27 March 1686 of the 6th Era, Nightingale Road, South District

  The quiet ticking of the brass clock on the mantelpiece was surprisingly soothing to the ears, especially after the cacophony that erupted back at the Welzes’ house. Charlotte’s gaze aimlessly wandered across the room, taking in the details. Simple, but neat paintings on the walls. Muted colours. Only the necessary furniture: a large cupboard, an even larger bookshelf, neat armchairs and a sofa close to the fireplace. A simple dried flower arrangement in the vase on the coffee table, more of an afterthought or ‘I should put something here’, by the looks of it. The lack of decorative pillows on the sofa or the armchairs was a bit odd, but, considering it was Antony’s house and that he lived alone, probably only to be expected.

  “Hold still, will you?”

  “It’s hard to when it smarts,” Charlotte winced. “And really, it’s nothing too serious. It’ll heal on its own in an hour or two, once I’ve regained sufficient amounts of mana.”

  “Dear Lady of Magic, you’re worse than some of my friends,” Antony, by the looks of it, was ready to start tearing his hair out, but instead took a deep breath and continued treating the deep cut on her hand. “It might heal on its own, but I’d rather still make sure you don’t bleed out or get an infection. Besides, you fought a Death Mongerer, on your own. A thing that, if I remember right, is one of the most dangerous spirits known to the Nightmare Poets and would require a whole team of highly experienced exorcists to subdue. You, however, just smacked it on the head a couple of times after it tore down the door and lashed out at you, if Lord Simon Welz’s testimony and Lord Marcus Welz’s incoherent babbling are to be believed. How did you get this cut, exactly?”

  “It might have slashed my hand and my dress when it barged in.”

  “And for that you smacked it on the head with that staff of yours,” Antony repeated as he nodded towards the shepherd’s cane leaning on the side of Charlotte’s armchair.

  “It tried to ruin my dress,” she pouted, “and I was having none of that. I… Alright, I might have overdone it a bit. Maybe I should have thrown a flashy spell or two, if only to make Bernard’s life a tiny bit easier. But… I might hate the colour black, but I really like this dress. You behaving the way you did yesterday night already got me into a foul mood. This was the last straw.”

  Antony opened his mouth to continue protesting, then looked at her, and his expression softened, “I’m just worried about you.”

  “It’s still better than what could have happened. You know full well what I am really capable of,” she quietly sighed, wincing again. “Really, you should have just said you had True Sight, right there at the harbour or some time after. Would have saved both of us the headache last night.”

  “I would have, given a bit more time. I would have told you about my involvement with the Secret Service, too. You put me on the spot.”

  “You did it to yourself.”

  “I–”

  “You broke into our archives, Mr Levy, namely into the most restricted section, and accessed my file,” she carefully stressed every word in that sentence. “And then you, out of the blue, decided to not just help me with an investigation that didn’t concern you in the slightest, but rapidly revealed a number of crucial details about yourself, as if trying to gain my trust. And not just that, you even promised to get time off to assist me further. While working for Lord Andrew Blackwater and having complained that there was a lot of work. Work you couldn’t just leave.”

  “That’s because I was trying to gain your trust. Just… not because I meant you harm, or wanted to spy on you further. I wasn’t spying on you to begin with. I told you the truth yesterday. I genuinely want to get to know you better,” he finished dressing the wound and sat down in the armchair opposite her, leaned forward and buried his head in his hands.

  “Thank you,” she rubbed her wrist. “Still. You wrote a report on me, didn’t you?”

  “I did, but none of the information from those files is in there. It will die with me, I promise.”

  A bird landed on the opposite side of the window, chirping and ruffling up its feathers as it pecked at its own reflection for a bit. Antony waved his hand, conjuring an image of a cat, and the little critter instantly scattered.

  Charlotte watched him quietly. No, he was not acting right now. The way he paid no mind to how he sat, or what his hair looked like, the slight tremble in his hands as he called forth that illusion to get rid of the annoying sound all pointed towards that. Besides, while writing was a good medium to hide one’s thoughts and create a favourable impression of oneself, when the exchange lasted for centuries, slips were inevitable. It did not matter how good one was at subterfuge. Finally, as silly as it sounded, Ethan excelled in understanding the hearts of those around him, and he called Anthony one of his closest friends. He would never have introduced him to her, had he sensed some ulterior motive.

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  “You still have a chance to make things right, you know. I wouldn’t have used a Sending spell to ask you to come and pick me up otherwise.”

  “Well, then… I’ll try my best to make up for my previous misconduct.”

  “Just promise me you will be open with me from now on, as much as you can. I will also accept more of that cake.”

