet down the stairs in the archives department?”

“Of course. The fool spent all day collecting up his mess.”

“How… young, was Mr Hartley when it happened? Did you just started out?” Taking her own cup, the blonde asked with a playful curiosity. “How long have you two been working as a journalists actually? I feel like I heard both of your names for… Well, almost my entire career.”

Now that they became informal, she allowed a bright chuckle and for the first time of the night, a biscuit.

“How young? Oh, please, you’ll make me bashful. I wasn’t yet Head Journalist. I certainly didn’t please anyone except the researchers that day. How they laughed. Like cattle, I tell you. I must have been… oh, how old, Bernadette?”

“26, I believe. You’d just become a team editor.”

“Oh, no, I remember. Dr. Ashley’s face. Ahh… any… anyway, that was youthful Hieronymus. Completely different man. Clean-shaven. Less… formidable,” he pronounced the last word with a French lilt.

“You have redeemed yourself since then. Though, if I can tell the girls here about it they would love it. I suspect they might already know…” She searched the words that had been drilled into her head through the thin walls of Soso. 26? So that should be… Eight years ago? What was she doing then? “I think I was exploring career at that time, and I had made a mess at the set posing a model. It was the combination of a new intern and my ignorant of the equipments. So I tripped on the wires mistaking it was the tree roots prop. Took about an hour to free me, and the cameraman was hugging the camera the entire time. “

“Well now, looks like we both have traded some of our worst occupational moments. Although I am sure Bernadette will argue I’ve done much worse.”

Bernadette was on another biscuit and gently shrugged, “You skirted the boundaries of the law, if we put it nicely. Put it realistically, and you have broken the law.”

“Oh hush. I’m no criminal. Can’t stick to the law all the time anyway. Things get hopelessly boring otherwise. Surely you’ve done things that are beyond the law yourself. Or you, Collette. It’s an amnesty in here, a confessions box.”

“The most I’ve done is speed, Mr. Hartley, yet I never got a ticket. Hardly comparable to your knack for lying. Or your addiction to that dictaphone of yours. I won’t say more to save you the embarrassment,” Bernadette saw the smile in his eyes falter for just a second as she sipped from her teacup. He then surprised her by letting out a high, mirthful chuckle.

“Well, there are my sins laid flat,” he said, gesturing to his colleague. “You do keep an eye on me. Any sins of your own, Miss Holst, you’d like to confess? Done any youthful skulking around Lily Street in Soso yourself?”

“I hope I am not hopelessly boring for you, Mr Hartley. I did wander the Lily street, as you said, but only to visit friends. The girls here often do performances at weekends at the more esteemed location, the burlesque club especially fond. Then there is… “ She lowered her voice with a mischievous look. “well, careless midnight strolls through gardens when I was much, much younger? But nothing significant, I imagine, to yours?”

“You seem to know the tricks of Soso. I should expect that of someone who walks the better streets every day… and my own exploits there are writ in a chapter of my story that’s long closed. Time and tricks taught me there’s more to life, and love, than collapsing behind a hawthorn bush with your three-hour-lover and engaging in your joint twilight sin,” Hieronymus said, blinking in a brief mist of reminiscence. “Now I’d much rather spend a three-year affair with someone… so the collapsing behind the hawthorn bush means something. And you can’t have a spontaneous fit of passion without the midnight air and vigilant glow of a streetlight in the gardens, can you?”

“I must confess that the charm of hawthorn bush had elude me with these years. Perhaps one need to be more actively in search for the more poetic affairs? But I can understand the allure of midnight walks, and if one can, sink into a passion that one could see the world through a different lens. “ With curious eyes Collette examined Hieronymus Hartley, absorbing all that she could remember and save it for later considerations.Then, as if to consider the other person, turned to Bernadette. “Or, have a loving commitment that one could cherish. “

“That’s the point,” Hieronymus said, looking away to adjust his mask. He looked back at her after a second with hard-eyed attraction. “You don’t quite understand why someone would do that until it happens. And when it does, well! I won’t spoil it…” he picked up his teacup, smiled coyly into it as he drained it.

“I have to say, I never had a hawthorn bush moment, but I did date and marry late,” Bernadette said. “My courtship of, and subsequently being courted by, my wife was all very romantic because of that. Never underestimate the companionship of romance or intercourse, even.”

“Haven’t heard you speak so brashly, Mrs Horowitz,” Hieronymus said. “I mean, the word ‘intercourse?’ That’s practically swearing for you.”

“Just how I was raised,” she said. “Every word matters.”

“Of course. Especially when I write that article. Every word will have to earn its place.”

“Words matter here. Every word in a script is well considered, every word in a poem valued, every word in a song carried only if necessary. No doubt for journalist is the same. And I’m happy to hear that, of course. I hope I didn’t make your wife wait for you.” Collette looked at the clock.

Bernadette nodded, “ It is getting very late. Although Hobby will still be up. She’s been reading into a New Neptune charity she wants to donate to, it keeps her up half the night. We should allow you your privacy for the night too, my dear,” Bernadette stood up and moved over to her, exchanging a goodbye in cheek-kisses while Hieronymus arranged his jacket, filling one pocket with the notebook and the inside one with the pen.

When he had Collette’s attention, he dipped his torso solemnly to her. “Many thanks for your patience with me,” he said. “I do hope you will entertain my presence in the future. And please… let me know what you feel about the article when it is published. It is evident you see her in a different light than anyone else does. If you could help me see even just a single ray of that light I’d be very grateful.”

Collette exchanged a look, quickly before she and Bernadette pulled away. Her eyes signaled towards the Liar in an angle only Bernadette could see. “You should keep an eye on him”, that brief exchange said. She trust that Bernadette would have understood without that gesture.

Then, to Hieronymus himself, Collette returned the farewell courteously. “I hope I did help over the millions of articles and even more people who kept watch over the Nightingales. Your article and all Capers issue always hit the desks of Soso with speed, and if you have any questions…” She said, as she opened the door for them, and gave a slow knock on the wooden door. “You know where you can find me now.”

“First port of call,” Hieronymus said, standing aside for Bernadette. He followed her out as she threw one last gentle smile Collette’s way.



When Bernadette had walked with Hieronymus far enough from Collette’s door, she turned her head to him. He seemed to be pleased with himself although the emotion was veiled by the facade of professionalism he put on. She decided to cut through the facade, to make him see that there were more than simple rules he had to contend with. There were people.

“Hieronymus,” she said, drawing his attention, partially out of surprise for her using his first name. “I do not see it as a professional application of your prowess to begin badgering an interviewee. As soon as the questions you asked became aggressive, and as soon as they left the subject of your interview - that being the Nightingale - it ceased to be an interview in my eyes. It became harassment.”

“What? H--”

“Please do not even try to talk back to me,” she said, her tone level and her eyes more so. “You are not stupid. You knew she would react badly to some things you said, and yet you asked her regardless. Those are not the qualities of any journalist, let alone a Head Journalist at the Cassio-Capers.”

Hieronymus heeded her tone and kept his mouth shut, staring at her until she continued.

