Mr Andrew Donovan and the Case of Corindale -- Continued

 CHAPTER TWO

A dream.

Smoke curling in the air. Cheap cigars, dusty ashtrays. A familiar bar.

A few bills on the table. Door swings open. Outside, streetlamps flicker. Streetlight looks like butter on the wet streets. Stale cold dusk, the pitter patter of rain and footfalls.

“Mr. Donovan?”

Wetly walking. Ducking into an alleyway. Stale cold night. Wind rustling, shadows flickering across cement walls. The taste of copper and smoke. A familiar taste.

“Mr. Donovan?”

Andrew jerks awake, blinking rapidly.

The lights of the Vestera Metropolitan Police Station are searingly bright. He’s in the filing room, and Ms. Meurer, the receptionist, is standing over him with a concerned expression on her face.

“Mr. Donovan?” she asks again for the third time.

“Sorry, yes, I’m – I was just – ” Andrew looks around, almost desperately. He’s fallen asleep next to a stack of papers. In his lap is the manila folder for the Ingles case; it’s opened to a photo of a cow carcass.

Ms. Meurer seems to take pity on him, and saves him from further embarrassment by saying, “A letter came in for you. No return address, but it has the Nortehale emblem on it.” She hands him a sturdy off-white envelope.

“Thank you,” Andrew says, sitting up. “Do I need – Does this need to be kept for evidence later?”

Ms. Meurer gives him an inquiring look. “Only if there’s incriminating evidence within the letter,” she settles for.

“What time is it?” Andrew asks, weighing the envelope in his hand.

“A few hours after sunset. Better head home, Donovan.” With a nod, she leaves the filing room. Andrew is left alone.

As per Ms. Meurer’s recommendation, Andrew cleans up the files and heads out. He salutes Ms. Meurer on his way out of the office.

The walk home is uneventful, but cold. Andrew reaches his apartment building and takes the stairs two at a time. He unlocks the door and greets Gnocchi.

It isn’t until he’s finished his dinner – reheated beans, no bread – that Andrew pulls out his letter.

Carefully, Andrew pulls off the wax seal and sets it aside to examine later. The letter smells faintly of perfume when he pulls it out.

Andrew Donovan,

I hope that this letter finds you well. I do realize that we met only yesterday (it is yesterday, for me, as I am writing this letter on the 17^th of December, 1913); forgive my haste, but the visitors we receive at Corindale are few and far in between.

I’m reaching out to invite you back to the Nortehale mansion three days from now, on the 20^th of this month. I believe there are a few questions left unanswered between us. This time, unlike the visit you paid to Corindale previously, I will be the one receiving you – not my mother. Mrs. Nortehale, unfortunately, will be indisposed: she has business to attend to in Telurgia ad will not return until next week.

As such, one of our footmen will greet you and bring in you, should you choose to accept this invitation. Do let me know if you will be able to visit.

Sincerely,

L. Nortehale

Andrew reads the letter twice, then checks the back of the paper, and the envelope. Finding nothing, Andrew searches his apartment for something to write on. Finding nothing again, he sighs and makes a mental note to reply to Ms. Nortehale the next morning.

“Why me,” Andrew wonders, scratching Gnocchi absently behind her ears as he muses. It’s a question that bounces in his head for some time, even after he finishes washing his tin can and feeding Gnocchi.

As the sun sets, Andrew lights a kerosene lantern.

Andrew’s reading the letter once more, to check for anything he might’ve missed, when he hears it: a blood-curdling shriek and the slamming of a door.

He’s out of the chair, out of this room, and down the stairs in an instant, kerosene light in hand. As he’s climbing down the stairs, he hears yelling, the slamming of doors.

“What happened?” a neighbor sticks his head out of an apartment.

“Going to find out,” Andrew answers over his shoulder, continuing downstairs.

Andrew reaches the first floor a minute later.

One of Andrew’s neighbors is pressed against the front door of the apartment, her palms pressed flat against the door and her face white as paper.

“Sylvia? What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, and puts her finger over her mouth.

Andrew steps forward cautiously. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says, quieter. “Did someone – ”

Sylvia steps forward and urgently puts her hand over Andrew’s mouth. She shakes her head furiously, and ushers him back into the open door behind him, into Sylvia’s apartment.

Inside, three children and their grandfather – Sylvia’s father – wait silently in the farthest corner from the door, huddled together, eyes wide. The apartment door shuts with a click behind them, and only then does Sylvia speak.

“I saw it – I saw it again, Andrew,” she says, half-whispering. “I saw – ”

Andrew frowns, searching his memory for an incident like this, anything like –

“Do you remember?” Sylvia continues, looking past him now, at her children, “A month ago, I heard the same noise, and the rags we left outside were ripped.”

“What noise?” Andrew asks, and when she doesn’t reply immediately, he repeats, more urgently, “Sylvia, what noise? I need you to tell me?”

“The howling,” she says, finally, with a shudder. “The same howling – I thought it was a coyote, but it was fast – ”

“Did you see it?”

“I saw a shadow, just the shadows moving – ”

Andrew nods. “Stay here.”

He stands and strides out of the room, opening first the door to Sylvia’s apartment, then the door to the building, stepping out onto the cobblestone road.

The darkness is almost overwhelming at first, but then the light from his kerosene lantern bleeds through the fog, and Andrew can make out the building across the street. He looks left and right, then ducks into the alleyway to the left of the tenement building.

A tendril of fear laces around Andrew’s chest. The alleyway is dark and shrouded with fog. With trembling fingers, Andrew holds up his kerosene lantern. His other hand, in his coat pocket, tights around his ward ring.

The empty alleyway stares back at him, nothing amiss save for black stains against the crumbling walls. Andrew licks his lips nervously.

He steps closer to examine the black stains, when his shoe catches on something soft. Andrew ducks down to see torn rags. He takes one and stuffs it in his coat pocket before returning to examine the alley’s walls again.

On closer inspection, the black stains aren’t liquid, or blood, like Andrew had expected. In the crumbling brick, thick gauges in the material leaves dark shadows that look like blood, deep scratch marks in the unmistakable shape of claws.

Andrew shudders and pulls away. He returns to Sylvia to assure her that there is nothing there, but that he’ll continue investigating. The words fall out of his mouth automatically, and he only half-hears himself speaking.

He returns to his one-room apartment to get some much-needed rest. Though it wastes oil, Andrew leaves the kerosene light burning the whole night.

The next morning when he wakes, the lantern has burned itself out. He puts the lantern aside and makes note to purchase more kerosene at the next opportunity.

After finishing the last bit of a loaf of bread for breakfast, Andrew heads to the station to write a letter in response to Ms. Nortehale.

