Chapter 537: Joy and Anger Like Clothes, Put On and Cast Off at Will

Back at the hotel, Viola was still sitting in front of the dressing table.

She had kicked her high heels aside and propped both feet up on the cushioned stool across from her, a cigarette between her fingers.

Grey, Clara, and Catherine stood facing her.

Evelyn had already been taken downstairs to wait for her grandfather in the Ashford Family Carriage.

Sophia had gone to accompany Edith to the public coach, leaving just the four of them in the room.

Viola took a drag on her cigarette and let the smoke out slowly.

"Relax, you four..."

"What do you mean, four?" Clara knitted her slender brows.

"Counting the one who gave him the pencil."

None of the three said a word. Viola flicked her ash into a teacup.

"Truth be told, I'm less interested in him than I am in a carburetor."

Grey blinked. "A carburetor?"

"It's an automobile part that mixes gasoline with air and sprays it into the cylinder.

"Mix it right, and the car runs smoothly; mix it poorly, and the engine stalls.

"I fixed plenty of them in Calais, and every single carburetor has a temper of its own."

She fished out the spark plug again and set it on the dressing table.

"I swore an oath to the family elders that I'd spend the rest of my life with my car."

"When the old men in our family heard about it, they were so livid they pounded the table at the family council, roaring that in three hundred years, not a single daughter of the Blackburn Family had ever married an automobile."

Grey couldn't hold back a laugh.

Clara smiled too.

Catherine didn't laugh, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

Watching them laugh, Viola just took another puff of her cigarette.

Grey walked over and sat down on the cushioned stool beside Viola.

"Weren't you scared, driving an Ambulance all by yourself near the battlefield?"

"I was," Viola said with a nod.

"I picked up this smoking habit from the sheer stress of it. But scared or not, I had to drive—there were wounded soldiers lying in the back."

Clara and Catherine walked over as well and sat down on her other side.

Thanks to Viola's diversion, the bristling tension in the room eased considerably.

Once the others had left, Viola kept Catherine behind alone.

"Besides Lecturer Fairfield, your name is actually in that register too."

Catherine looked at her, her expression conflicted.

"Your name used to be near the very bottom of the list, which was a good thing," Viola said, thinking back.

"Over the past two years, though, it's moved up—somewhere in the upper middle now."

Catherine flipped open her notebook and wrote a single line: "Thank you for telling me."

Viola glanced at it and waved a hand.

"No need to thank me. Our family never forces a marriage.

"When someone hands you the register, just turn it down."

By the time the two of them finished talking, Grey and Clara were already waiting for her outside the side door.

Wordlessly, the three of them walked together toward the carriage yard. Tonight, the best man had to take the Ashford Family Carriage home.

...

"Time's up. You may begin your verses."

Matthew hadn't checked a watch, yet he stood up right on the dot when the fifteen minutes were up.

During his preparation time, Richard had run through plenty of countermeasures.

Begging for mercy... Too demeaning, and a Virtuoso wouldn't buy it anyway. The more pitifully he begged, the more convincingly Matthew would play up that aggrieved face of his.

Running would be stupidity beyond cure. He was standing on Matthew's road; no matter which way he ran, he would still be on it.

Fighting? Right now, his strongest single-burst trump card was his great-grandfather's Bone Needle.

Yet striking a Virtuoso with the full-force blow of a Major Adept was no different from a mosquito biting an elephant—if not worse. The most viable option was actually calling for Madam Marie; the black cat might come, though more likely she wouldn't.

Richard understood the score clearly enough: even if the cat avatar really did show up, that would amount to using the teacher to strong-arm the student, offending Matthew beyond repair.

Matthew might let him save face at the wedding banquet today, only to teach him a harsh lesson somewhere else tomorrow.

With all those options ruled out, only the test itself remained.

Matthew had set the rules too, and from start to finish, when the lamps went out rested entirely in his hands.

If he grew tired of listening, Richard figured the end of the alley would arrive before he had even stepped past two pools of lamplight.