“You are already on a tight leash with me because of your dictaphone. Trying to invade anyone’s privacy in such a way is disgusting. There is not a doubt in my mind you did that on purpose. Do not force my hand, Hieronymus, because I am not afraid to either hand over the leash to Dr Ashley, or see you out of the Capers myself.”

The journalist blinked, and the action did a lot. It settled his stance from an active, defensive position to a passive upright one. He made the subtle movement of a head-nod. He almost smiled. “You have every reason to do so. My decorum has been anything but professional. I would not be happy if you did do as you just threatened--”

“It wasn’t a threat, Mr. Hartley. It was a forecast.”

“... As you… forecasted, then… but I would understand. I do understand.”

“You're on a tight leash. One I am holding onto until such time as my mind changes.” Bernadette said. “You have an article to write. You better remind me why Dr Ashley raised you onto that pedestal.”

 

[0stinato]

Hieronymus felt he was staring at a jigsaw with no idea how to put it together. From Ruth's revelation that she felt there was some secret society at work in Cassiopia, he had begun to feel all his suspicions and personal irritations were warranted. The shreds of guilt about recording the Nightingale and Bernadette were fast disintegrating. Bernadette, the Nightingale and Collette... they made up a red light in the depths of his thoughts about Ruth's postulated society.

He let himself into the house: the door was already unlocked, which reassured him Chauntecleer was home. And he was. Sat in the kitchen eating a peanut butter cookie. He looked up at his father when the man came through the archway.

"You want one?"

"Uh... what? Oh, no. Ah... too many biscuits tonight... I've got to think."

"Did you have something on?"

"Impromptu interview."

"With that Talon guy?"

"N... no... forget that, Chaunté." Hieronymus' eyes were fixed on the corner of a pictureframe as he sat down. Chauntecleer looked where he was looking, saw nothing, and looked back. "You did a very good job for me. Well. I don't see it for me at this point. For the city though, definitely."

"What are you on about? Stop being cryptic."

"I'm not sure what I'm on about. That's the problem. What did you do all day?"

"Not much. I found Ferdo in Klokklsby so we did a bit of mischief. Met a tourist. Then I went and sold some stuff."

"How illegal was it?"

Chauntecleer scowled down at his plate. "No more illegal than making me pose as someone I'm not."

"You posed as a friend of a person. And who can measure friendship... I don't know if you can measure friendship. Camaraderie sure. Why it breaks and why it remains, what keeps it remaining, and what sparks it in the first place."

Chauntecleer looked up, realising the conversation was no longer ready to include him. His father's eyes were pale, half-closed, and still staring at that painting edge. The words his father spoke were vocal externalisations that Chauntecleer realised he was leagues away from answering. Still, neither was it a surprising thing to experience. His father often lapsed into small words of question-marks. He allowed himself to be a radar dish for his father's musings by nodding and saying, "maybe" when the situation called for it, as he finished the cookie.

"I'm going to bed," he said, passing Hieronymus and patting his shoulder. "Don't injure yourself thinking."

"Yeah... goodnight Chaunté..."

He didn't stay in the kitchen long. Five minutes thinking got his mind to pull in the information he'd gathered, orbiting around the hypothesis of a secret society. Bernadette featured heavily. She pushed him out of an interview he'd brought him along to so she could talk to the Nightingale alone. And she'd jumped to the defence of his interviewee today when she was being horribly vague, impossibly vague. Plus, her forecast of discipline upon his head if he stepped out of line was playing on his mind. The fear of her following through on that promise might have inspired that. However, he felt there was something more to it than simply disciplining him for being a little out of order. He shuddered at the thought.

And what else? he wondered as he retreated to his bedroom. The fact that she, the Nightingale and Collette were at The Old Theatre. Of all the pubs in all of Cassiopia, The Old Theatre was not the one he would expect the women - especially not the Nightingale - to grace unless there was a reason. It just squatted in an awkward place, rotting at the seams, slowly dying as the economy surfed across it and ignored it. He knew that pub. He'd written about it. He'd investigated its every corner, interviewed its landlord, sample its beer. His conclusion?

"... The Old Theatre pub has lost its charm to all those who don't sense its value and history."

He didn't see Bernadette appreciating its history. She had eyes for the lands beyond the city. For other cities. She brought them into Cassiopia through the newspaper and made them her own. And what of Collette and the Nightingale? It was hardly a fitting film set, nor was its history particularly dipped in honey and scandal. What the two actresses saw in it was anyone's guess. But, in Hieronymus' mind, they orbited that growing suspicion that there was something he didn't know about. Secret society.

He settled on his bed after arranging the television on his chest of drawers, and began to undress for the night slowly. His mind was clanking away slowly piecing together information. His heart wanted a distraction. He was willing to give it that distraction. He selected a particular film, one he had been reminded of while interviewing the actress earlier. Talking about her history as an actress, as a Holst, seeing the posters of silent films on the walls and finally how her voice had been received into his mind, Hieronymus felt he wished to know her more.

The Prodigy, a film he had seen years ago. It had impacted him more than he assumed it would, seeing as, at the time, the themes of the film were standing alongside the themes he worried about as a parent to an adopted son. The child in the film, Zachary, moved through the world as a marvel, a savant. With his mind attuned to logic so strongly, he admired his father's work in AI technology. And yet, with a mind so honed on the understanding of the language of binary, code and artificial learning, Zachary failed repeatedly to blend in with any crowd. It was miles away from Hieronymus' own worries for his son, those being whether Chauntecleer would fill the shoes an ordinary boy needed to fill to walk in the world, but the teachings in the film were the same.

He watched, letting his unconscious mind simmer over the suspicions and stress of his assumptions as he leaned sleepily against the headboard of his bed. He wore wireless headphones so as not to disturb Chauntecleer's rest across the way, so it meant he could hear ever comma in the actors' lines.

While he was watching, he felt his eye wandering away from the screen, distractedly searching for something static to latch onto while he thought. He wondered why. The actors were good. The film was a careful, quiet piece that didn't cater for the masses. It was a story worth telling, not a money-maker. And yet he was distracted. The boy's awareness of his own differences had, years ago, brought a pain to this throat. Now it roused only a close sense of uncertainty. Zachary didn't know what he was missing in his ability to interact with others. Hieronymus didn't know what he was missing to uncover a truth he knew was there.

The ringlets were his spiral into this obsession, he supposed, as he followed the blond hair with his steady pupils down past her jaw, neck, then to the shoulders, rounded beneath a cotton shirt. Behind her, words connecting the covers of books to their stories, accounts or lives, but they were out of focus, either to the camera's lens or his own eye's choice. She stood before them, speaking, on the screen to the boy - whoever he was - but right into the ear of the man watching the film - whoever he was - through his headphones. He stared but knew she would never make eye contact - how could she? - so he gave up and closed his eyes, allowing his one other sense to overpower him. She spoke but it was music. She spoke to the other people in the scene and talked about books and archives, and when she exited the scene for the boy and the father to converse, the man watching opened his eyes and missed her shape.

He breathed and was lightheaded for a second, his reverie broken by her absence. He took off the headphones, not willing to pollute the memory of her voice and closed his eyes to the screen. He tried to remember her lines, but he hadn't listened to them. He'd only heard them. What he'd listened to was her timbre, the position of her speech, the way her breath fell into certain words. He remembered something else though. Words he had listened to rather than heard. When the voice didn't matter but the words did.