He walks to the station, enters and tips his hat at Ms. Meurer like always; it feels as though he’s going through the motions. He enters the filing room – which has become an office of sorts for him – and picks out a clean sheet of off-white paper. He sketches out a quick response methodically:

Ms. Lullaby Nortehale,

I would be pleased to visit Corindale two days from now, on the 20^th of this month. I will arrive no later than midday.

A. Donovan

He proofreads it once before sealing the note in an envelope and writing out Lullaby’s name on the back. He hands it to Ms. Meurer with verbal instructions before returning to Inspector McCormick’s office.

“Mr. Donovan,” McCormick looks up from her notebook after Andrew knocks, “Please, come in.”

“Detective Inspector,” greets Andrew, “I have a few updates on our case.”

“You mean the Ingles case?”

“Right,” Andrew nods. “The first is that Ms. Nortehale invited me to Corindale two days from now.”

“Corindale?”

“It’s an old name for the Nortehale house.”

McCormick makes a noise of understanding. “Ms. Meurer told me of your correspondence with Ms. Nortehale.”

“Well, there wasn’t anything suspicious in the letters, but I’ll be wary during my visit to see her nonetheless.”

“As you should be. Did she mention the reason for your visitation?”

Andrew hesitates. “I began to ask her a few questions when we met during her mother’s interview. She said that she’d like to continue our conversation.”

“Interesting,” muses McCormick. “You may divulge information regarding our case if necessary, but I trust you will do so with discretion. We don’t need all of Vestera to know the details of our investigation.”

“Of course. And the second thing…”

“Yes?”

“Well, a month ago, a few of the people living in my – my complex noted that they heard some strange noises. Animal noises. The clothes they’d left outside were ripped to shreds. At first they thought it was a cat, or a stray coyote.”

McCormick prompts, “But?”

“Last night, my neighbor Sylvia reported the same noise. She said she saw shadows. I went out to investigate, and I found this.” Andrew pulls out the tattered rag from his jacket. Unfolding the cloth reveals three long gauges in the cloth.

“Claw marks.”

Andrew nods in agreement. “And I took a lantern out to look at the alley walls. The same markings were on the brick.”

“This clawed through brick?”

“It’s old, and crumbling. It holds its structure but I could rip out chunks of the brick from where it’s molded over.”

McCormick taps her chin. “Interesting. We’ll have to relay this information to Bruce.”

“And the Chief?”

“Not yet. But keep an eye out. Do you know why none of your neighbors reported these incidents?”

Andrew wipes his palms on his pants. “I don’t live in the best part of the city. They most likely didn’t think that the police would care about an animal knocking around the tenement alleys.”

McCormick gives him an understanding look. “I’ll take this rag, give it to Doctor Price and see what he has to say. We’ll find if they match the prints we found at the Ingles’ farmhouse. You find Nomous, give him a run-down. I’ll send for you when we get word from Price. Keep checking in at the station.”

“Understood.”

“Good work, Mr. Donovan.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

With that dismissal, Andrew heads out in search of Nomous. Nomous is in the break room, nursing a warm cup of coffee. He looks up when Andrew steps in.

Andrew relays the information quickly, and Nomous is surprisingly noncritical.

“Fine,” he says, not unkindly. He stirs more cream into his coffee.

Finished, Andrew heads home to drop off a few papers. His rent has been helped significantly because of the pay from his job as a consulting, but there’s only so much evidence that can be processed in a day. Because of this, he heads to the factory after, for a shift there.

The next two days pass by slowly: Andrew works half shifts at the station, then returns to the heart of the city to cover a few shifts at the factory.

The 20^th of December finally comes, and Andrew wakes that morning, grateful for a change from the monotony of the factory.

He walks to the Northwestern most edge of town. As he walks, he thinks that it will snow soon.

Andrew reaches Corindale much sooner than midday, but a footman is already waiting by the iron-wrought gate that blocks off the mansion from the cobblestone streets. “Good morning, sir,” the footman greets. Andrew waves in response.

The footman unlocks and drags open the metal gate for Andrew to enter. After closing the gate, Andrew is escorted down the gravel driveway, towards the open double doors. “Where to?” Andrew asks the footman. The footman doesn’t reply; instead, Arthur the butler emerges from within the Nortehale mansion.

“Good morning, Mr. Donovan.”

“Good morning, Arthur. Where are we headed to?”

Andrew follows Arthur into the mansion, and the silent footman closes the double doors behind them. “Today, Ms. Nortehale will receive you in the dining room. She is just beginning her luncheon.”

Andrew follows Arthur into a large dining room. The single mahogany table stretches down the length of the room, flanked on either side by elegant chairs. Purple carpets stretch out underfoot, and a single metal chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

“Andrew,” Lullaby calls, from where she sits at the head of the table. She sounds delighted. “You’ve arrived just in time for a quick luncheon. Please, have a seat.” She gestures towards the seat to her immediate right.

Arthur strides ahead to pull out the chair for Andrew. “May I take your coat, sir.” Arthur slips off Andrew’s wool coat expertly and leaves the room. Just as he leaves, a maid walks in carrying two silver platters laden with food.

“Luncheon, for Ms. Nortehale and her guest,” the maid announces.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Lullaby says. Nancy transfers plates of small sandwiches, fruit, and pastries onto the table.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Andrew echoes, blinking down at the food before him, slightly taken aback by Ms. Nortehale’s hospitality.

“Please, help yourself,” Lullaby smiles. “I had the cook prepare twice as much just in case you came early to eat.”

“I – thank you.”

“Of course.” Lullaby continues smiling faintly even as she places a few sandwiches onto her plate. “Tea? I could have Nancy bring in some juice.”

“Just tea is fine.”

“Nancy, be a dear and bring us some juice, would you?”

Nancy curtsies before heading back into the kitchen.

“Mm,” Andrew says, “This is fantastic. Thank you again.”                                                                                       

“Of course.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this length, you know, I assumed – I was under the impression that we’d just have a conversation.”

“Oh, we will have a conversation, Andrew. Hospitality simply dictates that we never have guests in Corindale with empty stomachs.”

Andrew chuckles at this. A few minutes are then dedicated to their meal: Lullaby picks apart her sandwiches and Andrew polishes off a croissant. Nancy returns with juice and when Lullaby waves her hand, Nancy curtsies once more, then exits the room.

“Your mother is away?” Andrew asks conversationally, looking up from his tea.

“She often travels to Telurgia.”

“It’s quite a distance.”

Lullaby shrugs. “She manages. When she returns, she’ll be bringing one of my close friends, Sofia, home to Corindale.”

“How often do you leave Corindale?”

“Have you seen our garden?” Lullaby asks.

“I saw the lawns on the way in. I was only wondering how often because I’ve never seen you nor Mrs. Nortehale out in the city – ”

“Let’s take a walk in the garden,” Lullaby says.

They finish their lunch. Nancy sweeps in to clear their plates while Lullaby and Andrew head to the gardens.

