❝
THE AIR inside the mansion was thick with silence, except for the hurried echoes of footsteps racing down the eastern corridor. Argentum, his arms laden with a precarious pile of far too old books—some were half-bound in cracked leather, others were fraying at the spine—moved with the urgency of one who had far too many things to get done in far too little time.
His hair was a matted mess from the constant tugging, and sweat matted on his brow from the volumes' weight and pressure of how fast he had promised to accomplish his tasks before midday. The pages fluttered as he walked, with every other step adjusting his grip, muttering footnotes and indexing errors to himself.
Across the corridor, at the far end, Miranda came through the servant's passage carrying a small tray of porcelain dishes, polished and neatly stacked, freshly wiped and waiting to be returned to the kitchen. Her steps were measured and precise as always; she took pride in never making unnecessary noise, never stumbling, never drawing attention. The tray was wedged against her hip, her head slightly tilted to compensate for the tray's weight; her mind wandered on the day's remaining tasks, traveling just as quietly as her footsteps.
But fate—or mere coincidence—had another plan in mind.
Neither of them saw the other coming until it was too late.
With a loud smash, the corner of Argentum's stack hit the edge of Miranda's tray. The moment the tray tipped in hers, the books wobbled in his arms, and in a heartbeat, porcelain met stone. The fragments of the fragile white dishes scattered on the cold marble of the floor, akin to brittle snow.
Argentum froze, wide-eyed. "Ah—! Miranda! I—I am so sorry! I did not see you-damn it, I should have—"
He began to kneel, trying to reach for the shards while awkwardly holding the weight of the books under one arm. "I was in such a hurry. I didn't mean to—These plates, they—"
Miranda blinked in surprise for a moment before quickly steadying herself. As she might expect, her expression softened as she bent below to pick up greater pieces. "It's alright, Argentum. Really," she said, calm and composed even amid the mess. "It's just a few dishes. I can handle it."
"But—" he was saying, but she waved him off.
"What is more important," she said, brushing some porcelain into her apron, "are the books you are carrying. The Countess will be expecting them in the study room, won't she?"
Argentum hesitated, then slowly stood up, his grip tightening around the texts. "Yes," he said, his voice now much quieter. "She said she needed them before noon. For the . . . translation work."
"Then go," Miranda said with a tiny smile that still managed to be comforting. "I'll take care of this. You coming in late would only make things worse."
Some of that certainty in her cleared the weight of guilt he bore, and he nodded, truly thanking her. "Thank you, Miranda. I'm in your debt."
"You owe me a whole set of plates," she teased, winking at him while working on the last few shards.
Argentum laughed softly, regaining speed as he disappeared down the corridor with the tomes pressed tight against his chest.
Just as he turned around the corner and disappeared into the far-off junction of the hallway, Miranda remained kneeling on the marble floor, her hands hovering in motion over the broken pieces of porcelain. She gazed at him pensively, with head slightly tilted, her eyes lingering just a bit longer than good taste would permit. And then came the silence—the kind that returned to the corridor like an exhalation long-held.
She cast her eyes back down onto the broken plates strewn in front of her, their once-elegant patterns now rendered incomplete and sordid. A soft sigh escaped her lips. "What a pity," she muttered low, fingers brushing against the angled edge where a saucer lay cleanly bisected.
Now it was truly empty. The servants had gone about their chores. Argentum had gone long ago. The silence was truly hers alone.
Miranda straightened, opening her knees slightly and sitting back. Her hands hovered just above the pieces, then she ever so carefully opened them. It was as if she were drawing fine threads through the air. The temperature surrounding her stilled, the soft breeze blowing from the open windows became motionless. She saw dust glimmering around her fingers for a moment, and then—
The fragments stirred.
A hard click was heard as one piece lifted from the floor, then the second one, the next. They floated in mid-air, trembling a little as though resisting the passage of time. Then, with gentle movements, they began going back—edges meeting down cracks with patterns aligning with eerie precision. The motion was fluid enough to remind one of watching a flower bloom backward.