He was up quicker than he anticipated, practically running, half-dressed, through the high-ceiling rooms of the house. He dodged the armchair on his storm through the living room, breezed past the kitchen table and into his study, where he closed the door with a shove of his hand, his momentum only ending when he arrived at his computer. In only a minute it was awoken, and his fever was confirmed.

He could finally put names to the voices.

Nightingale: "The truth is, I have a girl who was close to me. Just recently she courted a boy from the capital, and she wanted an advice. Who better than the editor in the capital to ask for help?”

Collette Holst: “I found this…”

Bernadette Horowitz: “Well well. I wonder whose this is. Is it… recording? Where did you find it?”

Collette Holst: “Beside the door… Against the skirting board, Madam. I’m not familiar with this, so I’m not sure whether it is on or off.”

Nightingale: “I believe you will be the best person to … Entrust it to. “

He collapsed into his desk chair, Bernadette's actions making sense to him, from the distant past ones to the ones now. She had hushed him when it came to writing of Orell Marlow the Messenger back then. And just this week, she had made sure he was excluded when she, the Nightingale and Collette spoke. Their conversation never did revolve around what Bernadette said it did. Women's underwear? No. It explained Bernadette's heightened awareness of him, of wanting to speak to the Nightingale and Collette in private. It explained why the three of them had run off to a dying pub - privacy. Secrecy. And secrecy was the word when it came to considering the society that Ruth had been talking about.

 

[Osthavula]

"I saw a man..."

"Hoodie. Plain and simple. "

"Drunk, miserable..."

"Tall, a bit wide..."

"Tattooed arm, skinny jeans... "

"Too quick to see..."

"But what if that's the shape of his weapons?"

"The couple..."

"The bartender..."

"I swear I saw!"

With the fifth nod, Norberto gave a dismissive agreement to the man talking gibberish to him. The man had more interest in talking ridiculous tales instead of remembering the actual scene. If anything was credible in his witness, the in flesh details of the couples making out near the back door was described in the most graphic detail. But Norberto didn't need this man to tell him that. He just took statements from the very same couple, rolling on a silk sofa where burnt opium ashes used to scatter on the white vines of threads. They simply refused to be parted just because of an attempted-assassination investigation.

As for the assumption of large guns hidden in the shirt, that was not quite right. Without much effort, the police gathered four bullet casings and determined that it was an unregistered small pistol. The two holes the missed bullets hit told very little tale that they didn't know. The man was tall, Mrs Horowitz said so. And that is more reliable than anyone he had questioned so far.

Feeling a call, Norberto instinctively turned around to see Constable Stiglitz stood beside the dirty bum sleeping at the root of the Inn. Compare to hours ago, however, he looked more alive. That is, from the heaving shoulder between the girls who just walked in front of him, and the occurrence of what looked like the end of a dirty mop through another family who was ignorant of his steady footsteps.

Stiglitz nodded and went in another direction, leaving to meet his patrol schedule.

"You want to ask." A Hiccup. The beggar jerked hideously with his upper torso, bottom hidden in a pile of newspaper. "You want to ask something. "

"Did you see anything the day Nightingale got shot?"

"...Officers... Hmm?"

The beggar looked at him as if his words were incomprehensible. Normally, that was a good enough reason to walk away. But with his usual code and his injured mother in mind, Norberto squat down to his level, and patiently asked again. "Did you see anything on the day the shooting happen? You were here, yes?"

"...Ah, ah. I was here. " He grinned, teeth missing and tongue peeking out from the windows. "There. "

He pointed to the opposite of where the back door was. After his index finger waved and had directed to almost all directions in between. But, it was a hope, since it was a good location to spot the shooter. So what did you see? The good son asked.

Not that he was answered fast. The guy swooned like one would with lack of food and warm weather. Then, after Norberto asked the second time, he talked again. "It's a weird guy. He has those... You know, face paint that you would get with Hallowmas?"

"Face paint?"

"Yeah. Like those skeleton ones. "

Another lost details. Norberto thought. To reward Stiglitz's wait, however, Norberto scribbled down the point. A face paint like that would have been obvious, and the others should have noticed it. One witnesseven thought it was a female he was looking for. Thanking the street bum this constable turned and started walking back, analysing the clues again. Male, for certain. Tall, may be wide. Casual hoodie, was not in a business suit. Might... Uh, have face paint. Owner of a small pistol or more, came shoot four times and escaped through the same door, without even stepping in or cleaning up. Camera suspiciously was out of power as well as the Inn itself. No one reported the problem as they just lighted candles.

Little to go with, but something to go with.

But what more can he do? He couldn't just sit around in the office. Having his leathery shoe follow his other one, he strode through the streets of Cassiopia, the clean the dirty the candlelight. They thrived still no matter if his mother wouldn't walk them. Unrest. Unsettled. There must be more. More. More to do. More to go on. More than just the son of Carlyle can achieve.

Another time he was stopped. Stopped short by a gentle tug on his sleeves, and he recognised purely by memory that it was who again. Dark-haired maiden in a glittering dress and long gloves looked at him wide-eyed. "Stop. " She said, gentle voice trying to drill into his numb senses. "Where are you going?"

Then the trumpet was heard with the laughter and perfumed songs, as well as clanging glasses and shuffling legs of the maidens. The deeper place of Cassiopia where the officials like to stop by. When had the sky turned this harrowing blue too? The fiancee looped her arm around his but led him like good-willed Cheshire. The labyrinth of lust soon got left behind. When they look back, it still waved and lured like a lantern fish in its hunting grounds.

"Why were you there, Norberto?"

"I... I don't know. "

"Please, go back home. We have things to discuss. "

"No, if you ..."

No objection was accepted. A strength never once produced in the young girl he knew suddenly was enough to pull this starved and frankly helpless man. This walk in the dusk remained completely quiet, until the humming house stood once again before constable Carlyle. Not the front door where the shop was, no. The main door at the back obeyed Lorretta's directions, and this time almost welcomed him in a buttered swirl.

"Ruth, Talon. We need to talk. "

And before he knew, she won't let him escaped. Her graceful fingers locked firmly on his.

 

[0stinato]

Antolij had been pulling strings.

Although a more accurate descriptor would be that he was teasing strings. From his own pocket, he'd paid faces and unknown voices of criminals. He had used the phrase, "Half now, half when it's done. And I will know when it is done," a lot while preparing. He had sent his loyals around Cassiopia and Klokklsby as his eyes. He had arranged a wave and a killing.

Skullface was not on his radar for now. He had the guy by the neck but using him would be sloppy. Skullface had spoken words with more weight than he realised. He'd helped Antolij perfect his hand. The wave was to be carried out on command - the kill could happen any time during the night. It was unimportant. The person was also unimportant: a news presenter who lived in Klokklsby. A voice in Klokklsby, but an unimportant name.

The push was to come from Cassiopia proper and directed at Klokklsby - but there was a second, subtle push beneath the first.