“Your amulet,” Andrew says, attempting a different vein of conversation, “Is it a ward gem?”

Their shoes crunch on the gravel of the garden behind Corindale. Ahead of them, the rose beds – white, pink, yellow, and red – stretch out. Andrew spies a gazebo and stone fountain a little further away.

“How do you know?” Lullaby’s voice trembles very slightly, almost undetectably.

Andrew holds out his right hand. In the pale sunlight, his emerald ring glints. “Ward gems.” Andrew says, turning his fingers to better examine the gold band around his finger. “Centuries old in most cases, but sometimes considered superstitious. Meant to protect against misfortune.”

“Misfortune, among other things.”

“Like what?”

“Such as devils, evil spirits,” Lullaby shrugs, “The like.”

“And has yours done its job?”

“Has yours?” Lullaby counters. “Tell me, Mr. Donovan, if such ward gems are heirlooms sometimes centuries old, how does a common man such as yourself happen across one?”

Andrew opts for honesty. “My mother gave it to me before she passed away. She received it from her sister, who married into old money.”

“Here, in Vestera?”

“No,” Andrew frowns slightly, “As it is, my aunt was married in Telurgia.”

“Into ‘old money,’ you say.”

“Is there another term you’d prefer?”

“If this is true, then how can her nephew, you, be living in such poverty?”

“How do you suppose I’m living in poverty?”

Andrew looks at Lullaby. She flushes. “I apologize,” she says, “I didn’t – ”

“My aunt passed on before I was born. Her husband never cared much for my mother, and as such, hardly knew me at all.” He shrugs. “It was easier for him to forget that his wife had a sister, I suppose.”

Lullaby inhales to speak, but Andrew is quicker.

“Do you have a gardener that lives on the property? These flowers are beautiful.”

If Lullaby is grateful for the change of subject, she doesn’t show it.

“No,” she says, “I often tend to these myself. And if I’m not – if I am indisposed, then a footman will take over.”

“Indisposed,” Andrew echoes, in the manner of a question.

“I often get – that is to say, I’m rather susceptible to illness.”

“Is that why you don’t leave Corindale?”

“I – well, essentially… yes.”

“What kind of illness do you contract?”

“What kind of manner of speech are you used to?” Lullaby counters, her eyebrows creasing, “It is very rude to intrude, you know.”

“I was invited here to ask questions, wasn’t I?” Andrew tilts his head in question.

Lullaby blinks. “Ask another.”

“The Ingles’ farm – have you ever been to it?”

“You mean to ask if I know anything about the case.”

“Do you?”

Lullaby runs her hand over a white rose than they pass, caressing a petal with her thumb. “No, I’ve never been to the Ingles’ farm. I’ve never spoken to the family either.”

“Who did, your mother?”

“When it was necessary, Mrs. Nortehale spoke to the farmers, which I assume you know.”

“I did. Mrs. Nortehale told us in her interview a few days ago.”

“Doubting her word?”

“Verifying the truth,” Andrew protests, “You can never rely on human memory.”

They turn a corner and walk towards the stone fountain. A frozen cherub plays a stone harp; water sprouts from his instrument.

“Have you always been with the police?”

“No,” Andrew says, “Before this case, I worked in the factories. I still do, when I’m off from the station.”

“The factory? You must live in the heart of the city then.”

“I do.”

“Have you no family to share your home with?”

“I live by myself,” Andrew says. At that, Lullaby looks at him. “Do you feel lonely?” she asks finally.

He also waits a few moments before replying. “Sometimes.” After they loop around the fountain, Andrew adds, “I do, however, live with my cat.”

“Your cat?” Lullaby smiles, delighted.

“Her name is Gnocchi,” Andrew says.

“Do tell.”

They continue talking for a while longer, looping around the garden, the fountain, and the gazebo twice more before the clock tower rings out across the city.

“Dear me,” Lullaby looks up from their conversation, squinting at where the sun has begun to set. “I’ve kept you for far too long.”

“No worries,” Andrew says, though they both turn to head back towards the mansion.

“You’ll have to come back sometime soon,” Lullaby says, as Andrew collects his coat. Arthur helps him slide the wool over his shoulders.

Andrew offers Lullaby a faint smile.

“Shall I send for you the same time next week?”

“If your schedule permits.”

Lullaby claps her hands together. “Lovely. I will see you then.”

Arthur the butler escorts Andrew to the front doors, where Andrew is then received by the footman. The footman escorts Andrew to the front gate, where the iron gate opens with a shudder and a groan.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the footman says, tucking his arm against his chest and bowing slightly.

Andrew tips his hat. “Good afternoon.”

Instead of returning to the factory for another shift, Andrew heads to the city library.

It’s raining outside, and the lights from the streetlamps look like butter on the wet streets. Andrew’s mind flickers back to his dream. As the wind picks up, Andrew turns up his collar instinctively. He fights the urge to look behind him, but paranoia seeps in anyway. Andrew thinks of Sylvia. He thinks of the Ingles and he thinks of the deep purple color of Lullaby’s ward gem.

Andrew steps into the library, dripping rainwater onto the rug by the entrance. He drags his feet against the carpet. He grimaces.

Andrew finds the right section quick enough. After wiping his damp palms on his pants, Andrew pulls out a thick book on ward gems.

He reads quickly.

His nose is so cold it feels warm.

“Ward gems,” Andrew reads, holding the book in one hand, and cupping his breath in his other to keep the warmth. “Typically a symbol of status and prominence in many families – can be any gemstone, though some jewels have more affinity toward magic and casting than others. For example, emeralds and rubies are very common ward gems. Rarer selections include diamonds and amethyst, both for their scarcity as well as their finnicky nature.

“Ward gems are typically set into jewelry: gold and silver are metals most susceptible to magics, and therefore, ward amulets or ward rings are often made with gold or silver, or a combination of both. Metals such as copper and aluminum are considered less precious, less conducive.”

Andrew pauses. He wonders: the Nortehale are undoubtedly the richest family in the county of Vestera; why would such a well-endowed family use a less precious metal in their jewelry?

He reads on.

“Though ward gems are typically worn prominently, as to best display a family’s wealth, some consider ward gems a sign of superstition. This is because ward gems are also used to mitigate the effects of curses and magical spells.”

Andrew reads on, absorbed until someone shakes him out of his reverie.

“Young man?”

Andrew jerks his head out of his book to come face to face with the librarian.

“Sorry, I was – ” Andrew looks down at the book and finishes lamely, “Reading.”

“You can read at home. Check the book out, but we’re closing soon.”

Andrew nods his thanks, and the library pushes his cart further along, to reshelve his books.

Andrew’s picked up his book and fished his library slip from within his coat, heading down the aisle when something in the librarian’s cart catches his eye.

“Satyricon?” Andrew reads aloud.

The librarian looks up. “This is the English translation. Originally, it was written in Latin by Petronius.”