  “Cake, books, legendary beasts. As long as it’s within my power to bring it to you,” he braved a smile.

  “Idiot.”

  “You’re the second person to say that to me in the last twenty four hours, and, considering my actions, I can only agree.”

  “Am I hearing things or are you finally admitting to your mistakes?” Greg, who had been silently observing the room from his cozy nest on top of the cupboard, raised his head. “Hey, lady, mind staying here a while longer? I don’t know what you’re doing, but it seems to be working. Even if you’re not doing anything.

  “Maybe by the end of this month he’ll finally remember how to think straight. Not like he’s stupid, mind. I’d say he’s too intelligent for his own good. Five steps ahead of everyone, but then forgets that not everyone plays by the rules, or even knows the rules to begin with.”

  “Sometimes it takes two people to get the point across,” Antony tried to keep a straight face, but Charlotte saw a few mixed emotions under that mask. As if he could not decide if he should feel offended or honoured. Possibly both.

  “I have no plans to leave for now,” she looked at the two of them. What little she got to know about Greg, she liked a lot. Somehow a very fitting pair, and very fitting character traits, too. “We still have a case to solve, and I could use someone capable of thorough analysis. Knowing how to treat wounds comes as a bonus, I would say.”

  “And what’s my role in this?” Greg’s ears perked up slightly, even though his voice was as uninterested as ever.

  “Being the sarcastic assistant who keeps the overly eager master detective in check?” Charlotte suggested.

  “Oh, I can definitely do that. I can also gather intel if you so desire.”

  “I need to bribe you every single time when–”

  “Well, yes. But She is a goddess. Soon-to-be goddess? Word of a goddess?” Greg scratched his ear with his hind paw. “It’s good connections. And good connections are way more valuable than an antique coin.”

  “Sometimes I just can’t with you,” Antony sighed, while Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange.

  An ancient white dragon the size of a house cat acting as the voice of reason. Now I’ve seen everything.

  Charlotte closed her eyes, trying to get the chaos in her head to settle down. Hundreds of thoughts, memories, recent events were all too jumbled up, and the still lingering adrenaline from the fight a few hours ago was not helping with the matter.

  So far, everything felt so disjointed to her. A robbery, a murder, two copies of the testament and a precious necklace going missing, a man claiming he ran because he was afraid to be trialed for possible espionage, and then the haunting and the rules that Lord Leonard Welz established in his household. However, deep down she felt like all of it was somehow connected. Maybe not directly, but one thing probably led to the other, setting off the entire chain of events.

  One key thing was still missing however. She knew not who Lord Welz’s killer was, or why someone would want to kill him to begin with.

  “I have to ask,” Antony tried to find the right words, “is the state of the house in any way…”

  “Not your fault, no,” she hurriedly replied. “I felt something was horribly wrong with it when we entered it for the first time, but at that point we were dealing with an entirely different matter.”

  “You could have at least told me.”

  “How would that have helped?” She looked at him rather dubiously. “Bernard can wave away a lot of what I do, but I think even his power of persuasion and intimidation would not be enough to convincingly explain our presence at that time. At least not without outing my nature, one way or the other.”

  “A fair point,” he conceded, throwing his arms up in the air. “How is he going to explain all the, ahem, smacking around of dangerous ghosts?”

  “By making everyone believe it was a revenant that behaved like a death mongerer. Or by saying it was pure luck and the Lady’s blessing was on my side today. It’s his problem now, not mine,” she threw herself onto the back of the armchair, then thoughtfully joined the tips of her fingers together, propping her elbows on her knees. “However, it’s still my problem to solve this whole haunted house conundrum.”

  “You think it’s somehow connected to Mr Brook’s case?”

  “I’m not sure, but it just might be. It’s too much of a coincidence that the haunting started after Lord Welz’s demise.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you found out while talking to Lord Welz’s children,” Antony proposed. “I’ve heard the Nightmare Poets discuss a thing or two, and I heard Cardinal Whitesand comment on something, but I’m not sure I’m getting the entire picture. Tea?”

  “Uhm… Do you happen to have coffee?”

  “I should, but I need to check. I only keep it for guests, or, rather, one guest. Not a popular beverage in these parts.”

  “I’d prefer that if it’s not too much of a bother,” she rubbed her forehead.

  “Not at all. Oh, and you probably know the one who drinks it, too. Professor Alex O’Neill.”

  “The name does sound familiar. Ethan mentioned him on a number of occasions. Was he, too, a survivor of the White Bog Calamity?”

  “Yes. That’s where all of us met.”