The pushes were coming in three forms. The first was burglary. Tacticians, expensive groups of thieves from the Crook and Shot underground would provide that. The second was terrorism. Minor terrorism, singling out individuals and vandalism. The final push was that murder. Unprovoked, out of nowhere. That was the good thing about hitmen - there was no motivation.

Without motivation it was hard to discern why, and therefore, how and who.

It was 10pm when Antolij began the process of things. Every burglar knew what he was doing, every vandal knew what he was doing, and the hitman knew how to prepare himself.

The burglaries started off small. Professional nighttime jobs of picking locks and quiet room-clearing soon turned into chains and chains of robberies. The vandals did their work, taking down powerlines and, in one instance, disrupting a major water pipeline. Minor fires were set and vehicles tampered with. Klokklsby's persona was being disintegrated bit by bit.

The hit was carried out at 1:52am, as Antolij got the message at 2:52am that it was done. In the meantime, he had been keeping a close eye - through his people - on how his push towards a certain area in Cassiopia was going.

Two upper-class houses near Lake Park were in the process of being 'used' during the night. While Antolij had visited the dwelling where Edna had resided, influencing the modern house with every kind of sloppy behaviour and general detritus, he had seen how Edna put that stamp on the house. And it didn't have to be a one-off. What if it happened more than once? A serial 'using' of houses, the origin having its roots in Edna?

Any investigation would lead to her. It was where the 'usings' started.

He wasn't about to press her. It wouldn't work.

So he was teasing what he had the power to do by bringing a hint of trouble her way. Should she react, he had aces up his sleeve.

One was Skullface, a hitman who was hard to hire simply because he didn't draw attention to himself. The highest-priced hitmen made themselves obvious while staying anonymous when looking. Skullface didn't require as much payment. But his record was practically spotless.

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[div class="Current ImagButton" style="Margin-left:15px;"]SKULLFACEActive Hitman - Class-B

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[div class="Tags hidden" style="margin-left:5px;"]Interacting: @tag
Mentioned: @ Tag
Located: Location; Action
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FOR-HIRE PORTFOLIO

-- Disclaimer: To protect the anonymity of every Class-E Criminal and above, certain information is encrypted. Such information will be replaced at the jurisdiction of Crook-&-Shot and will not be given out upon request. --

"Skullface" is a Class-B Hitman with a track record: AB7-02-02-B.

All weapons "Skullface" uses are supplied by Crook-&-Shot

"Skullface" is an efficient Hitman who specialises in public kills. His skills are applicable in almost any public space and therefore is effective in private also. "Skullface" is not restricted by distance and so is advised for any country-wide kill. Distance to the target depends on his kill time. For a hit within the city or a surrounding city, town or settlement, allow for up to three days after confirmation of hiring. For beyond, allow up to two weeks.

The charge to hire "Skullface" for a regular hit is £10,000. 40% of this goes to Crook-&-Shot. See the Expenses and Hits section for information on more Noteworthy targets.

Initiate further contact with Crook-&-Shot to hire.

Crook-&-Shot​

[/div] Original code by AgWordSmith (thank you!) and altered by 0stinato .[/div]

A track record of "AB7-02-02-B" was practically flawless. From all Antolij knew, the first letter was the important one for clients to take note of. The rest was for the organisation themselves. A way to keep an eye on their criminals. Skullface was the only hitman working under £30,000 for a regular hit with an A rating. Of course, given Antolij had hired him to assassinate the Nightingale of all people, the amount he had to pay was increased by 150%. But, as Skullface had failed, Antolij was getting repaid not in the death of the celebrity, but the leash of a hitman.

Antolij did not smile as news of the Klokklsby-wide and Edna-centred crimes were going on. He took every scrap of information on board and hoarded it. Kept it hidden away until it was time to use it.

Osthavula

 

[Osthavula]

Who measures the time passing? Well, one only need stepping out of the boundaries of their homes to take a gander of that clock tower. But if someone turned all the clocks back by one minute, what happens then? Do the time remain the same? Or would they acknowledge that time had turned back? If time is so easily tilted, then, would the time he was looking at mattered?

Because if Talon just tilts his eyes towards any direction by the tiniest margin, another clock face would come into his field of sight. It would look different, the needle of different length, different direction, even might be a different pace. Some of them were regular clocks, some of them timed, some of them barely in any unit. His bottom rest on the only thing not ticking, but it was a chair made of an abandoned pendulum clock. His mind was gravely distracted by the clocks moving differently, and let the panic of uncertainty drown him before he shook it off. The clocks didn't stop ticking, but his attention now found them an excuse to return to the girl tinkering about a meter away from him.

"Ruth."

"Shh."

She dismissed him. In the first ten minutes of his wait, Talon found looking at her awkward and perhaps rude, but as hours passed by, that shyness went away. He began to look long at her, to the outline of every feature of her face; to the nifty fingers moving along the metallic tools and coloured wires; to the fashion he was so unfamiliar with, the leather corset strapped tight around her waist, same felt that wrapped around the shoulder into a tight jacket, the black lace lining the shapes further, and the white linen at the chest and sleeves; and finally back to her hair curled and tired neatly, and her expression illuminated by the little gas lamp she placed in front of her. She breathed and she manoeuvred her eyes to the meticulous task in front of her. She would not notice his attention. He nearly didn't, either.

"Ruth. Talon. We need to talk. "

Since both of them didn't mutter a word, the voice could easily be heard. But what it did was, it finally called the time to stop flowing so confusingly. Ruth nodded and he understood. Avoiding moving anything on the floor, he carefully hopped across the room, took the small spiral stairs and pulled down the latch. The door on the wall opened, revealing a beautiful maiden and Norberto standing in front. The two boys looked at each other, shocked and confused, but the flapper girl greeted quickly and pulled the police downstairs, giving no time for explanations.

Then down to the basement they went, where it seemed to be a large workshop. There was a smithing corner, with boxes and buttons and latches arranged tightly together; the storage corner, like where Talon was sitting, but it extended to much more, including hanging tools and elaborate set up of mechanics; and in the centre of the room to the very far corner of the basement, it is now laid with metal sheets and bolts and wirings. Norberto looked at the object Ruth was working on and raised his brow in question. "Is that... A computer?"

Ruth looked at her brother. "Why is he here, Lorretta?" She asked the other girl.

"I found him at the Du Barry District. "

Not someplace Talon recognised, but he noticed Norberto turning his face away, and Ruth replied defiantly.

"So what if he was there?"

"It is where the officials visit. There is an unvoiced agreement. If any police were caught patrolling there, they have risks of being challenged or even losing their job. "

"Oh. "

Then, dramatically, Ruth had an apprehensive look as she examined her brother, and point to the chair.

"Do you want to sit down?"

Norberto begrudgingly looked at his little sister and looked at his childhood friend sternly guarding him, and even the stranger who somehow was allowed in their secret basement. There was no room allowed for him to even explain or argue. Inside the fatigue and worries crumbled into him, as he crumbled into the soft hands guiding him to the docking chair. Lorretta's usually gentle eyes did not leave him even as her tight grasp finally released him.

A breath. And another.

The sound of metal on metal continued.

Norberto lifted the rim of his fedora, slightly, now taking another good look of Ruth and Talon. They had grown close, it was obvious. But it didn't occur to him that his sister could have any chance of being romantic, nor that any such things would happen to lead to Talon being in this space and time. "So, why are you here?"

