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.”
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