“I’ll take it.”

Books in hand, Andrew leaves the library after checking out. 

Mr Andrew Donovan and the Case of Corindale

Here's something I wrote for my sister for a Christmas present! I'm not sure if I'll be able to finish in time, but she asked for a romantic story involving werewolves and witches. I'm including some inspiration GIFs at the end. Here we go!

PROLOGUE

Darkness falls over the countryside, smothering dark, stubbled cornfields. Venus hangs in the sky, heavy and looming. Fog snakes through stalks of corn.

A single dirt road winds through the fields. The air is motionless.

Along the dirt road, some miles out past the city, there is a single farm overlooking a cornfield and a grazing pasture. The yellow lights of the farmhouse flicker. In the fog, the house looks like a boat floating at sea.

Though seemingly idyllic, in the shadows of the cornfield, several tall stalks rustle. There is no wind.

Inside the house lives the farmer and his wife, as well as their two children, in a picturesque portrait of rural life. They are oblivious as they prepare for evening supper.

Outside, stalks of corn part in the darkness, clearing a path toward the pasture, where defenseless cattle rest.

Our family is finishing up the dishes when the cry of a sow rips through the air.

The daughter drops a dish; it shatters. The wife jerks. “What was that?”

The farmer grabs his rifle from where it hangs on the wall, motioning to his son. The two of them leave the house in a silent rush – the son quiet because of his fear, and the father because of his worry. The door slams shut behind them.

Some miles away, the same darkness falls over the city, smothering flickering streetlamps. Fog floods the streets, leaving the air damp and thick.

Vestera is a rather large city, landlocked by fields of crop. Despite the flat agriculture surrounding it, the city boasts two large factories that pump out smog day in and day out. Tenement buildings, old and gray, can be found in the heart of the city. Their inhabitants work in the factories during the day; they sprawl across the slums at night, desperate for some sense of space that their tight quarters do not offer.

At the Northwestern edge of Vestera lies an enormous mansion, guarded by vicious Rottweilers and black fences. Here lives old money – the elusive Nortehale family – and very rarely do passersby see the shuttered windows open.

It so happens that this is where our story begins.

A young man, perhaps in his early twenties, is passing by the Nortehale mansion. The night is cold: he tightens his thin coat around his neck and shoves his hands, which are bare save for a sizeable ring on his right index finger, deeper into his wool pockets. As he enters the cobblestone streets of Vestera, he passes a lamplighter finishing up his night’s work.

“Afternoon,” the first man says.

The lamplighter nods in return.

Our young man strides purposefully. His steps carry him to his destination quickly: the Vestera Metropolitan Police.

“Is Chief Inspector Muldover in?” the young man asks the secretary.

Before said secretary can reply, the doors of the main office open.

“Andrew Donovan,” says the man who opened the office doors. He’s a heavyset man, his wide girth taking up most of the doorframe that he stands in. He frowns around the cigarette in his mouth.

Andrew, the young man, tips his hat at the secretary in thanks before stepping forward.

“Chief Inspector,” Andrew holds out his hand, “I do believe we got off on the wrong foot.”

Chief Inspector Muldover sucks on his cigarette for a long second before replying. “To say that would be an understatement,” he grunts. Muldover blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “You interrupted the critical investigation of a local tenement. You,” the Chief Inspector points his cigarette at Andrew, “obstructed justice. I could have you arrested for that.”

Andrew takes his hand back. “I have apologized, Chief, I just didn’t think that – ”

Chief Inspector Muldover shakes his head and walks around Andrew, towards the back of the police station. “Ms. Meurer,” the chief addresses the secretary, “Please refrain from letting the likes of him,” Muldover jerks his head to indicate Andrew, “Into the station from now on. We’ve got enough on our hands.”

“Sir,” protests Andrew. He follows Muldover into the filing room. “I really think you should give me a chance – ”

“Send Nomous and McCormick into my office,” Muldover commands, ignoring Andrew.

“I don’t think it’s fair to let one incident dictate your impression of me – ”

Muldover picks up a hefty stack of folders. “Ever heard of a first impression, Donovan? It’s a one-time thing.”

“ – and I think that I deserve an opportunity to prove myself – ”

Chief Inspector heads back into his office, folders in one meaty hand and smoldering cigarette in the other.

“ – at least out on the field – ” Andrew trails off. He’s followed Muldover into his office and stops at the sight of two other inspectors waiting at attention.

“At ease, detectives,” Muldover says, dropping the files onto his desk and then gingerly settling down in his chair. “Tell me what you have, Inspector.”

“Who’s this?” the male detective leers. “He’s not with us, is he?”

“Watch yourself, Bruce,” the other says. She looks at Andrew curiously.

Chief Inspector Muldover leans back in his chair and exhales a cloud of smoke. It takes a few seconds for the smoke to clear; then Muldover says: “Go on, Donovan. Explain yourself to Inspector McCormick here. It was her investigation that you botched.”

Andrew blinks. He looks at the two detectives. “I apologize again,” Andrew addresses Inspector McCormick, “I was just telling Chief Inspector that I think I deserve a chance to show this department what I can do. I have insights that you may not – ”

“You mean you’re street scum,” snorts the Junior Inspector. “You don’t know anything more than us, you just spend more time out on – ” At Inspector McCormick’s glance, the Junior Inspector falls silent.

Chief Inspector taps his cigarette. “Go on.”

“Essentially,” Andrew continues, “I believe I’ll be useful to this department, and I want a chance to prove my worth.”

The Junior Inspector sneers and Andrew looks away.

“What is to be done with this kid is up to you, Inspector McCormick,” Chief Muldover says. “All I want is a briefing on this new case.”

Inspector McCormick tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Understood,” she says decisively. “Donovan can stay for now.”

The other detective fumes.

“Junior Inspector Nomous and I were called to the countryside early this morning. The Ingles’ farm.” Inspector McCormick pulls out her own manila folder and clears a small spot on Chief Inspector Muldover’s desk. She turns to her partner. “Bruce?”

“Last night,” the Junior Inspector steps up to open the folder, “The Ingles family was having dinner when they heard their cattle cry out. Mr. Ingles and his son step out to investigate the noise.” He pulls out two prints. “We had these developed this afternoon. These are photos from the scene.”

The black-and-white prints are colorless in contrast to the mahogany of Chief Inspector Muldover’s desk. They show the remains of a cow’s carcass.

Muldover’s face is blank. “So?”

“At first, we thought it was a rogue wolf,” Inspect McCormick says, “But two nights ago, the same incident occurred at another farm outside of Vestera.”

The Junior Inspector pulls out another black-and-white photo wordlessly.

“And the night before that,” McCormick says. Junior Inspector pulls out another photo.

“Three killings of three cows, three nights in a row,” McCormick continues. “If it were a wolf or a coyote, they wouldn’t need to kill for weeks after a cow. The meat would feed them for a while.”