"He is one of us. " Ruth answered.

"One of us?"

"He didn't register, but he is the son of the Messenger. We thought it is better to keep him away from the official log. I'd kill you if you leak this, of course. "

"... Alright. So why are you building a computer?"

"Well, if he is going to be useful..." She raised a screwdriver to point at the long-haired boy. "He needs a computer. He seems to know the Oriyon computer. "

"I thought that one worked before..."

"It's old, and I didn't need it. He needs an updated one, so I'm still figuring out... Hey, look in here. " She waved Talon over, and as the boy looked inside the box she had been tinkering, he showed a look mixed of surprise and appreciation. "Is there anything I need to fix?"

"It's very different. I think over there..."

"Can't do that, that's actually used for monitoring your activities. "

"Oh, then how about there, it needs this..."

"That's... I can work something but not nicely. "

"Can't you find a newer model and scavenge the parts?"

"I'm not looking to build an exact same one, silly. It will take too long for me to figure out what to throw out and what to bypass. Once they notice us we are screwed. "

"What are you looking for, anyway?"

The two looked at the brother in unison. "The Messenger, of course. "

"You plan to find his files?"

"Unless you have a better idea."

"It's covered very well even in police archives."

"You read it?"

"I read it. Someone came looking for you from the station, said he was a friend and was looking for you. Did someone come by?"

"Hieronymus Hartley. "

"Hieronymus...Ah. " With realisation, Norberto finally smiled. "It's his son then, or some other kid he sent. No editors speak of the Messenger so casually, unless they need a very grave message. "

Talon shifted uncomfortably, the importance of his father still felt distanced from his reality, but every mention of the Messenger only confirmed it to the place of defying all denials.

"What did Liar Hartley want?"

"I hinted him, of Editors. "

"You... What did you do?!"

"We need allies, Norberto, if you didn't notice! We are alone in this!" Ruth practically shouted back, a long wrench waving threateningly in her right hand. "What about you! Where even were you!"

"I was looking for the man shooting our mother!"

"Well then look harder! What did you find anyway? A lousy bum on the street? "

"And you are here hiding with a boy to find out about some deadman, putting all our secrecy aside, and you think you did better than me?!"

"STOP, BOTH OF YOU." Before the argument can get any more heated, Lorretta stepped in between them. "Mrs Carlyle is recovering in the hospital. You need to work together for this. "

"It's not of your business. "

The words slipped too quickly and recklessly, and before the voice hit the floor and walls the policeman had already regretted it. He didn't miss that glint of tears in the maiden's eyes, or the rouge on her cheek bloomed in blood red. He had failed to slip an apology before the maiden spoke again. "I am here with you and your family, Norberto. I hope you will at least know that. And I want Mrs Carlyle to recover quickly too. Bickering won't help. Please, just work together this time. "

These words had finally successfully softened the long-arguing pair, as they returned to their position respectively, and started to wordlessly avoid each other's gaze. They began, in low and solemn voices, discussed the recent events and about the equipment they needed and on possible allies to recruit. An hour passed, and another. Then they were interrupted. By a ring, and another. Hesitantly, Norberto took the notifying device from his pocket. It gave another ring. And another.

"That's... strange."

"What happened?"

"A lot of crimes, happening altogether. In Klokklsby. "

"You should leave then. "

"I will leave with you. " Lorretta followed his steps, but his hand stopped her right there.

"Stay here. " Norberto said to her, and to them. "I can't guarantee your safety. "

With a chest full of questions and firm strides he walked towards the exit, almost missing that faint voice of "stay safe". But in a long time he felt something heavy was off his shoulder. Treacherous times. Treacherous future. But he can't help feeling that he might have gained back his family in the span of a night. He might even, in a way, look forward to what's to come. Before everything might just crash and burn again in the blink of an eye.

 

[0stinato]

People looked but no one spoke as a grey figure walked easily through a shallow pool of clear water. The soles of his shoes created ripples as water clung in the tread, but it was almost as if the water did not follow him. He left only two shoeprints upon stepping out of the water. It was the burst water pipe Braithe had mentioned.

"However he did it," the Czech had said, standing at his mirror while Volkovoi helped him into his suit jacket, "he's making obvious his intentions."

"Over one night," Volkovoi had replied. "So we can't rely on pre-planning."

Braithe had not replied, but had turned back to the mirror to tenderly pick the blond wig from its peg. Volkovoi had stepped away while the Czech put it on. Until it was situated perfectly on his otherwise-bald head, Braithe was silent. He moved it carefully, staring into the mirror from behind his dark glasses. When it was on comfortably, he tightened its main seam, and shifted his head very subtly. Volkovoi could see his face in the mirror, and knew Braithe was looking at him.

"Correct."

Volkovoi hadn't reacted.

As he walked from the burst pipe, however, Volkovoi felt good. It was as if a hand of relief had lifted the knife of inadequacy from his flesh. His conduct as they stood before the Siren and the Smith was unsatisfactory to the Czech. He knew Braithe had not allowed all faith to be restored in him however. But sending him to do this job was a start.

The Jane Clay who Braithe had given his card to had been previously helped out by the keeper of Klokklsby Clock Tower.

Braithe, being who he was, did not surprise Volkovoi by telling him to visit Schoe Sharma. Braithe told him the name and the location of the woman, and that she maintained the clock. Volkovoi, nearing it, gazed up it, adjusting his glasses as he did so. It had the rustic and foreboding appearance of any Klokklsby building. He wondered if the vandals had got the tower. To his eye, there was no structural damage. No window broken, no one had defaced or attacked the shell of the building.

He approached the door, noting the bellpull, and announced his presence by pulling it. He didn't have to wait long at all. It was mere seconds before the door was torn open and sharp eyes began scrutinising him even before she opened her mouth.

"Yes?"

"Schoe Sharma. I'm Yulian Volkovoi. I would like a word with you about Jane Clay. Just a short moment of your time."

Her eyes flickered, but she stood aside, closing the door to the tower as he entered. "You'll have to come downstairs the hard way. Stairs through here. Two flights. I had a break-in. I think whoever did it got angry this door was locked, and they couldn't use the lift so they just broke it. Look at it. It's a mess. It's an absolute mess."

Tools were strewn around, big ones. There was even a welding iron. None of them looked particularly welcome in Klokklsby. The lift had been vandalised though, very obviously so. The floor had been set alight, it seemed like, as there was a charred area right in the centre. The gears that controlled the two winches that let the lift down had been damaged. Pieces had been taken out and the wheel used to turn them had been completely removed. As far as Volkovoi could see, it was nowhere on this floor.

Schoe led him downstairs to her dwelling, which Volkovoi did not comment on despite how impressed he was. She brought him over to a small, cold area where there were just two opposing benches. She sat on one and he on the other.

"Jane Clay, you said," she started, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. I am here simply to say that she is now being looked after, and is recovering in the General where you took her. She will continue to be looked after in the future. Of course, she spoke to you about her link with the Nightingale, so she will be under the Nightingale's protection. It might be a bit difficult to keep contact with her, but should you wish to, I am here to help you arrange that."