So this test had nothing to do with poetic artistry; it came down purely to whether he could scratch where the man itched.

Richard turned around and looked at Matthew.

"Mr. Matthew, I'll recite this poem from beginning to end without putting a single word to paper.

"Tonight, in this alley, it is for your ears alone."

"You are the first."

Matthew's aggrieved expression froze, and then his entire face went blank.

"...Recite it."

Richard couldn't compose a poem out of thin air on such short notice, but the database in his mind had plenty of ready material to draw from.

This time, the history he borrowed was Matthew's own.

Singing of a Virtuoso's great deeds right to his face was an ode if done well—and dredging up his scars if done poorly.

For the form, he borrowed from Homer, opening with an invocation to the Muse.

He took his first step.

With that single stride, his foot came down beneath the second lamp.

Behind him, the first lamp went out.

"Sing, O Muse, of Carrick of the withered-grass hair, Sing of the Empire's expeditionary host, a thousand spears beneath a single cross-banner, Marching toward the setting sun to seek the Seven Cities of Gold spoken of by the friar...

"Those city-states of the Underworld, gleaming at the very end of every map."

Walking beside him, Matthew faltered for a beat.

When the words "withered-grass hair" fell from his lips, Richard didn't dare look at his face.

With his second step, his foot landed beneath the third lamp—even farther than the first.

The second lamp went out.

"He walked at the very fore, past the last surveyor's stake, past rivers that no longer bore a name, Across plains wider than the beaches beneath the walls of Troy;

"On the seventieth dusk, seven cities rose from the horizon, Their golden gates all standing wide.

"A thousand men, eyes wide open, marched in formation singing their army songs straight into the Deep Realm."

The third step.

"In the cities there were hearth fires, there was bread, there were mothers sitting by the windows combing their hair, Voices calling their childhood names, calling out so tenderly; yet Carrick saw not a single shadow in all the city, Not a single child growing up, not a single bird taking flight.

"No one dreamed at night anymore, for they were already walking inside a dream."

The third lamp went out. Richard glanced sideways and saw no expression whatsoever on Matthew's face.

Yet this stride carried him far—farther than the length of the alley itself.

The fourth step.

"The general was the first to walk through the city gates, never to emerge again.

"The Mantuan wrote of it long ago: the descent to Avernus is easy.

"That grim door stands open night and day; but to retrace your steps and come back out to the winds of heaven—

"That is the task, that is the toil.

"They were still alive, still starving, still standing upon that plain, While the rear had already finished holding their funerals."

The fourth lamp went out.

When he took the fifth step, the distance abruptly shrank.

It happened all at once—Richard had barely lifted his foot before the fifth lamp was already hanging right above his head.

Matthew didn't want to hear this part.

During those nights when the soldiers knelt at the city gates begging him, he probably hadn't slept a wink.

Richard had originally prepared two stanzas for this section—one on how the soldiers begged, and one on how he called the roll.

In the blink of an eye, [Speculation] twisted the two stanzas into one.

"Carrick gave the order to turn back; the soldiers wept, and men fell to their knees to beg him, Saying their wives who died in childbirth and their children who died young were inside those walls;

"He drew his blade, pointed east, and called their names one by one;

"Each man whose name was called remembered that he was still alive.

"With no lamp, he burned his own blood until his hair withered like grass upon the wasteland. With no rope, he bade every man clutch the belt of the one before him.

"With no road, for the plain had long since swallowed the way they came, He walked at the very front, and only where his foot came down did a step of the road grow beneath him."

Matthew raised a hand to rub the top of his head, then lowered it again.

The flame of the fifth lamp flickered once before going out.

The sixth step stretched out again, endlessly long.

The lamp hung far ahead in the distance, as though suspended over another street entirely.

Richard walked for a long time before he finally reached it.

"Those seven cities did not give chase.

"They simply rose anew from the horizon ahead at every dusk.

"Their gates stood wide, long tables were laid out beyond the walls, and the bread was still steaming hot.

