Dragging his body towards the descending spiral staircase, Anger found the steps inexplicably shattered. Jumping from the second floor inside might have been feasible—he could probably find a landing—but it risked touching the connection lines of those stasis bubbles.

  He had no choice but to stumble out from a broken section on the mute tower’s second floor and look down.

  After the doll’s disappearance, the area outside the mute tower had descended into chaos. Church Knights and Industrial Commission security personnel were tangled together.

  The knights tried to maintain the holyfire cordon, while all equipment on the Commission’s side had failed. Everyone was shouting for "Brough"—until Anger appeared at the breach.

  The cacophony was instantly severed. All eyes snapped toward him.

  "Impossible." The KnightCaptain was the first to react, sword drawn, wary.

  From where Anger stood, the space behind him appeared violently distorted. No ordinary person could remain there, upright and whole. No wonder the KnightCaptain was so alarmed.

  "Stand down." Bishop Morris emerged from a church carriage.

  ******

  The Board's men moved first. A subordinate started forward, but Brough raised a hand to stop him. He himself walked to the base of the broken wall, looking up at Anger Hastings.

  "Inspector Hastings!" he called up, concern in his voice. "Can you get down on your own?"

  Everyone knew how perilous the ground floor interior was. Those stillnessbubbles could consume a man utterly, leaving nothing but a hollow shell. Anger, presumably, would need to descend from the second floor.

  Anger looked down at him. He licked his cracked lips, tasting blood and grit.

  "I need a rope."

  Brough made a gesture. His subordinate immediately procured one from their investigation kit and, with precise aim, tossed it up to Anger's waiting hand. Moments later, Anger slid down to the ground.

  "Medic!" Brough said. Yet, it was the Parish men who swarmed forward.

  ******

  Bishop Morris came to a halt before Anger.

  "Detective," his voice was soft, devoid of the earlier authoritative command to stand down. "Thanks be to God's mercy for your survival. I trust you did not bring back anything... untoward." His gaze fell, scrutinizing Anger's waist.

  "What His Excellency means," the KnightCaptain added from beside him, though his hand never left his sword's hilt, "is that we need to perform a preliminary cleansing. To ensure no impurity followed you out."

  Before Anger could speak, Brough cut in half a beat ahead. "What the Detective carries is a warrant from my Committee. His investigation falls under the municipal system, not direct Church jurisdiction. The right of inquiry belongs to us."

  Bishop Morris's smile didn't waver, but his knuckles whitened around his cane. Even if we gain nothing, we must use the Veil of Silence to suppress this man's memory, to erase what happened here.

  Brough saw it, and knew the Church's methods. Sadly for them, it held little sway over him. Since Detective Hastings has emerged safely from the Mute Tower,whether he speaks is irrelevant. There are always... pressures that can be applied through the precinct to glean some information.

  A slight glance from him, and the wall of Committee men edged forward.

  "Bishop Brough," he said, his tone dropping half a register. "Detective Hastings's investigative authority is issued by City Hall, protected under the Core Empire of Alikaxi statutes. Whatever you intend, consider it carefully. Within my Committee, you hold no superior rank. Let's all keep some semblance of decorum, shall we?"

  He then turned to Anger. "Detective, you may return directly to the precinct. We will secure the area. However, I expect you to file a brief report and forward it to the Committee. Cooperation between our offices does exist."

  While Brough's intervention was help, it was ultimately selfserving. Still, having survived, Anger knew both Church and Committee would be relentless in their future... attentions.

  "I'll return to the precinct then." Anger met Morris's gaze briefly, then stepped closer to Brough. Leaning in, his voice barely a whisper at the commissioner's ear, he uttered only a few words: "KnightCaptain Greffin."

  As for the rest? He had no desire to elaborate. Let them figure it out themselves if they have the nerve. With that final thought, he turned and walked away.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  ******

  Anger Hastings returned from the Mute Tower to the station and pored once more over the Lady’s notes. Unfortunately, they yielded little of value.

  As for the greencopper bell in the clocktower—there was simply no trail to follow. The maintenance records, however, led Hendrick to dig for any related cases.

  Later, just as Brough had predicted, Chief Schneider demanded an anomalous incident report on the Mute Tower investigation.

  So Anger omitted the name of KnightCaptain Greffin, blurred the details of the timestasis amber into mere “unusual phenomena,” and left no mention of the doll’s traces whatsoever.

  In the end, what he submitted was just another report: an investigative accident due to anomalous structural integrity; nearby villagers’ petitions dismissed.

  The report was filed simultaneously with the station archives, the municipal hall, and the desk of Commissioner Brough of the Industrial Commission. As for the Parish, Bishop Morris had already pressured higherups in the force to transfer any materials hinting at the supernatural to the Inquisition.

  Anger hadn’t written a word about the supernatural—whether the Church would intercept it anyway remained to be seen.