"You're not a social worker are you?"

Volkovoi smiled, "No."

"Then I'll organise my own meetings with her. I said I'd make sure she was healthy, I even told her she could come and stay if she was willing to sleep on the floor and organise a way of paying."

"Miss Sharma, I'm not so sure you understand her situation. How exactly are you planning on contacting her, if you had to right now? Immediately?"

Schoe remained silent.

"The only way you could do so is to hope that she is still in the General, and go there to see her."

"You said she's with the Nightingale. I can find Jane through her. And don't say I can't, because I can."

"Then enlighten me."

"I won't. My methods are my own. You won't interrupt them. Nor will you allow me to see Jane - if I want to see Jane, I'll see Jane. That's all. I said I'd make sure she was alright."

Volkovoi smiled again. "Miss Sharma. Why do you want to do as you say? Why do you want to make sure Jane Clay is alright?"

The woman scowled, "Because she wasn't when she came to me."

"You hardly know her, and yet your loyalty to her is staggering."

"So? I'm a loyal person."

It was a lie, and Volkovoi knew it: "Schoe Sharma, the third of the Sharma siblings," Braithe had said. He was speaking in one long breath, so as to deliver the information to Volkovoi as quickly as possible, "and yet the least grateful, highly jealous and with an ego complex that drives her ambition violently forwards."

With that in mind, Schoe could never be loyal. From what Braithe had said, Volkovoi had fished a lot more information out. And since talking to her, he had gained even more.

"If this is what you choose, I won't bother you again."

"Who are you to the Nightingale?"

"An associate of one of her contacts. I speak for the man who owns Soso theatre. He is very concerned about the NIghtingale at the moment, and is offering his own help to her. I am an extension of that help. I am here to make things clean and organised, so that the Nightingale's recovery is not stunted."

It was the truth, delivered not with confidence but with a steady assurance. That was who Volkovoi was and it was how he spoke. Schoe was, once again, silent.

"If that is all, I will take my leave. I see you have much to do."

"I will contact her myself," Schoe said. "And I won't go through you."

Volkovoi stood up. She did not.

"Take the stairs," she said. "Close the doors."

Volkovoi nodded. "As you say," and he went towards the stairs. She did not make a move to follow him or even attempt to be polite enough to accompany him. All of that cemented Volkovoi's inner eye's assumptions on her. They were no longer assumptions - they were personality facts.

He took the stairs, shutting the doors as she had instructed, and let himself out of the clocktower. It had barely been ten minutes. The clock's hand was measuring out time. It ticked as he looked up at it. Another minute.

If there was anything as certain as his thoughts on Schoe, it was what he would report to Braithe: "She'll meet with Jane."

That is all Braithe would need to connect all the dots.

 

[0stinato]

Once there was pressure to write an article for Hieronymus. As team editor - a post equivalent to Francisco Infante's below him - he had been in charge of putting together the final, publishable article. Sometimes it would take three hours of solid work for that to happen. Now, with his years of practice and knowledge of personal editing, Hieronymus didn't even have to try.

But that was on regular articles.

This one was not a regular article. This article carried with it the expectations of two women of status, and would be beheld more highly than any article from Oriyon, or from anyone else's hand. It was the Cassiopia Head Journalist's article on Cassiopia's own Nightingale, to be published in the Cassiopia-exclusive Cassio-Capers. To say there was pressure was nothing less than an understatement.

He knew what he wanted - nay, needed - to say. The question was if it was good enough. He had every glittering passage worked out in his head as he came to them, but when it came to putting pen-nib to paper, that tide of dissatisfaction washed over him. He gripped the pen tighter, he scowled, he gave up several times and smoked on the balcony to calm down.

It was on one such smoke-break that he looked at his notebook. Pitiful little thing. It held humiliating sentences from a younger man who, Hieronymus figured, knew not what he was doing as a journalist. Although that feeling was the usual curse for looking back at the past. Feeling ashamed at oneself. He flipped past those pages, putting his cigarette between his lips as he leaned on the balcony. The notes from his interview with Collette... that transparent-but-opaque Miss Holst. Three pages of pure notation, all of which he could use to piece together quotes and context. Then the next two were dedicated to their locked horns, and got him into trouble with Bernadette. He did not regret taking them. As he looked at his corrupted cursive, he almost felt his mind pulled into the dried ink. Questions began to arise like bubbles--

He flipped the page. Now wasn't the time to wonder. It was the time to work.

Five more pages of notes. Perfect notes, as if that argument had never occurred. It made him smile a little. She'd managed to shut the argument down as quickly as he had started it. And why did he start it? Some nonsense over the police?

He shook his head, took the cigarette from his lips and let the smoke trail from his mouth. It wasn't nonsense. It was a suspicious event. A suspicious event that pointed to exactly what Ruth had said... a secret club. Something was going on in his city, and it took a young woman to tell him. And now he was on the path of assuming her correct, things were making sense. But he couldn't be too hasty.

A laugh escaped him. There he was going, thinking about the wrong thing, again. He took another drag, using it as leverage for his brain, and got his mind back on track to the article.

The Nightingale.

If you know Her, you know Cassiopia

Hieronymus Hartley​

Starting out her mythology in the oppressive setting of the Caged Bird, the Nightingale only soared from there, the play being her open door. Her talent released, her voice heard from her role as a nightingale, it is possible to mark the start of her career of stage- and play-embodiment as the moment she adopted the name of the bird as her title.

The image of the Carlyles is only lifted with their leading voice being that of Olympia Carlyle, 38. A woman who, even in her recent situation, survived with remarkable aplomb for the event. Her demise would have brought about more change in the hearts of Cassiopia citizens, both native and tourist. As she survives, her legacy has its chance to grow ever wider and more inspiring. Unlike the namesake of the Caged Bird, the Nightingale's wings are far from clipped. She remains to sing again, to chase away the obsequious Reaper.

On stage, there is only one Nightingale. Her performance is worth a thousand readings of a play: it has often been said by her fans that one will never truly know a play unless one has seen the Nightingale perform it. There is no sentiment more true - it is hardly subjective, but rather an objective understanding that hangs as freely between the Nightingale's fans as her name does. Her recent performance of the selected Angela Carter stories-made-plays speak volumes on this subject: she became not a Vampiress in the House of Love, but the Vampiress. According to a patron of the theatre, "You couldn't forget her performance even if you had amnesia." While a humorous remark at the time, it is now a sobering hope for anyone who has seen her. To forget a single Nightingale performance is to forget a piece of theatre history, and Cassiopia history. A stark role-swap from where Olympia Carlyle began. To fly from a songbird, ostracised and unhappy in its gaol, to become the leading matriarch who, through a minor glance, captivates every beating heart of an audience is not a miracle. It is a story of success through an actress who earned every camera snap, every letter of her name lending gravitas to a poster and every loving heart. It is all "her own effort," and nothing less.

So too has she earned the respect from many other singers, performers and actors. A rivalry of the stage that goes back generations through the names Carlyle and Holst has changed in this generation. Instead of continuing the trend of rivalry set as fiercely as if it was hereditary, both Holst and the Nightingale give and receive to assist each other. Collette Holst, 30, describes their bond in close-guarded words: "We are both passionate about theatre, and though I am most humble she had expressed her appreciation for my skills too. So, I’d like to think we inspire each other in works."