"They marched through an entire winter without losing a single man of the nine hundred and ninety-nine, like Xenophon's Ten Thousand treading across the snows of Armenia;

"Until one morning, the men in the lead climbed the ridge, Turned back around, and cried out hoarsely: 'The sea! The sea!'"

Matthew didn't make a sound.

Richard glanced sideways and saw his lips pressed tight.

Caught up in the crucial part of the story, he had forgotten to put on an expression.

The sixth lamp went out.

The seventh step.

"At the mountain pass stood a new monument, carved with the names of all one thousand of them.

"Behind the monument lay the mended seal, and behind the seal waited the gun barrels of their own people.

"The history books later recorded that the expedition returned empty-handed, Bringing back not a single piece of gold, not a single city, not a single deed of land; the name of the expedition's guide was printed on the very last line of the roster, And the histories never wrote what he brought back... leaving only nine hundred and ninety-nine men who still remembered their own names."

The seventh lamp went out.

The alley plunged into pitch darkness, so black that Richard couldn't even see the bundle in his arms.

He stood waiting in the dark. For a long time, nothing stirred.

When Matthew spoke, his voice was rough and hoarse. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine. You counted right."

"Even today, I can still name every last one of them."

"Where did you dig that up?" he asked, his voice free of anger, genuinely curious.

"It only happened a little over a decade ago, so it wasn't hard to look up," Richard answered cautiously.

"There's a 1902 Branch Office briefing in the professor's office, and Imperial Capital University has a bound volume of the Annals of New Continent Anomalous Affairs with the list of survivors printed inside.

"The Imperial Capital Morning News also ran a brief item titled 'Second Expeditionary Force Returns Empty-Handed.'"

"The rest is hidden within your own honorific name."

Matthew counted it out. "...Over a decade. So it's really only been a little over a decade."

Silence held in the dark for a moment, and then all seven lamps flared to life at once.

Warm yellow light spilled all the way to the mouth of the alley, making the wet flagstones gleam as if paved with gold leaf.

Out on Brook Street beyond the alley's entrance, a hansom cab rolled leisurely past.

The driver hunched his shoulders and glanced up at the absurdly bright alley.

This time, Matthew laughed out loud, the sound rattling several stable doors along the alley.

He threw an arm around Richard's shoulders. "My good brother!"

The man gave him two hearty shakes, nearly jostling the bundle right out of his arms.

"The Muse! You invoked the Muse for me! I've been soaking in the mud at the Mouth of the Underworld River for over a decade, and this is the first time anyone's ever invoked the Muse for me!"

"One poem every two months! Right alongside that penny booklet of yours! Don't write it down—just recite it! I'll come listen!"

"I'll come by every two months. Wherever you are, that's where I'll go. You'll recite it on the road, and the moment you finish, I'll leave!"

"I'll keep a set of bowls and chopsticks waiting for you at the Mouth of the Underworld River! If you ever come visit the New Continent, I'll cook fish for you with my own two hands—guaranteed not to burn! And if anyone ever bullies you..." He broke off with a sudden hiccup.

"Don't bother dropping my name—it wouldn't do any good anyway. Just tell them to come find me in the New Continent."

As he spoke, his sunburned face beamed with the sheer, exuberant joy of a man who had found a kindred spirit.

With Matthew's arm slung around him, Richard kept a cooperative smile on his face the whole time.

Just a quarter of an hour ago, this very same face had looked every bit as sincere while discussing which valley to toss him into to "have a good time."

Had this arm given him a light shove back then, he would probably already be trapped in some town, endlessly reliving the same five-minute mining disaster.

And Matthew would have stood at the town entrance, flashing the exact same grin as he called out: Have fun, my good brother!

All of a sudden, the man let go of him and let out a curious hum toward his left pocket.

"That pocket of yours is pretty crowded."

Knowing the guy was mocking him, Richard curled his lip and said nothing.

Matthew lifted his chin toward the direction they had come from.