“So what if it was a pack?” Muldover asks.

“We thought so as well. But Doctor Wylen Price from St. Eumenes Hospital was in town this week, and we showed him the claw marks.” McCormick pulls out three more photos. “Here are the marks of all three killings. With Doctor Price’s insight, we discovered two things.

“The first is that all of these markings came from the same animal. See the claw marks, here, and here?” She points to the pictures. “Relatively the same length, depth, and angle. Whatever killed these things killed them all the same way. And whatever is was, there was only one of it.”

Muldover flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the floor and grinds down on it with the heel of his shoe. “And the second?”

“The second insight is that these claw marks are much larger than an average coyote or wolf. Do you see the depth here, on the belly? A typical wolf wouldn’t be able to make cuts that deep.”

“I ask you again,” Muldover says, “So what? We’re looking at an atypically large wolf with an appetite. I don’t see why we’re investigating this case.”

“Sir,” Junior Inspector says, “That would be the case, if it weren’t for one thing. The cows were killed in the same way, and the same parts of them were consumed: belly and thigh. What kind of animal is picky about what it eats?”

“More than that,” McCormick continues, “When was the last time a pack of wolves came through this area? These farms are far too close to Vestera for any self-respecting animal: too much smog and too much light at night. Those conditions aren’t ideal for hunting.”

“Are you telling me,” Muldover leans in, “That it isn’t an animal that’s killing these cattle?”

“Whatever it is,” Junior Inspector says, “It’s getting closer.” He pulls out a rough sketch of Vestera and surrounding counties. “The first attack was here,” he points, “the second, a few miles closer, and the third, even closer. The attacks are moving towards the city.”

Muldover presses two fingers against his temple. “Inspector, are you sure we’ll find something other than a hungry wolf?”

“I’m positive, sir,” McCormick says. “I think the investigation will be worth it, Chief, and with all due respect, we haven’t had a case like this in some time.”

Junior Inspector Bruce interrupts. “What she means by that is we haven’t had anything but milk runs for three months, and it’s about time that we actually use our brains for a case. Sir.”

Muldover rubs his temple. “Very well. But if something more important comes up, I don’t want to have my two best Inspectors running around some corn fields looking for pawprints. I’ll need you back here.”

“Understood,” both Inspectors agree.

“Oh,” Muldover says, “And take Donovan with you when you leave. I don’t want him around here, he gives me a headache. Do with him what you will. Dismissed.”

Junior Inspector gives the Chief a mocking salute before leaving the office; McCormick looks at Andrew for a moment, then gestures for him to follow.

“Detective Inspector Carey McCormick,” she introduces herself to Andrew when they’ve exited the police station. “It’s about time we’ve formally met.”

“Andrew Donovan,” he shakes her hand.  “Thanks for letting me sit in back there, I really – ”

“This is my partner, Junior Detective Inspector Bruce Nomous,” she continues.

Nomous jerks his head in acknowledgement.

“Look, kid,” she says, stopping them underneath a streetlight. The lamppost draws a long shadow across her face. It’s starting to mist gently. “You help us out, and we’ll help you out. You have some sources, and I think you could be useful.”

Andrew begins to reply but she holds up a hand. “You’re eager, but you’ll have to prove yourself.” She nods towards Nomous. “Especially to Bruce, here.”

“Yes ma’am,” Andrew nods.

A smile tugs at McCormick’s mouth. “Report back to the station tomorrow first thing in the morning. We’ll see how useful you can be.”

CHAPTER ONE

The wind nips at Andrew’s heels; he walks a little faster – the sooner he gets home, the better. Instinctively, he rubs his thumb over his ring in his pocket. As if to reassure himself, he pulls his right hand out of his warm pocket, and holds his hand out in front of him. Andrew passes a streetlamp and he slows to admire the glint of light on his ring.

The emerald is set deep in gold, its crystal shape held in place with prongs of decorated gold. The ward ring is heavy and hums on his finger, its charms responding to Andrew’s attention. He smiles faintly.

The rest of his trip is speedy: Andrew wastes no more time and makes it across Vestera in record time, the wind chasing after him.

He enters the apartment he lives in, and races up the metal stairs, two at a time. As he passes each landing, the noises of his neighbors filter through: Andrew hears a couple arguing, several babies crying, and the static of a radio.

His room is cramped and smells stale when he walks in. A soft meow greets him.

“Hey there, Gnocchi,” Andrew greets the black cat.

The cat is perched on the solitary wooden table in the middle of the room, exactly in the middle between a stove that serves as his kitchen and a single metal cot that serves as his bed. The one-room apartment isn’t much, this much Andrew knows, but he hardly spends time here anyway; and at least, he gets to live here himself – which is a luxury he should be grateful for.

Gnocchi, the cat, has bright eyes the color of Andrew’s ward ring. Perhaps a coincidence, but Andrew’s taken it as a sign, and leaves the cat milk and some scraps when he can.

Gnocchi doesn’t belong to him, necessarily; she got her name on account of her eating the scraps from the Italian immigrants two floors below him. She belongs to the apartment as a whole, he supposes, but since she’s been in his room more and more often and he’s been feeding her more and more often, it only seems fair to think of her as his.

“You’ll never guess what happened to me today,” Andrew says conversationally as he shrugs off his canvas pack. He pulls out a can of beans and prepares to heat them in the stove for a measly dinner. “You remember the Inspector I pissed off? She offered me a job, essentially.” He frowns. “Well, I think she did. She never mentioned anything about pay, which I should’ve brought up, now that I think about it…” he trailed off. “Anyway.”

Andrew pulls out half a dry loaf of bread from his cabinet, left over from a few days ago. The bread goes with the beans for dinner, and Gnocchi licks the tin can clean afterwards. When they finish, Andrew rinses the can with tap water and sets it next to the others. He drinks some water and then crosses the room to his cot.

“Good night, Gnocchi,” Andrew yawns, pulling his wool coat closer around himself. He slips out of his shoes and slides underneath his blanket. Sleep crashes over him like a wave.

Andrew wakes from the cold the next morning.

It isn’t winter yet, but the chill is beginning to seep in earlier and earlier each morning. Andrew’s breath fogs in the air when he exhales. He lies in bed for a moment, then rises to shut the window, which opened in the strong wind sometime during the night.

Andrew sips his water and unlocks his door, pausing to say goodbye to Gnocchi, who watches him leave with emerald eyes.

He’s heading down the stairs, tucking the metal key into his pocket when he realizes that he forgot his hat. Andrew freezes on the steps and curses. Should he brave the cold, and potentially, snow; or should he risk the chance of being late? Andrew takes another second to muse before pushing forward, jogging down the stairs and outside.