"Even on stage, I think she never for a moment forgets the audience," continues Holst, whose remark is less simple words and more an experience. One must not forget that the Nightingale is a performer, and a performer must never forget her audience. Through this, the Nightingale always remains as genuine and sober no matter her locus or company. Whether a journalist meets with her just after a performance, or she gifts an autograph to a Klokklsby fan, she gains no facade, nor loses any transparency in her countenance. Holst expressed her gratitude at the Nightingale for being just accommodating to their union as friends as she wished to be. There is nothing more considerate of this once-flaming battle than for both actresses to shake hands over the coals, and promise to stake each other's flames so that their names may both be praised through history.

The Nightingale is an historical figure even though she remains with us. Her brush with her old adversary of the Reaper has done nothing but prepare those hearts who revere her for the worst. Instead of thinking of the worst, her life and accomplishments must be celebrated. In the words of Bernadette Horowitz who, in this context is not a Cassio-Capers Head Journalist, but an admirer and acquaintance of the actress, "It is like asking the stars to cease shining. This is why I feel, even if she was taken from us she would remain as bright as ever."

Carlyle on the set of Manfred, 2175​

This is an important fact to consider. The Nightingale is a part of Cassiopia history both on Soso's stages and Klokklsby's streets. This is undeniable: Cassiopia is the city of entertainment, the city of culture, the city of improvement. The Nightingale is the wicker man for her breed of awe-striking entertainment, a pure messenger of culture, and a nymph of improvement. Holst says that "she can represent Cassiopia and its spirit, because she was devoted to it just as much as the stage. She is a proud inhabitant of Cassiopia, and I trust that we can all relate."

It is more than exact to say that if you know the Nightingale, you know every corner Cassiopia has to offer. If you know her, you know Cassiopia.

The article was scanned into the digital reader and upon the journalist's screen before he felt his heart beating again. He couldn't remember coming inside, not to mention stubbing his cigarette or where he put his notepad, nor could he remember picking up his pen and just writing the article. But yet, it had happened. It was a fog. He had been lucid. The man blinked at his screen, at first his eyes not registering what he was seeing. But yet, there was the title he has promised, above his name. He breathed. He had to trust himself with that.

There was nothing Bernadette could say against that, he felt. It was all he'd said he would write. And to Collette... he couldn't fathom what she might think. Although he had written Collette's name multiple times in the article, it took longer for her to surface in his head. But when he remembered her, it was vivid. Although he still could not imagine what she might think.

However, Hieronymus was not a man to worry about what others thought. If his lucid mind had managed to pen an article, he was going to trust it. It was dedicated to Olympia, and to the silhouette she would leave in history. Not a single "I" pronoun had snuck in by his hand, not one.

He nodded absently to himself, deciding to abandon thinking about it any further, and set it to be published in the morning paper. His mind had dumped the information that was worrying him: just how many people would read it, who those people were to the Nightingale, and how much he had to do their actress justice for the sake of maintaining her. It was all gone, all forgotten. All Hieronymus saw, through eyes that promised tears, was an article written by the deepest parts of his unconscious mind.

It was done. He stood up as soon as the confirmation came through. He walked around the office. He sat down.

He took himself out onto the balcony, realising he had dropped both his cigarette and notebook there. He cleaned them up.

He went back out onto the balcony.

He overlooked his city, with a head full of the Nightingale, with the knowledge finally hitting him of what she was to the city, to the definition of the word 'culture' and to the hearts of anyone who even spent two minutes in her presence, and wept loose tears until he understood.

 

[Osthavula]

"My love, wake up. "

But she can't wake up. She was awake the entire time. Wrapping around the burly figure so gently and lowly whispering in her ears, Olympia teasingly chuckled. She heard a light sigh escaped his lips, but she knew it was just a laugh. His laugh. For a man who was too quiet for big laughs.

"Yes?"

"They did it. "

He didn't explain but placed a rolled-up scroll in her fingers. Capers, the newest edition. On it, a picture of hers printed in colour and bright.

The Nightingale. If you know Her, you know Cassiopia

Her dark eyes scanned through the words and smiled seeing a few of familiar ones. Hieronymus, Collette, Bernadette. Their praises and rememberance and descriptions for her. Nightingale, Cassiopia. She liked everytime he mentioned the reaper, liked how they compared her already with a historical landmark, how it finally respected the end of their tysts, and smiled even further when she interpreted the meaning behind all these. The imagination of the three sitting in the same room further pulled the arc of her lips, and she glanced over to her husband silently observing her.

“What do you think?”

He didn’t say anything, but she sensed that he was pleased.

“They will soon noticed, the one that should notice, and they need to move fast. Because he will notice too.” She didn’t name who, but flipped over the pages to the rest of the printings. “Klokklsby concentrated crimes…”

Andy nodded, sulkingly.

“Mrs Harping, Clock tower, Liovine’s and… Lockwood Market. The church! Andy, are you sure you should be here?”

“I am here.”

“I know, dear. Who is out there?”

He put up three fingers on his left, and five on right.

“Well, if that is the case…” She brushed the paper, brows furrowed. “How are the girls?”

“They are well.”

“Others?”

“Unknown.”

She blinked. His expression grew dimmed and worried. That was the sign that he thought she should rest, though he would never voice it knowing the importance of their talk. It never had appeared before, since Olympia had kept herself fairly unscathed throughout the years. But he worried this time. It showed in his eyes, it showed in his frown, it showed in the way he leaned forward to her and held her hand, much gentler than he looked with his trained arms. He would blinked, like warding off his sleep when she had fell asleep for an hour or more, then pretended he himself had rested in between. As selfish as it was, Olympia gleed. A selfish love was something she thought they were not allow to have.

She whispered gently. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful.”

Then she allowed him to adjust her pillow, examined the wound, and return to guarding her rest. The last thing she did, before closing her eyes and let sink her conscious, was to ask him one more question. With the most love she could ever have.

“How are our children, Andy?”

No confusion and no hesitation. The Smith and the father leaned down, caressed her forehead with the peak of his lip, and he solemnly stated to her.

“They are well.”

 

[Osthavula]

The door swung inwards. On the tall bar stool all the drinking customers were tensed, expecting another one coming in. But it wasn’t one of those gentleman with hard soled and navy blue jacket. It was one of those flapper girls who finished their morning shift and came to enjoy a drink, blow off some steam and complains. Seeing the familiar powder and rouge on her face, the customers greeted her amicably before returning to their own amber drinks.


“Miss Hanshaw!” The bar owner started to fill up a pint. “Haven’t seen you in a while!”


Only she could see the nervousness behind his jovial face. “I need a room, sir. Could you perhaps arrange that?”


“A… A room today? Miss Hanshaw. “


“Tough customers today. “ Lorretta insisted with two smile-less dark eyes.


“I’ll see what I can do. “


He passed the pint over to a gentleman who already had too much to drink. Then he pardoned himself to disappear above the stairs. The powdered dame stared long at the foot of the door before the bar owner came again, waving her over. They both came to a small space in the attic, just enough for a table for two, and a hanging yellow lamp. It was better maintained than the other space, since some love birds would pay extra to have a private space of their own.