Time, or something akin to it, was folding inward.
Within moments, the broken tray of the porcelain dishes was standing there whole again on the floor before her, restored not just for functionality but also for the immaculate shine of a brand-new product, with not a chip in its surface.
Miranda stared at them, her lips twitching at the corners. She reached out and lightly touched one plate and saw it vibrating very faintly under her touch.
"There, good as new... or perhaps even better," she whispered, partly to herself. She rose again, carrying the tray with that same quiet grace that she always had. And just like that, the moment had passed. The shimmer was gone. There was once again silence down the hall.
Down in the mansion, the sun had barely risen above the very distant hills, whereas in one of the quiet wings of the Grimoard mansion, movement had already started in an extraordinary room.
Saevionh felt a tad uneasy, pacing restlessly back and forth within the dark interior, with a leather journal gripped very tightly in one hand while the other hand for some reason waved a bit erratically as though getting rid of thoughts that came in too quickly, without a filter. His lips silently formed words as he internally re-read the scribbled notes over and over again, while his eyes darted here and there across the margins overcrowded with dates, underlined names, and arrows mechanically drawn with almost surgical precision.
It was the same text–the same two paragraphs–for the fourth time.
Someone rapped on the door.
Saevionh, still pacing and not looking toward the door, muttered, "Come in–slowly, the floor is... Well, I cleaned it earlier for a reason."
As the creaking door swung open, in came Vladimir, composed as ever, perfectly upright, and with an opaque gaze. He stepped in and surveyed the little chaos—a mere matter of papers and books laid out in neat but obsessive rows across the floor and desk.
Vladimir's gaze tracked back to the young man pacing in an almost near-perfect rectangular pathway. "What are you doing, My Lord?"
Saevionh halted, half-turned to him with eyes closed as if he was not wearing his blindfold, with the journal in one hand and a pencil in the other. "I was-actually, I am-revisiting the archives I was able to salvage from Normaine. From the library there. I parsed it down alphabetically, again by relevance, again by region and date." His voice rose just above a murmur, like an engine warming up. "I didn't find much, something, or someone."
He made for the window, flipping the journal to an appropriate page. "I keep seeing names. One that I–at first–ignored, but kept creeping up. Footnotes, dedications, visitor logs. Even land titles from almost twenty years ago surface."
Vladimir raised an eyebrow. "And who is it?"
Taking the breath he suddenly needed to set forth his thoughts fully, Saevionh finally gained sufficient impulse to look him squarely in the eye. "The Duke of Erythria-Theocropolis. He was in Normaine. Often. Not just once or twice; it was frequent. Especially in the years before... before his trial and his crimes were exposed."
That tightness in Saevionh's voice had crawled in then. It was as though he had to hurry to say everything of what was flooding his mind before he forgets. "This fits. Too much." Every noble registry I was flipping through acknowledged his presence. Formal dinners. Private deals. Some nameless donations. Oftentimes in an alias, but it's always him if you read up closely."
Vladimir crossed his arms. "That's a pretty big stretch from coincidence."
"I don't think it was a coincidence," snapped Saevionh, spinning the journal to show him a rough drawing of maps and highlighted paragraphs. "Normaine wasn't just a stop for him. It was home ground. He knew the people. He knew the layout. He knew the links. And that makes me think..." He stopped and shrunk his eyes as he carefully made adjustments in aligning two papers on the desk."
Vladimir gave him a moment's appraisal and then asked, "Would this be about the Calestinia case?"
The question lingered like fog in the morning air. Saevionh's jaw tightened. His finger tapped the journal three times—once too hard.
"I'm not sure," he admitted now, in a lowered, more deliberate voice, "but if he's in the same boat... even on the smallest thread... he might have had some kind of connection with the Calestinia family. A relation may be. Quite distant. Or just somebody who was well-acquainted with them?? He had... reach, Vladimir....Influence-wise, wide and deep. Before the scandal, he was chummy with half the noble houses around. Maybe even more than that."
