Only after the sound of steps had completely vanished did Anger lean against the wall and let out a long, weary sigh.
He drew the notebook from his inner pocket. It opened on its own.
His eyes fixed on the lines beginning to surface on the page.
First, the outline of the inverted Madonna—upside down, her face split in two.
Then, the coiled umbilical cords: one red, one white. The red vivid as fresh blood, the white crystalline in appearance.
It was the first time the diary had displayed two such starkly different colors.
On the left page, words in bloody script appeared:
[The cord wraps the neck, the chalice holds blood, a maiden sings in the well.]
On the right page, crystalline script formed:
[Ribs as keys, dice as pupils, the faithful dance upon the keys.]
Beneath both lines, a single sentence emerged simultaneously:
[When the twin moons converge, you must devour one.]
Anger brushed his fingers over the whitecrystalline side of the page, then closed the notebook and walked toward the wall.
The pickaxe still leaned against it. Anger picked it up, hefted its weight, and carefully widened the hole with its tip.
When the opening was just large enough to squeeze through, he stopped. He drew his service revolver, crouched, and crawled inside.
Once within, the actual pendulum was larger than he had imagined.
Beneath the pendulum’s plating were fine engravings. He pulled out his dagger and scraped away the oxidized layer.
Beneath was etched a crest: a wolf’s head, fangs bared, the eye sockets inset with two dull, darkened gems.
That wolf’s head… it seemed familiar. Yes, it resembled the wolf totem on the washing pot at SoapMoon Workshop—though that one was so blurred it could almost be mistaken for a moon pattern. This one was unmistakably clear.
On the pendulum’s reverse side, more engraving: Latin script, so neat it was almost rigid.
（Latin）Per sanguinem gemellarum, veritas in utero.
Anger mouthed the Latin silently.
Then he muttered, “Twin moons converge…”
Shouldn’t it be triple moons? Why “twin moons” again?
Unclear what any of it meant, Anger stowed the notebook and turned toward the twelve nuns.
He approached the nearest one.
She looked young—no more than twenty. Her waxen skin held an unnatural pallor; the smile on her lips was chillingly serene.
Anger noticed her hands clasped over her chest, a small object pinched between her stiff fingers.
Carefully, he pried the fingers apart.
A scrap of cloth. Embroidered on it in silver thread was a symbol: an inverted hourglass, a star at each end.
He didn’t recognize it. Pocketing the scrap, he moved to the next nun.
The second clutched a length of hemp rope tied with three stubborn knots.
The third had a rusted pin tucked into her collar.
The fourth had a small, dried plant leaf stuck to the sole of her shoe.
Each held an item.
When he reached the eighth nun, he paused.
******
The eighth nun appeared the youngest, perhaps only sixteen or seventeen. The posture of her clasped hands differed from the others—her right hand's forefinger extended, pointing forward—but its tip was missing.
The fracture was unnaturally neat.
Around that severed finger was a silver ring.
Anger saw threads of red and ashen grey entwined around the ring.
He quickly pried open her stiff fingers and removed the ring. He placed it with the cloth scrap, the hemp cord, and the other items he had collected.
If Carter and the others intend to cooperate with the Church, then I must preserve some crucial evidence myself. Anger held no trust for the Church whatsoever.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Moreover, a clear ligature mark circled the young woman's neck.
Anger's fingers hovered above the mark. In his vision, the mark emitted a red glow, precisely the same hue as the bloody script on the left page of his notebook.
Anger looked up towards the other side of the crypt. A phantom scene was superimposed there, arcs of light intertwining. He walked over and reached out. The moment his fingertip touched the phantom, the reality before his eyes tore apart.
His left eye was dragged into a scene of viscous, bloody dimness – a delivery room. A young nun lay on a crude birthing bed, her abdomen distended, something squirming beneath the skin. An elderly nun knelt beside the bed, praying; her prayers solidified into chains, attempting to bind the swollen belly. A man lurked in the shadows, clutching an iceblue stone.
His right eye was pulled into a chapel. Stained glass windows cast geometric patterns. Twelve individuals were bound to devices, their ribs exposed and carved into tuning forks. A scholarlike man adjusted instruments with fanatical zeal. A young observer stood on a balcony, palefaced, recording everything.
The notebook at his own side emitted a tearing sound. Its spine split. The pages on the left side grew brittle like parchment; those on the right hardened into metallic sheets.
Two timelines. Two echoes of tragedy. Using Anger's eyes as their host, they projected their scenes, relentlessly eroding his mind.
He yanked his hand back. Both phantoms instantly faded, but the tearing sensation remained. His body could clearly feel it: the left side was congealing with a bloody chill, threatening to freeze solid at any moment; the right side felt as if bones were being encased in crystal, stiff and piercingly painful.
The notebook in his breast pocket vibrated violently, almost leaping out. Anger pulled it out again. The pages that had previously shown the prophecies were now transforming. Beneath the bloody script and the white crystalline words, new text surfaced:
[Edict 10 – Deep Resonance State]
[Historical Echo Gravitational Overload]
[Intervention Permit: SemiPhase]
[WARNING: Complete witness requires complete keys.]