  A knock came as Anger was pressing his fingertips against his temples. He lifted his head wearily. “Come in.”

  A young station clerk pushed the door open, holding a long case. “Inspector Hastings—just arrived. Marked for your eyes only.”

  He set the case on the desk. Seeing the inspector’s pallor, he added, “Need me to pop it open for you?”

  “No. Thank you.” Anger cut him short.

  Once the clerk left, Anger opened the lid.

  Inside lay an invitation, which read:

  Heron Auction House·Autumn Private Preview

  Special Invitation for Inspector Anger Hastings, We request the pleasure of your company

  Time: Today, 3 o’clock in the afternoon

  Location: 9 St. Anne’s Street, Riverside District

  Beneath the invitation was a short letter:

  Inspector Hastings,

  The last social event my late wife attended was a private viewing at Heron Auction House. After returning, she grew distraught—spoke of a certain portrait of a young girl. If you are still investigating her death, perhaps it is worth your attention.

  — Lord Arthur Vinter

  Anger set the letter down. It seemed the Viscount was also seeking the truth behind his wife’s death. After all, he had said that if Anger wished to investigate, he would have to go through official channels—he would not intervene.But now, this invitation to the auction house had arrived. It showed he cared more than he let on.

  Anger glanced at the wall clock, stood, took his overcoat from the stand, and tucked the invitation into the inner pocket.

  ******

  No. 9 St. Anne's Street was a threestory building, its walls long since claimed by the desiccated tendrils of dead ivy.

  When Anger presented his invitation, the doorman gave him a rather thorough onceover.

  This was primarily because the Inspector's attire stood in stark, and somewhat shabby, contrast to the stream of arriving dignitaries—a parade of silk and polished leather.

  Nevertheless, the invitation was genuine, and he was waved through.

  The preview hall was far larger than anticipated. The Viscount had called it a 'private viewing', but what greeted Anger was an auction exhibition occupying the entire floor. Dozens of paintings hung against the wall drapes, each lit from below by a small gas lamp.

  The moment Anger stepped into the hall, a peculiar pressure settled behind his eyes.

  In an instant, the ordinary exhibition vanished.

  It was replaced by a space suffused with a pale green mist. The haze emanated from the central area of the hall, its tendrils coiling and uncoiling with a lifelike, sinuous slowness.

  Within that zone, seven or eight individuals stood before a single, prominently displayed oil painting.

  Their bodies were ensnared by wispy extensions of the mist, tendrils that seemed to reach out from the very edges of the ornate frame and pierce their temples.

  Anger felt a sympathetic throb in his own temples. He couldn't be sure if it was illusion or a grim reality.

  He averted his gaze. Out of habit, he first surveyed the room. There were over twenty people present, mostly gentlemen and ladies of obvious means, with a few who looked like art consultants or scholars.

  Waiters wove through the crowd with trays of champagne, though no one was partaking—this wasn't that sort of party.

  Perhaps another reason was that everyone's attention was magnetically drawn to the central painting.

  Anger did not approach immediately.

  He made his way to the nearest waiter. "Pardon me. Has that central painting been... captivating attention like this all day?"

  The waiter first glanced towards the painting before turning back. "Since the setup was finished, sir, yes. Mr. Bellatus gave special instructions for it to be displayed alone."

  "Mr. Bellatus?"

  "Lorenzo Bellatus, sir. The art advisor for the Bellatus family, and the chief authenticator for this auction," the waiter explained, his pace deliberate. "Though he did say one should maintain a certain... distance while appreciating it."

  "Distance?"

  "‘Distance lends enchantment,’" the waiter quoted, his face taking on a theatrically rapt expression in imitation of Bellatus.

  Anger nodded, discreetly sliding a shilling into the man's hand. "Where did the painting come from?"

  "Heard it's from a deceased baron's estate. Was kept in Lady Vinter's private collection. The executor decided to put it up for sale," the waiter said, pocketing the coin with practiced ease.

  He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Odd thing, though. Mr. Bellatus insisted on titling it 'The GreenEyed Maiden: The Covenant'."

  "The Covenant?" What could that signify? And the Viscount had mentioned items going missing before his wife's death. It seemed this was one of them.

  Thanking the waiter, Anger turned his focus to the center of the hall.

  Only now did he step closer for a proper look. The painting was roughly four feet high by three wide, set in a dark mahogany frame carved with intricate patterns. It depicted a young maiden in an Easternstyle silk gown, the hem adorned with delicate silver embroidery.

  Through his own peculiar sight, however, Anger perceived that embroidery as something that shifted, ever so slowly.

  Her eyes were the focal point. A piercing emerald green, like two imprisoned gemstones set into the canvas. In the play of the surrounding lamplight, the pupils seemed to hold tiny, swirling points of light.

  Anger did not stand too close, but a faint, familiar bitterness reached him.

  Quinine bark. He even tasted it on his lips, the flavor growing sharper.