He moved toward the desk, sorting through pages carefully, with his eyes glancing between passages.
"If the Calestinia family were in on something larger—if they knew something, or possessed something dangerous—then someone like him would have had the motive to keep them quiet. Or use them."
He raised his gaze, now speaking in a very hushed tone. "Or... eradicate them."
Vladimir's eyes darkened. "Then we follow the thread."
Saevionh gave a single curt nod. "Yes, punctually, chronologically, and correctly."
Saevionh's fingers moved again, tapping against the journal as he contemplatively looked down, weighing each word carefully before speaking. "Normaine might not have burned every piece of ... paper, especially anything of significance. But, there's the issue with the Calestinia family..." He went quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts before going on, slower now, as if choosing his words with care.
"If they have a record of them, it would be ridiculously hard to locate. They were foreigners in Normaine. Albiana was their home. And while Normaine might keep detailed records of anyone who sets foot in their land, it isn't really accessible all the time. Foreigners are often... in the blind. Their names might be buried beneath layers of bureaucracy or ignored altogether, especially if they never had the power in Normaine itself."
He sighed audibly and ran his fingers through his hair. "The Calestinia family, despite having stature in Albiana, might not have made it to the records on Normaine's side. If something's out there, it'll take time. A lot."
Vladimir seemed to ponder for a moment before nodding again; it was as if the fact made the brow furrow slightly. "So we may find something, but it won't be easy."
"Exactly." Saevionh's gaze flicked back to the journal; his fingers drifted over the cover again as his mind moved ahead to the next detail and piece of the puzzle.
Vladimir's gaze sharpened as he shifted from studying Saevionh for a minute to speak with a more curious tone. "You know, all these years of digging, record searching, and following tracks so obscure that you'd think it would be impossible... all that actually happened before what you know happened to her." He shifted slightly in his seat, his voice remaining low. He looked to be bracing himself for something. "You're still helping the Countess."
Saevionh's movements ceased, and for a moment there was a long silence during which Vladimir's words found a place for consideration. Then he breathed in slowly, his eyes drifting for an instant to the open window, which was perhaps hoping for some of the right words. Then came the voice, assured but carrying an inaudible weight of history.
"She is my relative after all," he said bluntly. "And I agreed to help, Vladimir."
Vladimir appeared as if he intended to push further, looking at Saevionh with an expectation for more questions to linger in the air, but then Saevionh cut him off before he could start.
"Even though–"
They both turned around to see Argentum standing there, one hand on the doorframe, interrupting him with his usual calm self.
"Pardon for the interruption," Argentum said in his smooth manner, as he entered the room. "But breakfast is ready my lord, and everyone is waiting."
Vladimir sighed with satisfaction, obviously eager to discuss other things, and nodded. "Of course, let us not keep them waiting."
His expression unreadable, Saevionh closed the journal before him in a slight nod and picked up his blindfold from the table. Something about the words they had shared lingered in the air, though the conversation had shifted. The hanging unspoken history of events still unnarrated weighed heavy.
Came in Saevionh. Long oak table spread out before him, furnished with sumptuous provisions worthy royalty. Already seated at the head was the Countess, next to her Charlotte; while Azalik and Kali came at the last minute and took their places with all the flair of pirates at hearty, no-nonsense meals.
Several platters piled high with a variety of foods: eggs fried golden brown, crisp bacon strips, sausages sizzling with savory aroma; added to that were stacks of soft, buttery toast served with butter and marmalade and accompanied by fresh fruit-juicy oranges, apples, and grapes-each ornately placed in bowls. A large tureen of porridge stood at one end; invitingly drizzled with honey and scattered with dried fruit.
At the center of the room were sitting teapots-in-peace, steaming above freshly brewed Earl Grey with a pitcher of milk to add as one liked it. A round-up of jams-blackberry, strawberry, and apricot-next to freshly baked light, warm scones from the oven. A few sweet, delicate pastries quite added refinement to the exposition with layers of flaky dough and sweet fillings.