[Semiphase intervention doubles the cost.]
[Thine eye is the window, thine ear the door – yet also the shackle that binds thee.]
[Each opening drives the lock deeper, until thy form becomes a new carving in the corridor of history.]
Anger studied the notebook's message. He pondered for a moment, feeling a glimmer of understanding.
The notebook seemed to be telling him that he could enter these two tragic moments in history. But because he hadn't gathered all the keys required for both timelines, he couldn't enter as a complete observer. He would only be dragged in with half his consciousness, half his perception.
As for the 'keys'... Anger guessed they might be that iceblue stone, or perhaps those tuning forks.
And whichever half he chose to follow, it would mean the other half would suffer double the corrosive echo, bound by chains. Probably much like what was described in Lady Elizabeth Vinter's diary – her body entangled in chains.
He had experienced an Edict 10 echo before, at Mute Tower, with the remnant of KnightCaptain Greffin. This was likely the same, just manifesting in a more... peculiar form.
Anger closed the notebook. He took one last look at the two prophecies.
The cord wraps the neck, the chalice holds blood...
Ribs as keys, dice as pupils...
And the line below: When the twin moons converge...
It seemed the final step must wait for the 'twin moons'. As for when that might be, it wasn't clear. He would need to consult Professor Croft again, see what he could confirm.
******
Inspector Carter had left the priory and was standing on a street corner. He wasn't willing to get any closer—it was devilishly queer. Staring at the dark, looming silhouette of the priory from afar, the pipe clenched between his teeth was finally lit.
But his hand trembled slightly. It certainly wasn't from the cold. It was because he knew he now seemed to be teetering on the edge of an outcome he could not control.
Harris approached, his voice low. "Inspector. Hastings is still inside."
"I know."
"Are we really just going to wait? If something happens in there—"
"If something happens in there," Carter said, his face expressionless, "that's his own lookout. Fortyeight hours. I gave my word."
He recalled Anger's words: What if the Church is involved in this?
Carter knew. Perhaps the Church really was involved.
He knew some of the opium raw materials for The Spindle of Oblivion were supplied by parish charity hospitals. He knew some of the women who went missing in Whitechapel eventually turned up on church relief lists, a good number of them under the guise of 'volunteering for medical trials'. He also knew his own superior, the Whitechapel division superintendent, received a monthly cheque marked as a 'charitable donation' from the diocese.
But he couldn't say it. Not to Hastings. Not to anyone.
He took one last look at the priory, then turned.
"Perkins stays on watch. Harris, Thomson, you're with me."
"And Hastings?" Perkins pressed urgently.
"Fortyeight hours. There's still time. Keep a close eye, don't let anyone else near."
As Carter walked towards the carriage, Perkins seemed to hear something. His head jerked up towards the priory, his hand clamping down hard on his pistol grip.
But in the end, he did not move.
******
When Anger climbed back out through the breach in the crypt wall, dusk was already fast approaching.
Twilight in Lundinium was always a hasty affair. He glanced back at the priory ruins; their silhouette in the gloaming resembled a huddle of crouching beasts.
On his way out, he passed Perkins, who was keeping watch from a distance. Anger ignored him and walked on.
He made his way to the Whitechapel station and found Carter. Harris, Thomson, and old Duncan were gathered in the far corner of the front yard, talking in low voices and shooting occasional glances his way.
"Find what you were after?" Carter asked first.
Anger walked over and stood beside him. "Not enough. But I need your help."
"Talk."
"Have there been any missing women in Whitechapel over the last six months? Nuns, or those connected to the Church. I don't want official records. Ask your informants, the street girls, the people who work the night."
Carter turned to look at him. "Hastings, you promised you'd stick to the priory."
"This is the priory," Anger countered, meeting his gaze. "Those twelve nuns might not be the end of it. If this is part of a larger ritual, then Martha Tabram could be another ingredient. That means the Ripper might not be killing at random. He could be working from a list."
Carter said nothing, but Anger could see the tension in the set of his jaw.
"Fortyeight hours, Carter. The time you gave me is also time for yourself. If these cases are linked, cracking one could crack them all. Then The Times headline will read: 'Whitechapel Serial Murders Solved. Inspector Carter Fellows of the Yard Commended for Outstanding Work.'"
It was a naked bribe, and a threat. If Carter didn't cooperate, Anger might indeed break their deal. But if it were solved, Anger was implying he wouldn't steal the credit.
Carter stared at him, unconsciously pulling out his pipe and lighting it. He took a long, hard drag and exhaled, the smoke billowing almost into Anger's face.
"I'll have a list for you by tomorrow. But when the fortyeight hours are up, whatever you've found at the priory goes to the Church. That's the line."
"Done."
Carter pulled the pocket watch from earlier out of his coat and checked it. "It's 5:47 PM. This time, day after tomorrow, I'll be back with the diocesan men. Until then, whatever happens here, whatever you do… as far as I'm concerned, I know nothing about it."
Anger nodded.
Carter said no more. He turned and walked towards the yard, calling for Perkins and the others. The three younger constables followed, looking relieved, almost scurrying to keep up.