The second he exits the building, he regrets his decision: winter is indeed around the corner, the breeze feisty and the air cruelly dry. “Push on,” he mutters to himself, and digs his hands into his pocket. The metal of his ring is cold, but Andrew ignores it.

The Vestera Metropolitan Police Station is bustling with commotion, even this early in the morning, as Andrew pushes open the door. He’s warmed up a bit from his walk – quite a distance, across several blocks – but the warmth of the station stings when he walks in.

Several assistants are rushing across the station carrying coffee; the secretary is arguing vehemently with an Inspector, and Chief Inspector’s door is wide open so that his booming voice carries across the station.

“Donovan,” Inspector McCormick greets him as she emerges from the filing room with a steaming cup of coffee. “Good of you to make it here.”

“Barely on time,” Junior Inspector Nomous adds, glancing as his watch as he follows McCormick.

“Well, I’m here,” Andrew restrains himself from snapping.

“That you are,” McCormick agrees. “Come along now, we’ve got an interview.”

Which is how Andrew finds himself following Nomous and McCormick out of the police station, back into the biting cold. “Where are we going?” Andrew asks in the Inspectors’ wake.

“You’ll find out,” Nomous grimaces. McCormick tosses Nomous a set of car keys; the three of them go around the station to climb into a police car.

Nomous drives them to the Northwestern edge of Vestera, right where the cobblestone streets turn to a single dirt road.

“The Nortehale mansion?” Andrew frowns. “What are we doing here?”

McCormick makes a contemplative noise. “Junior Inspector Nomous and I are employees of the police station. As Inspectors it would be remiss of us to be intrusive during this interview, as the Nortehales have already been generous enough just to grant this interview.”

Andrew’s frown deepens.

McCormick sighs.

“Typically,” Nomous interrupts, “With our warrants we’d have enough room to look around a bit, feel out the interviewee’s home.”

“But you don’t have a warrant for the Nortehale’s,” Andrew concludes.

“Don’t mess anything up,” Nomous glares at Andrew through the rearview window.

“Alright,” McCormick says, snapping her folder shut. “Here we are.”

Their police car reaches the black metal gates of the Nortehale mansion, where a footman waits near the gate. When the car nears, the footman waves his hand in acknowledgement and drags the gate open.

Nomous harrumphs, and McCormick spares him an exasperated look. Andrew watches this exchange from the backseat.

“Into the maw of the beast,” Nomous mutters, peeling onto the gravel driveway that stretches quite a length. Rubber tires crunch on the gravel as they drive past a well-kept lawn, up to the stone mansion. Another footman waits at the circular roundabout in front of the mansion. He gestures for them to park.

They park the police car, and climb out to enter through the enormous double doors.

“Good morning,” the footman greets them, “Mrs. Nortehale is expecting you.” He leads them inside, past the enormous foyer and grand staircase, to a sitting room tucked behind one of the staircases. Andrew steps along the gleaming floor and vaguely feels as though he should’ve changed out of his grimy pants.

The entire foyer is painted a creamy yellow, and unlike the stone exterior of the mansion, is warmly inviting.

The sitting room is richly decorated with thick Persian rugs and heavy red and gold curtains. A few chaise lounges have been arranged around a low tea table. Heavy, gold chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Several large oil paintings line the gilded wallpaper above a spacious fireplace. The footman waves them into the room and closes the door behind them.

“Good morning,” says a woman sitting on a lavish armchair. Her greying hair is pulled into a tight bun, and she is wearing a deep blue gown. The dress’s white collar is laced high and pressed into a starchy line. “Inspector McCormick and Junior Inspector Nomous, I presume. And this is?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Nortehale,” McCormick dips her head, “Thank you again for agreeing to this. We’ve brought along Mr. Donovan, who is consulting with us on this case.”

“Mr. Donovan,” Nortehale turns her head to face him, her grey eyes sharp and critical.

“Ma’am,” Andrew nods.

“Mr. Muldover is bringing in nonprofessionals now, hm?” Nortehale turns away from Andrew. Not expecting an answer, she gestures towards her three guests. “Please, take a seat. I expect you have many questions.”

They arrange themselves on the chaise and look up to see Mrs. Nortehale preparing tea. “Sugar?” she asks, looking at Andrew first.

“Please,” he nods. When Nortehale turns the same inquiring gaze on McCormick, then Nomous, they both politely decline.

“Mrs. Nortehale,” Nomous begins. “It is our understanding that your family owns a farm property on the edge of Vestera county.”

A silence stretches out, Nomous, McCormick and Andrew waiting uncomfortably as Mrs. Nortehale meticulously pours them tea. When she finishes filling her own cup last, she sets the teapot onto its china delicately.

Nomous clears his throat and Mrs. Nortehale reaches out for the matching pot of sugar. “How many?” she asks Andrew.

“Er, two is fine,” he says.

She scoops him two spoonfuls of sugar and stirs twice before handing him his cup. “Thank you,” he says. He sips at the tea; it’s delicious.

“Yes,” Mrs. Nortehale turns to answer Nomous, finally, “My family has owned the farm since my great grandfather purchased it nearly a hundred years ago.”

Nomous pulls out his notepad and begins scribbling immediately.

Mrs. Nortehale continues without so much a glance at the notepad. “No one from my family has lived on the farm since his death; instead, my grandmother began renting out the land to farmers in return for a portion of their profit.”

“And the latest family you rented out this property to,” Nomous looks through his notes.

“The Ingles?” Mrs. Nortehale arches a perfect brow.

“Yes,” McCormick takes over, “We were wondering if there were any… misgivings that your family had regarding renting out the property.”

Mrs. Nortehale’s lip turns downward. “You mean to ask if there would be any reason for someone wanting to destroy the Ingles’ cattle?”

“Correct,” McCormick says. Nomous nods in agreement.

“No,” Mrs. Nortehale says. She sips delicately at her tea.

Andrew glances between McCormick and Nomous, and, seeing their blank faces, finishes his own tea for something to do.

“Mr. Donovan,” Inspector McCormick says abruptly. “I recall you said you had to use the restroom?”

At Andrew’s confusion, Nomous nudges him in the thigh.

“Right,” Andrew nods, standing abruptly. “The restroom. May I use it?”

Mrs. Nortehale brushes nonexistent dust from the ruffles on her layered gown. “Arthur will show you the way.” She raises her voice slightly to call for the butler. “Arthur?”

The door opens and a man in a clean pressed waistcoat appears. “Ma’am.”

“Kindly escort Mr. Donovan to the washroom, please.”

The butler bows and Andrew stands hastily to follow him out of the room.

The butler leads Andrew out of the sitting room and down a spacious corridor, stopping to gesture forward. “The last door on your left, Mr. Donovan.”

“Thank you,” Andrew says, and begins to approach the bathroom.

“Do you require assistance returning to the sitting room?” Arthur asks.

“No. No, thank you – I’ll be fine.”