But the eye was drawn to portions belonging to Azalik and Kali-larger, more robust. Azalik, who is a pirate captain, has a plate stacked with a massive serving of fried fish-likely the rich buttery cod or mackerel with-that came thick with slices of black pudding, savory and full of flavor. A bowl of grits, a traditional dish in his homeland-decorated with a generous pile-on of smoked sausage-with fried potatoes-and this all filled the weight of his plate. Kali's plate is nearly mimicking his own, but she added some-more: massive chunks of roasted meats-lamb, chicken-roasted beans, tomatoes, and big chunks of hard cheese. Enough food was piled on her plate to satisfy the thirstiest of appetites-the one that earned it from fighting with the sea every day.
Argentum and Vladimir cautiously poured tea into dainty porcelain cups-their actions were very efficient, quite deft. In short order the two men exchanged a knowing glance and, leaving the last of the silent witnessing to the pair, took their seats at the table, which ended opposite the one next to Charlotte. The Countess, as always, was cool but acknowledged with the usual nod in greeting before her gaze flickered for a moment to the food set out for her.
Saevionh hesitated for a moment after filling his plate-not much of anything, in fact-mostly a few eggs, a strip of bacon, and a slice of toast. He just didn't have the appetite but he wouldn't let anyone think he was rude in front of them.
Kali turned to him, her fork stabbing at an enormous piece of roasted chicken while offering a little smile. "To all that fancy stuff, huh?" She joked using her thick pirate accent.
Azalik chuckled from across the table, shaking his head. "If you're going to eat like one of them, then be prepared to get through the day." His voice was rough but warm, filled with the easy camaraderie of one who had lived through hard times at sea.
Saevionh almost smiled at their teases, feeling a kind of comfort in their company, though the earlier tension remained. He turned from the Countess, who now ate in silence, to look at Charlotte, who though quiet with a slight edge, seemed to have relaxed more than usual.
"Is everything to your liking, Saevionh?" the Countess inquired, her voice cool yet tempered by an undercurrent of concern.
"Perfect, as always," he replied, nodding in appreciation, but his mind was already returning to the investigations he had been working on earlier. This breakfast was just another short-lived last second before they all got caught into the web of the mystery that awaited them.
As a hushed clatter of silverware and the soft buzz of casual morning dialogue fell over the dining-room, the Countess delicately placed her cup of tea down with a soft clink. Her gaze traveled across the table, pausing for a brief moment on Azalik, sweeping further to Charlotte and Saevionh. "Well then," she opened, in a calm yet almost languorous voice carrying just a trace of purpose. "Shall we speak about the preparations for Corsavenna?"
Azalik, still chewing on a generous bite of fried fish given a short nod, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which awarded him an almost imperceptible wince from Vladimir who silently passed him a napkin. Azalik ignored it.
"The plan's goin' smoothly, Countess," he replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. Faint scent of sea salt seemed to follow his every movement. "Everybody has agreed to it-no complaints. The crew's set provisions are packed, and The Léon Azuré is docked and ready to sail by tomorrow dawn."
Kali smirked as she leaned her elbow against the table, twirling a slice of sausage with her fork. "We even patched up the mainmast yesterday. Storm won't be a bother."
Saevionh sighs long and deep, his eyes casting a glance right over at Azalik, who was happily chewing the life out of his breakfast, leaving crumbs and bits of food strewn around everywhere.
"What a good day," Saevionh muttered under his breath, "that I cannot see how he eats... Despite his, let's say, distinctive way of devouring food, at least my ears aren't blessed with the sounds of his incessant munching." Almost fictively relieved, his hands were clasped, as though to ward off his assault on the senses. "Pirate or not, it's like there's a storm in there."
Azalik glanced at him from eating, a mischievous grin breaking out on his mouth as he wiped it on the back of his hand.