"You've made it past my trial, but there's another one waiting over there. I took a sniff on my way past just now, and the temper brewing over there is hotter than my pot at the Mouth of the Underworld River."

The sweat on Richard's back had barely begun to dry before it broke out all over again.

"Let me tell you a joke," Matthew said.

"...Right now?"

"Now is the exact time to tell it." He cleared his throat.

"Do you know what we call it in our labyrinth tradition when a man is surrounded on all four sides by girls?"

"What?"

"A dead end."

The alley was dead silent, until Matthew burst out laughing, clutching his sides.

Richard stood there completely expressionless. "That's not funny."

"It's not supposed to be. That's what makes it dry humor."

Matthew wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes.

"Don't be scared, though. We have another old saying in our labyrinth tradition: wherever there is a wall, there is a door."

"The more walls there are, the more doors there are."

Matthew chuckled at him for a while longer, but gradually, his smile faded.

"Seriously, though, I actually used to worry about you."

"Worry about what?"

"Worry that one day you'd end up where I am." Matthew glanced toward the pool of lamplight at the mouth of the alley.

"Walking so far down the road that when you finally look back, you can't tell who you are anymore."

He grinned again and jerked his chin toward the carriage yard.

"Now I'm not worried in the slightest. From here on out, the moment the ones up above lift you off the ground, several pairs of hands down below will grab hold of your trouser legs at once."

Richard opened his mouth. "...Are you praising me or insulting me?"

"Praising you, of course." Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, Matthew strolled over beneath the seventh lamp.

"What will you recite next time?"

"The general who was the first to walk through the city gates," Richard said.

Matthew pointed a finger at Richard and roared with laughter.

"You rascal, you've learned how to leave a man hanging! Did you pick that trick up from the one up above?"

"I picked it up from the people hounding me for manuscripts."

With a wave of his hand, Matthew took a single step beyond the mouth of the alley and vanished.

Outside the alley lay Brook Street, empty beneath the streetlamps without so much as a single footprint.

One by one, the seven lamps dimmed and went out. A constable wrapped in a raincoat poked his head in from the alley entrance and shone his flashlight inside.

"Who lit the lamps in this alley just now?"

"No idea," Richard said, playing dumb. "They were already on when I walked in."

The constable eyed his formal attire suspiciously, muttered something about rich folk, and turned to walk away.

Richard walked back over to the upturned wooden crate and sat down to gather his thoughts.

Only then did he realize his legs had been trembling slightly the entire time. The professor had warned him once: when a man is being fawned over by others, that is precisely when he carries the highest price tag.

He used to think the Virtuosos treated him well because he was useful.

He had assumed that as long as he stayed useful, stayed entertaining, and kept turning in his manuscripts, that goodwill would always remain.

Now he understood that their favor was just like the weather.

It might be sunny today, and perhaps sunny tomorrow too, but rain could fall out of a clear sky at any moment.

What truly governed everything was still the rules. From start to finish just now, Matthew had abided by the rules: the agreed-upon prompt, the seven lamps, and letting him go once the recitation was done.

On a Virtuoso, joy and anger were merely clothes to be put on and cast off; only the rules were their underlying code.

Speaking of clothes... He looked down at the Smoking Mirror in his arms.

Matthew had warned him that putting on a mask was the same as donning the skin or clothes of a god, so one must never let this mirror catch one's reflection while wearing a mask.

A reverse line of thought suddenly struck him... What if he used the mirror to reflect someone else?

When the group battle began, the seven masks on the other side would be seven divine skins worn to a perfect fit.

All he had to do was lift the coarse cloth and let the mirror pick a target. The chosen mask would instantly "become the god," the divine name overriding the human name.

The second step was ascending the stairs, smashing a flute with every step climbed.

For the person chosen, what were the flutes they had played over the past year?

Cups, staffs, sickles, clubs, bows, whips... Those pieces of Divinely Crafted Armament were all ready-made flutes, and with every step up the stairs, one would shatter.

The problem was that the Smoking Mirror didn't seem to distinguish between friend and foe.