The butler bows and turns on his heels, heading to his previous post outside of the sitting room.

Andrew waits until the butler’s footsteps fade before heading down the hallway.

Along each side of the corridor are black-framed portraits. Andrew examines them, one after another, until he comes across Mrs. Nortehale’s great grandfather. Andrew leans in curiously, before resuming his trek down the long hall.

His footsteps are completely consumed by the thick carpet underfoot. Andrew passes several alcoves set into the corridor: one houses a delicate vase, another a bowl of fresh roses, and yet another a what seems to be an ancient violin.

Amused, Andrew passes these ornaments until he comes to the last room on the left. Unlike all the other doors he’s passed, this one is open, revealing a marble countertop and glass sink. Andrew examines the bathroom for a few moments; since he actually doesn’t have to use the restroom, he heads back outside for some more investigating.

Andrew’s examining the ancient violin a little more closely when a door to his right opens suddenly. Andrew takes a quick step back.

“Hello,” he says, folding his hands behind his back.

A young woman stands in the open doorway, light streaming in from behind her. She’s wearing a white ruffled gown that is laced in gold. A heavy copper amulet hangs around her neck, and Andrew’s drawn immediately to the deep amethyst gem it features.

“Who are you?” she frowns.

“My name is Andrew Donovan, and I’m here with Inspector McCormick. We’re speaking to Mrs. Nortehale at the moment.”

“No,” the girl says, “You’re speaking to me.”

Andrew backtracks. “Well, I was supposed to be speaking to Mrs. Nortehale. I just stepped out for a moment to use the facilities.”

The woman steps out into the hallway and shuts the door behind her. “Admiring the decorations, were you?”

“Quite,” Andrew agrees politely. He looks again towards the violin.

“It’s a Stradivarius,” the young woman says. She readjusts the amulet around her neck, drawing Andrew’s eyes towards the stone once more. It looks like a ward gem.

“Is it?”

“Of course. My great grandfather was friends with Antonio Stradivarius himself.”

Andrew looks at the young woman. “And you must be?”

“Lullaby Nortehale, of course,” she turns her chin up. “Melody Nortehale is my mother.”

“Of course,” Andrew dips his head.

“I suspect my mother is wondering where you are,” the young woman says after a pause. “Does it usually take you this long to find the restroom?”

“I am often distracted,” Andrew confesses. “And since I’ve already gone over the usual time one takes to use the facilities, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Ms. Nortehale closes the door behind her, and once again they are shrouded in the darkness of the corridor. “This is about the case,” she says, not quite questioning him.

“Correct.”

“The one where an animal killed outside of Vestera, out in the countryside.”

“Yes.”

Ms. Nortehale frowns. “You’re not a detective, are you?”

Andrew hesitates. “No, I’m just consulting with the police for this case.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why you? What do you have that the other Inspectors don’t?”

“Shall we walk?” Andrew tilts his head towards the end of the hallway. He suddenly wants to leave the darkness.

“Are you from Vestera?” Ms. Nortehale says, as they step out down the hallway. Her long gown sweeps behind her.

“I do believe that I was asking the questions, Ms. Nortehale,” Andrew reminds her.

“Why,” she says, turning to face him, “I do believe that’s hardly fair. You don’t even have a warrant, you know.”

“Certainly not,” Andrew says, “But our time is precious, and I would hope that you and Mrs. Nortehale would like to assist in catching the killer as quickly as possible.”

“The killer?” Ms. Nortehale raises an eyebrow in a movement reminiscent of her mother. “How are you so sure the killer isn’t a rogue coyote?”

“I’m afraid that I’m unable to tell you that at this time, Ms. Nortehale,” Andrew says, slightly taken aback, “It’s confidential information since we’ve yet to close the case.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, “You come to our house, without a warrant, on our good grace, to interrogate us, and you won’t even answer one of my questions?”

Andrew can’t help but scoff lightly “You’ve asked more than one question, Ms. Nortehale; which one would you have me answer?”

At this, Ms. Nortehale smiles. “I like you, Mr. Donovan.”

Andrew half-bows.

At that moment, Arthur scuttles into sight. “Ms. Nortehale,” Arthur slightly bows, “Mr. Donovan,” again he bows. “I’m here on Mrs Nortehale’s request, to ensure that Mr. Donovan has not lost himself while returning from the facilities.”

“Of course,” Ms. Nortehale says smoothly, not even glancing at the butler. “Mr. Donovan will be there in a moment, once we’ve finished our conversation.”

“Ma’am,” Arthur says, and dips his head before retreating again.

Ms. Nortehale turns to face Arthur fully, her gown sweeping across the carpentry. “You’ll have to forgive my mother’s persistence. She is rather paranoid.”

“Paranoid?” Andrew repeats.

“No matter,” Ms. Nortehale says. “You know,” she continues conversationally, as though her mother had not summoned him, “I’ve never met a detective before.”

“No? I suspect there isn’t much crime around these parts.”

“Because of?”

Andrew gestures around them. “The gates are always closed, the windows always shut, curtains pulled tight. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the Nortehales have something to hide.”

“And you know better?”

Andrew shrugs lightly. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”

She looks at him curiously. “We are.”

Andrew opens his mouth to ask another question when she continues. “Would you come back to Corindale?”

“Corindale?” Andrew tilts his head in confusion.

“Forgive me,” Ms. Nortehale says, without seeming very sorry at all, “Corindale is the name we use to refer to our mansion. It is the name of the road that we live on.”

Andrew files this bit of information for later.

“Would you come back to Corindale?” Ms. Nortehale repeats.

Not one to question a golden opportunity, Andrew nods. “Of course, Ms. Nortehale.”

She smiles with teeth. “Please, call me Lullaby.”

“Andrew, then.”

“Mrs. Nortehale will be waiting,” Lullaby concludes. “Best not to keep her waiting.”

We’ve kept her waiting this whole while, Andrew keeps to himself. Aloud, he says, “A pleasure meeting you, Lullaby.”

“And you, Andrew Donovan.”

With that, Andrew excuses himself politely to return to the sitting room.

“Ah, Mr. Donovan,” Mrs. Nortehale says, looking up from where she is serving McCormick and Nomous biscuits with their tea. “We were wondering where you were. Arthur tells me that you met my daughter.”

Arthur, the butler, stands in the corner looking slightly chagrined at the fact that he couldn’t have Andrew return to the sitting room sooner.

“Yes, I did,” Andrew says to the elder Nortehale, ignoring the other Inspectors’ curious looks. “She was very charming.”

Mrs. Nortehale fixes him with a gaze sharper than steel. “I’m sure she was.” After another heartbeat of consideration, she turns back to McCormick and Nomous.

“Inspector McCormick, Junior Inspector Nomous,” she begins, “I’m sure you all have much to get on with, and I unfortunately have matters of my own to take care of. If necessary, you may return for another session at a more opportune time.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Nortehale,” Inspector McCormick takes that cue, standing up and nodding gratefully. “You’ve been immensely helpful.”