"Ah, Saevionh," he laughed, reclining back in his chair, "If the sounds of my eating disturb you a lot, perhaps I should start singing a tune for you while I eat. A nice pirate shanty accompaniment to the chewing, perhaps?"
He winked at the over-excited jest, then took another mouthful of meat. "But never mind, I shall keep the music to a minimum for you, my friend."
Meanwhile, the countess replied a simple word "Good," her voice poised although something flickered in her eyes-perhaps relief or calculation-as she turned to Charlotte. The youngest was caught with an unwashed mouthful of marmalade-covered toast. "Lady Charlotte, then I suppose you'll be well-prepared for the journey? After all, it won't be a simple jaunt."
Charlotte blinked quickly followed by swallowing and then a nod. "Y-yes, Your Ladyship. I'll be prepared."
The Countess gave a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "You'll find Corsavenna...atmospheric. And terribly important."
Then, her gaze shifted to Saevionh, who barely touched the food in front of him, but seemed lost in thought as he tapped his fingers rhythmically against the rim of his teacup-once, twice, thrice. And you, Saevionh? Will you manage the journey?
Saevionh seemed to pause then looked up with a tight nod: Yes. I'll prepare what I need before dusk. Notes, records...and perhaps a few questions I've been meaning to ask when we arrive. "Excellent," the Countess said, pleased. "So everything goes ahead as planned."
As the clinking of cutlery and the soft rustle of napkins settled into a morning rhythm, the Countess, poised with elegance as ever, turned slightly at that moment toward Saevionh. Her expression was calm, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind her eyes.
"Saevionh," she began, her voice smooth and clear, "is there any development regarding your investigation? Any clue worth mentioning?"
Saevionh applied the napkin to his mouth before he replied without missing a beat. "I found a few things. Nothing concrete... But it's something." He considered the porcelain for a moment, lightly tapping it three times with his fingers before picking up his teacup. "Once we reach Corsavenna... there will be hope that there may be more leads out there. The painting of Alonzo de Calart is there-being perhaps the key to our answers."
The Countess paused for a slow, all-knowing nod. "Then we can only hope that Corsavenna has long-held truths for us."
Charlotte looked up a minute after stirring with an almost hesitant carriage. "Countess," she spoke in a low voice, "do you happen to know anything about the painting we are to investigate? I mean...its name? Or its origin?"
Dorothea placed her cup down, gazing at Charlotte with some kind of gentleness tinged with reserve. "Oh dear, I'm afraid I don't know much about the painting itself, unlike you who were fond of artistry," she said. "But I know the name of the artist - Alonzo de Calart."
With great dignity, she folded her hands and spoke in a voice steeped in the respect of an old memory. "He was once widely acclaimed as the father of arts in Albiana. A grand master of painting, in noble circles revered and in whispers much talked of even beyond our borders. It was said that his works had... a soul of their own."
There was a light pause, and then she added, "If there is any painting that holds answers, my dear, his would be among those."
Charlotte gazed down at her untouched slice of toast with an equally quiet voice, now firm, saying, "Well, I guess I still need to take more time to acquire an understanding of artistry. There are so many things I don't know. My parents were definitely not into these matters… mainly not painting."
An even more profound silence followed her confessions, an awkward silence in which only tableware rustled before anybody could respond.
Just as at that moment, the doors of the dining room creaked open.
Lindice, the ever-introspective maid of the household, stepped in with a kind of dignified urgency. She curtsied swiftly and piped up, "Pardon the interruption, Your Ladyship, but… you've received a letter. From her."
For a flicker of a moment something momentary yet unreadable passed across Dorothea's face—a flick truly too evanescent to receive an appellation. She nodded once, as if to have her own thoughts come in between her feelings. "Thank you, Lindice."
Moving to the Countess, the maid put forward the envelope, extending it for everyone present to witness. Without uttering another word, she accepted it from the maid, gloved fingers trailing the sealed edge before setting it down with the utmost sureness beside her teacup.
"I have been wondering about 'her' message."