He had ways to hide himself, of course—the Mask of the Rebel Envoy and the Helm of Hades, along with various concealment items and [Perception - Reflex].

It amounted to a hidden trump card tailored specifically to counter the Theogony Salon system. Still, as the old saying went, it is easier to invite a god in than to send him away.

Until he had studied it thoroughly, it was best not to use this killer move lightly.

...

At the end of the alley lay the carriage yard beside Claridge's Hotel.

The Ashford Family Carriage was parked at the very back, with three figures standing beside it.

The carriage door was pushed open from the inside, and Evelyn poked half her head out.

"Brother, get in."

"Where's the coachman?"

"I said I wanted some hot tea and sent him to the hotel kitchen to ask for it. The kitchen's busy today, so he won't be back for a while."

"Grandfather..."

"Grandfather is having tea with the Earl in the smoking room. He'll be at least another half hour."

Evelyn scooted inward and patted the seat beside her.

Richard looked at the seat, then looked at the three girls standing outside the carriage.

Wherever there is a wall, there is a door, huh... He climbed into the carriage anyway.

Grey and Clara climbed in right after him and sat down side by side across from him.

Evelyn sat next to him, wedging him into the innermost corner.

Catherine didn't get in. With one hand bracing the doorframe and a foot planted on the step, she blocked the carriage door completely.

It was dark inside the cabin, with only a faint yellow glow from the carriage lamps illuminating the two faces opposite him.

"Brother."

Evelyn turned sideways and looked up at him. "Just what did you get up to during those two months abroad?"

The hint of disappointment in his sister's eyes made Richard swallow every last word of the speeches he had rehearsed in advance.

Silver-tongued Hermes found himself completely speechless this time.

From across the cabin, Grey spoke up. "What's in your left pocket—take it out."

Richard didn't move.

"Take it out," Grey repeated, her voice quiet.

Richard let out a breath and reached into his left inner pocket.

He pulled out the pencil. It still felt hot against his palm.

"Where did that pencil actually come from?" Grey asked.

"A friend picked it up in Switzerland."

Richard named a shop. He had seen its sign while wandering the streets of Lucerne—a little store that sold timepieces and trinkets.

"And the shop sells real pencils?" Clara asked.

"It sells... sundries."

"A pencil from a sundry shop hums songs?"

Richard fell silent.

"My lot was humming a song."

Clara's willow brows slanted sharply. She had never used such a stern tone with her junior before.

"There's a girl humming inside it. You bought a girl who hums songs from a sundry shop in Lucerne?!"

"That's..."

"Stop talking," Grey cut him off. "The more you say, the worse it gets."

Catherine hadn't said a word the entire time, but the scales above her head were swaying wildly, her mood clearly foul.

She leaned halfway into the cabin, reached out to pull open the morning coat of the young man across from her, and slipped her fingers into his left inner pocket where the stack of IOUs rested. Taking the IOUs out, she held them in her hand and counted them for a moment.

Then she reached into Richard's right inner pocket and stuffed the IOUs inside.

"...Don't keep my IOUs in the same pocket as her things!"

With that, she coughed twice, covered her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned to walk away without minding anyone else.

Grey stood up as well and stepped out of the carriage without a word.

At the other end of the carriage yard, her family's carriage had already lit its lamps.

Clara was the last to rise.

Pausing at the carriage door, his senior turned back and gave him a bright smile.

"The handwriting on this lot of yours is actually quite pretty."

Then she left too, leaving only Evelyn in the cabin.

Evelyn clutched her head with both hands and gave it a vigorous shake.

"I'm not asking anymore."

She held up the glossy black lot and waved it before his eyes.

"Anyway, you put the most care into writing mine."

The young girl turned her head and made a face at him.

Another quarter of an hour passed before Gerard climbed into the carriage carrying the scent of cigars, only to find the brother and sister fast asleep, leaning against each other.

The old man watched them in silence for a moment, then stepped back out, sent the coachman away, and climbed onto the driver's seat himself.