“Sit down. “ With her jewelled bag clashing on the table, Lorretta gestured for the bar owner to join her. He didn’t refuse. And when they both settled, they sat in the silence for a good half minute. The owner shifted uncomfortably while the girl was just staring at him.


“So, what bring you here today, Miss Hanshaw?” He asked, unnerved.


“That day when the Nightingale was shot, who was here?”


“Not you too, Miss Hanshaw? The police had been asking questions too many times. My tavern is half as empty as before. “


“Well, the police must have affected your business then? You must want them to leave?” Taking out a compact, Lorretta set it on the table but won’t open it. The owner stared at it, horrified.


“Not now, not when the police are patrolling…”


“You want the police to leave your place alone?”


“Well yes…”


“Tell me everything, and I can help. “


Hearing that, the owner’s eyes brightened like a desperate man. “Can you?” His jovial face made a come back. “Please, they haunted the place for too long. “


“Not until you tell me who was here. “


“Well, nothing but the regulars. Let’s see… We do have a new waiter. He answered the police first. None of us saw anything though. His name is Marcus Liston. “


“Who else?”


“Well, Ol’ Thomas. The three sisters who ran that caravan boutique. Enya the musician. The Easton brothers, Mary and Steve, the Skinny Rats, a few kids…”


“You have their names?”


“Well, one of them named Hugo, the kid of the Simonnes. Then you have Maxwell, he is a bit tall now. Raymond, he didn’t come with anyone. “


“Anyone else?”


“The usual ones. Edna and her dogs, the Bohemian two, and you know. Your usual customers, Mr Bernard, Mrs Laine, the boys down the street…”


“Who else. “


He stunned when she pulled out another compact and put it besides the other one. Though he tried he could not control his eyes rounded like that opal on her necklace. Those two could make him a fortune. Double the fortune.


“Well, both Carlyles were here. I don’t know how you know the room was booked, quite handsomely. I recognised a few but not all, most of them were from Oriyon. Only Mr Ott was an odd one. “


“Mr Ott?”


“He came to drink a few times every year. “


“... Anymore?”


“Just the police and the journalists.”


She didn’t say much to that, but slid the two compact to him. He couldn’t hide his excitement when he pocketed the two, and didn’t see when her bag almost hit him accidentally on her way out. She heard the last “If the police are still here this still means nothing you know! You can be caught! “ and went down stairs, single-mindedly went out the very same door the hitman used. She could see, that someone she knew was asking questions again, tirelessly.


And she just walk the other way.

 

[Osthavula]

“Finished!”


The brown-haired mechanic finally let out a satisfied sigh, and wiped away the droplet dripping down her forehead. Expecting an answer, she turned around to see the boy sleeping, hair covering his eyes and snoring out of an open mouth. To think about it, it was about two days that they sat in this basement. Surely he would be tired.


She could just… let him sleep?


She walked over to the armoury section, pulling one of the guns and walked towards the unarmed Talon, and then shoot it at him. A spray of cool water aimed straight for his mouth, and started him a shocking and confusing wake.


“Wake up. “ Ruth laughed, “It’s finished. “


“Water…? Don’t use it near the computer?” Poor Talon uselessly wiped off his soaked shirt.


“I’m an excellent gunman.”


“I’m not going to ask more questions about that. “ He complained, but then he quickly hopped over to the computer she had just assembled together for him. It was weird to not see the white shell and the government issued serial numbers printed on its every corner. But the screen was something familiar, and he was, frankly, quite surprised that Ruth managed it. It was not a skill that Klokklsby needed, but she did it anyway.


“I made it so the location is outside of Cassiopia. “


“That is still suspicious.”


“That’s your problem then. “


“No problem at all. “ Very uncharacteristic of him, but he entwined his two hands and gave crackling sound from the joints of his bony fingers. After that, he started working with the mechanical keyboard and the screen he had to crouch to see clearly. Ruth had shut up after the screen changed, as well as the boy who changed in spirit. The fish was clearly back swimming in his water.


“They have clear my cache and profile information. “


“Is that important?”


“They must have known that I moved. But I don’t see any information on where I am now. “


“They still might guess you are here. If you are in Oriyon…”


“... They will still have my activities, yes. But both Cassiopia and New Neptune, as well as the outskirts between the three, are difficult to monitor. “


“Have you tracked some other…”


“I have. “ He said, already searching on the next topic. His father’s photo came onto the screen and he scowled at the highlighted words. Corruption Scandal. Like hell he would commit that.


Ruth nonchalantly commented. “That’s not half of the things you can see on Editor’s profile. “


“How can I see that?”


“Even for us his profile is confidential you know, I’ve only peeked at it once, opened by himself. “


“You’ve… met him?”


“When I was a kid. “ A mild grin came onto her face, as she sat and took over the keyboard, entered the address quickly and handed it back. “This. “


“Impressive. “


“Not something you can see in the government… What are you doing?”


“There’s always a way…. There. “


She thought he would do something extremely impressive, but what came up was a partial profile. To her disappointed look he shrugged. “I think they were prepared for someone like me to search too. “


“Not much, the age, the profession. Related court cases. “


“The…. Controversial ones… “


“Of course, we were involved in some decisions making in those. “ Ruth urged him to scroll down the page. “His known relations. “


“Mom passed away years ago. “


“Died, disappearance, fallen out. “


“Are those Editors too?”


“Some are, yes. This man. “ She gestured for him to search the person. “I haven’t heard from him for a while. He used to be active but not anymore. Also he had fallen out… “


“... Over the case. So he could be one. “


“Note down his relation too. Also, this one…”


Over the entire night they were listing down people, until they filled out pages of names they could no longer recognise. For Ruth. Talon had a surprisingly good memory, but his fatigue didn’t help him. Too long, too complicated. In the end, when they were both struggling to read, Ruth snatched away the paper and pen. She almost stumbled doing that, and head-butted him when he seemed to want to continue. His will was burning strong.


“Unless you want to die listing the impossibly long list of people that might be against your father, let’s go. “ She put the list in the clock box, somehow locked it up with the needle hands. “ So what we had got is, he had no friends left in the end, and way too many enemies. “


“He never told me. “


“He didn’t want you to be an Editor, probably. Most of us don’t die of natural causes. “


“Well, it’s not like I’m going to start a family and die of old age or anything. “


“What did you think you will be then?”


This question seemed to have stunned the boy. Talon tied his hair behind him in a ponytail, and thought hard about it. “I never thought about it. “


“What happens after you avenge your father?”


“I… I’ve no idea. “


“Think about it then. Clock is ticking. “ Ruth said, boots knocking on the cement floor. “But I will skin you before you can think of one if you don’t show up after I cook dinner. “


For some reason she was taking the heavy wrench with her, making the statement really convincing. Talon, however, chuckled weakly. He began to think perhaps she wasn’t as bad as her mouth. Things rarely are, as bad as her words. Following her leather boots and his own grumbling stomach, he felt comfortable looking back, seeing that wired square in the middle of the basement.