Nomous agrees as he rises and straightens his uniform.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nortehale,” Andrew says carefully, nodding.

“Of course, Mr. Donovan,” she says. Her scrutinizing gaze makes Andrew shift uncomfortably. When she finally turns back to McCormick, it’s a relief.

“Please, keep me informed on the progression of this case. Do let me know if there’s anything else we can do to assist you and the Chief Inspector.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Nomous says, and then Arthur is called in, and they are ushered out of Corindale.

It isn’t until they’ve buckled themselves up in the police car, and exited through the black metal gates, that McCormick speaks.

“So,” she says, looking at Andrew through the rearview mirror.

“I met her daughter, Lullaby Nortehale,” Andrew reports dutifully. “Got to poke around a bit in their main hallway, but I didn’t find anything useful, other than the fact that Mrs. Nortehale seems rather paranoid. Lullaby – Ms. Nortehale – seems to dislike that.”

“That’s useful,” Nomous admits. “Profiling the family.”

Andrew hums and watches the gray streets pass by as Nomous peels across cobblestone roads. “Is there a Mr. Nortehale?”

“Died over a decade ago,” McCormick says thoughtfully. She taps her chin. “An accident, they said. Pretty quiet about it.”

“Whatever happened then, I think there’s something they want to hide now,” Andrew said.

“Did she say anything to you?”

“Who?”

“Ms. Nortehale – Lullaby.”

Andrew hesitates. He thinks of the amethyst hanging around Lullaby’s neck, heavy and set in copper. He thinks of Lullaby’s invitation. “She invited me back, again,” he says finally, after some consideration.

Nomous snorts disbelievingly. “You?”

“Me,” Andrew agrees. He muses for a moment, thinks about his words, rolling them around his mouth to feel the shape of them before he finally admits, “I think she’s lonely.”

“I don’t care what you think she is,” McCormick says, “I just need you to find out what’s going on in there.”

Nomous makes a noise of agreement.

“In regards to the rest of the interview, we didn’t extract anything that useful from senior Nortehale either. Seemed pretty nervous though, when Arthur came back and told her that she met you,” says McCormick.

“All in all, a pretty decent interview,” Nomous concludes, half optimistically. “Though if it’s relevant to the case, I don’t know.”

“I agree,” says McCormick. “Let’s head back to the station, finish a write-up and give it to Chief. He’ll be wanting to see some progress.”

Lullaby watches the police car peel out of Corindale’s gravel driveway from an excellent vantage point: her third-story bedroom window. She brushes her fingers against the lace of the curtain as the car disappears, eaten up by the grey streets and city fog.

After lingering in the white sunlight for a moment longer, Lullaby turns and sweeps back into her room. Out of habit, she adjusts the ward gem around her neck. The copper is warm against her skin.

She suspects that her mother will summon her any minute now, to discuss her interactions with Mr. Andrew Donovan. Mrs. Nortehale will hardly approve of the fact that Lullaby was wandering around the grounds when she knew there would be guests, much less the fact that she spoke to one of them.

Lullaby huffs a sigh. Next week, her companion Sofia will be arriving from Telurgia, the next city over. At least she has that much to look forward to.

And the consulting detective – Mr. Donovan. He’d been quick, and startlingly forward. It was as though he treated her as a normal person. Lullaby takes a moment to sit at her vanity.

She’s pretty enough, she supposes. Her hair is soft and slightly curled. Her cheeks are soft and her skin is smooth.

“No matter,” she says, aloud to herself.

Before she can think better of it, Lullaby reaches for her stationary. She composes a quick letter and signs it with a flourish. She folds the parchment and tucks it into an envelope, before pulling out her seal supplies. She could send a telegram – that would be quicker, and less of a hassle, of course – but she finds comfort in writing out letters by hand.

For this letter, Lullaby chooses a simple red wax. She holds the wax stick over the flap of the envelope as she lights a match and melts the wax until it drips into a circular shape on the paper. She blows out the candle and takes her signet ring from her ring finger; she pushes the metal of her ring into the warm wax, and waits for several seconds until she’s sure the Nortehale coat of arms is properly transferred to the wax seal.

Satisfied, she removes the ring and places it back on her finger.

Someone raps softly at her bedroom door.

“Yes?” she calls.

“Ma’am,” Arthur says, “Your mother requests your presence in the study room.”

“Tell her I’ll be a moment. But before you go, Arthur,” Lullaby stands at this point and moves to open the door, “Could you be a dear and have this delivered to the Vestera Metropolitan Police Station sometime today?”

“Of course, Ms. Nortehale.”

“Thank you,” Lullaby smiles, and as she hands the butler her letter, her thumb grazes the name written in calligraphy on the front of the envelope: Andrew Donovan.

Arthur scuttles down the hallway, and down the steps, no doubt on his way to have the letter delivered by the end of the hour. Lullaby takes a moment to glance in the mirror once more before following him downstairs, to the study room.

Her mother sits at her writing desk, her fountain pen scratching parchment smoothly as she writes.

“Mother? You called for me?” Lullaby asks.

“Have a seat,” Mrs. Nortehale says, without looking up.

The sound of the pen’s nib scratching paper is the only sound that fills the study room for a while. Lullaby is content to wait. She examines the room’s decoration: her mother is always changing this room. This month, Mrs. Nortehale has replaced the drapes with emerald and gold curtains. The chaise lounge and sitting chairs are pale green, to match the carpet. The crystal windows have been replaced with pale stained glass, and a wooden ladder leans against a matching wooden bookshelf.

“You met Mr. Donovan yesterday,” Mrs. Nortehale says, not quite in a questioning tone.

“I did,” Lullaby agrees. She presses her palms against her gown. “I found him to be rather agreeable.”

Mrs. Nortehale’s nostrils flare. “Lullaby. You know what I’ve told you about your safety. It is for your protection that I – ”

“Yes,” Lullaby interrupts, exasperated. “I know. You’ve told me hundreds of times. I just didn’t see the harm in engaging him in a little bit of conversation.”

“Lullaby,” Mrs. Nortehale sighs.

“Mother,” Lullaby says in the same tone, mockingly.

“I understand that you’re lonely, but you have me, and you have Arthur, and Sofia, who is coming to visit next week. There’s no need to go talking to strangers – ”

“He was hardly a stranger, you were the one who invited him to our house!”

“Under the assumption that you would stay away, as necessary.”

Lullaby groans.

“Lullaby, I’m doing this to protect you – ”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Lullaby finishes, looking away. “It won’t happen again.”

Mrs. Nortehale watches her daughter for a careful moment. Then, “Very well.”

“Am I excused?”

Mrs. Nortehale nods. “I’ll see you at dinner.”