The carriage rolled unhurriedly out of the alley, without a single bump the entire way home.

...

In Prague, a thin layer of ice had formed over the December waters of the Vltava River.

Lillian sat by the attic window doing her coursework, her hands cool as usual.

It was just past three in the afternoon, and the sky outside the window was already beginning to darken.

All of a sudden, a touch of warmth brushed her fingertips.

It was so light and fleeting, as though someone far, far away had breathed softly upon the tips of her fingers. She froze, looking down at her hand.

Before the warmth had even faded, it was pushed outward once.

Then came two more pushes—three times in all.

Outside, the snow was falling harder and harder, half-covering the spires of Prague Castle across the river.

Slowly, the girl understood: he had used that pencil to write names—one had been accepted, and three had been pushed away.

She fished the box of matches out of her coat pocket, drew one out between her fingers, and spoke in a quiet voice.

"If what I say is true... did he think of me today?"

She struck the match. The attic windows were shut tight.

The flame stood straight at first, then slowly leaned toward the northwest.

Lillian stared at the little flame, never moving her fingers even as it burned all the way down to her fingertips.

That night, Grey, Clara, and Catherine all tucked their lots beneath their pillows.

They dreamed of the very same snow-covered mountain. A path through a pine forest wound across the snow, ending at the door of a small chapel.

A young girl stood before the doorway. She was beautiful, with skin as pale as fine porcelain, faint eyebrows, and long eyelashes where the falling snowflakes rested without melting.

Only the general outline of her face could be seen; her features were blurred by the glare of the snow, impossible to make out clearly no matter how hard one looked.

Standing in the snow, Grey had a sudden thought: 'I feel like I've seen this person somewhere before.'

The girl in front of the chapel was humming a song.

"Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise..."

(In golden dreams, a gentle kiss upon your eyes;

In the morning light, a smile softly calls you awake...)

Clara remembered this song.

Her mother used to sing it to her, though she would always stop halfway through to say the hair on her cello bow needed replacing.

The girl sang very softly, shaping every word gently for fear of waking someone.

"(Sleep now, little rascal, do not cry; listen as I sing you a lullaby, rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, lullaby...)"

Grey slowly crouched down in the snow.

When she was little, her family had hired a nanny from Cornwall who used to sit by her bedside and sing this very song.

Whenever the nanny reached the words "little rascal," she would always reach out and pinch Grey's nose.

Later, the nanny left service to get married back in the countryside, and that song was never heard in her room again.

Crouching in the snow and listening to the indistinct girl sing the song of her childhood, Grey felt a sharp ache sting her nose.

Catherine stood at the edge of the pine forest.

People in the Highlands didn't sing this song; their lullabies were all about seals, fishing boats, and fathers who never came home.

Yet as she listened, the scales above her head began to sway.

Before the chapel, the girl began the second verse.

"(Sorrow is too heavy, so rest in peace; you are my care, and I shall keep watch by your side...)"

When she reached the words "you are my care," she paused for a moment and drew a soft breath before finishing the second half of the line. Then the melody circled back to "sleep now, do not cry."

The snow fell thicker now.

She turned around, pushed open the door of the small chapel, and stepped inside, the door slowly closing behind her.

All three of them woke up.

When Grey woke, her face was wet with tears, and the lot in her hand radiated a gentle warmth;

When Clara woke, she sat up in bed and softly hummed the tune once through, only to trail off at the second verse and pull the quilt over her head;

When Catherine woke, a single thought filled her mind.

'She was singing it for him. I was just eavesdropping outside the door.'

Early the next morning, at the breakfast table in the Ashford Residence.

Evelyn yawned as she spread honey over her bread.

"I had a dream last night."

Her grandfather lowered his newspaper. "What did you dream about?"

"I dreamed about a really pretty older sister."

"She stood in the snow and waved to me. When I walked over, she gave me a huge cake."

Her grandfather gave a noncommittal "Mm" and picked his newspaper back up.

Sitting at the other end of the table, Richard held his teacup without taking a single sip.

"What did she look like?"

"I can't remember clearly." Evelyn stuffed the honeyed bread into her mouth.

"Anyway, she was really pretty—even a tiny bit prettier than Sister Grey... Don't tell Sister Grey I said that."

Chewing her bread, she thought for another moment.

"When she gave me the cake, she said something."

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'This is a return gift for your brother.'"

... A dozen miles north of Bremen lay a stretch of marshland that the locals called Devil's Moor.

The host of the Wild Hunt rested in the sky above the moor.

As usual, the riders were gathered in small clusters. One of them had picked up a piece of bog oak and whittled it into a die, but no matter how he rolled it, it refused to land on a six; with a curse, he tossed it back into the mud.

Another group crowded around the peat boat that had just been inducted into the host, arguing over whether it counted as a mount or a supernatural item.

The lord of the hunt said a word to the Old Scholar. "I'm stepping out for a bit. Keep an eye on this lot."

At those words, the chatter of tens of thousands of riders hushed all at once.

The burly man carrying the Black Wood poked his head out from the crowd. "The lord of the hunt is heading out alone? Who's paying for the inn?"

"Shut up."

The lord of the hunt shook his reins, and his mount stepped off the edge of the clouds and headed west.

The lame little dog chased after him for a few steps before the Old Scholar called it back with a whistle.

Crouching on the cloud's edge, it whimpered and whined, its wagging tail sweeping wisps of cloud all across the sky.

In Thuringia rose a low mountain, atop which an observatory had once stood. Back in the 1780s, a local duke had become obsessed with comets and paid out of his own pocket to have it built.

After the duke died, the astronomers gradually moved into town, and the stones were dismantled to build livestock sheds for the locals.

Now a small tavern stood on the original site, selling beer and fried sausages in the summer and locked up tight through the winter.

On this side of the veil, however, the telescope tube remained.

A reflecting telescope brimming with starlight stood mounted there, aimed straight at the chaotic sky behind the veil.

The lord of the hunt reined in his mount before the steps of the dwelling and cleared his throat, preparing to recite her honorific name.

"Save your breath. Who waits until they're already at the door to recite an honorific name?"

A woman's voice spoke, soft and gentle.

A figure stepped out from the doorway, her long gray wool dress trailing over her insteps and her cuffs flecked with ink.

Both of her hands were spotless; one supported a thick, leather-bound Star Catalog, while the other held a Quill sharpened to a needle point.

Where her face should have been, there was nothing—a neat, square blank, just like the empty spaces reserved in the Star Catalog for stars yet to be discovered.

"Leave the dog outside," the faceless woman said to him.

"I didn't bring a dog."

"Then what's that behind your saddlebag?"

The lord of the hunt looked back and saw that the lame little dog had slipped away from the Old Scholar at some point.

It was clinging to the back of the saddlebag right now, tongue lolling out as it panted heavily at the wooden frame.

"...It followed me on its own."

The lord of the hunt lifted the little dog down and set it in the snow.

The little dog sat there looking wronged, watching eagerly as the lord of the hunt ducked through the doorway, his antlers scraping against the frame.

Inside the room, all four walls were lined from floor to ceiling with drawers, each compartment labeled with a number.

Pinned beneath the corner of the desk was a letter bearing a postmark from Genoa, dated November 20th.

Seeing the lord of the hunt staring at the letter, she spoke up.

"It's from a junior of mine. She blinded her own eyes.

"She took a ship to the New Continent just last month to catalog the stars behind the veil."

'If I had a useful Major Adept junior, I'd definitely work her until the day she died,' the lord of the hunt thought.

"And you could actually bear to let her go?"

"Before she left, she drew up the duty roster for Turin all the way through 1925."

There was a rare note of satisfaction in her voice. "She takes after me in that."

Since the lord of the hunt had come to ask a favor, he naturally hadn't come empty-handed.

He produced a Whalebone Ruler. "This is for you. It's dead accurate."

The faceless woman didn't even spare it a glance. "There's no charge for this divination."