When Mars and Celeste returned to the inn, they found Adeline alone in the room, standing by the window with a towel draped over her shoulders, slowly drying her long, dark hair. The air held the lingering scent of something briny, like the sea after a storm.
"You look better," Mars said, halting in the doorway. His voice was laced with disbelief, as though his memory of her pallid, fever-wracked form was at odds with the woman now before him.
Adeline offered a small, amused smile. "Yeah. I just needed rest."
Celeste stepped further into the room, eyes scanning everything. "What's that?" she asked sharply, pointing toward a small, glistening pool of blackened liquid congealing on the wooden floor near the bed. It shimmered faintly in the dim light.
Adeline followed her gaze and shrugged. "You'd have to ask your cousin."
Celeste's brow creased. "Where is he?"
Adeline returning to wringing water from her hair. "Said he needed some air. Took his coat and left maybe twenty minutes ago."
Celeste exhaled sharply and turned toward the door. "I'll go find him."
"You sure you don't want me to come?" Mars asked.
"No," she replied. "Stay here"
"Comforting," Mars muttered.
Celeste left with a sweep of her coat. Adeline sat on the edge of the bed, wringing the last of the water from her hair. Mars looked again at the gloomy puddle.
"Seriously," he said, "what is that?"
South of the inn, Yvain wandered alone beneath the slow descent of the evening sun. Its golden light bathed the city in a haze of fading warmth, casting long shadows from the turrets and slanted chimneys that crowned the old buildings.
Adeline had recovered, miraculously so, and that should have brought relief. But instead, it had allowed him to return back to his earlier thoughts. His worrisome dream, and whatever had been there with him.
He couldn't remember when he had started walking, only that the walls of the inn had begun to feel too small for what churned inside him.
So he left, hoping movement would clear the fog in his thoughts.
He had chosen no direction in particular, only forward. Through alleys that stank of fish and mildew, past crowded thoroughfares where vendors hawked spices and engine parts in the same breath. Before long, he found himself near the city's southern edge, strolling along a curved street where the buildings leaned forward like curious onlookers. Carriages clattered by in a mechanical parade, wheels kicking dust, drivers barking curses.
He barely noticed them. His eyes were distant. Every step was an effort to grasp what his mind was trying to tell him, about the voice in his dream, about the darkness that called itself kin, about the tangled legacy of his blood.
Then something broke through the haze.
A poster nailed to a crooked board caught his eye. Faded parchment, but freshly stamped. Ink still smudged. It bore the sigil of an eye-within-a-lantern, and beneath it, a headline in bold block letters:
SEEKING AUGUR CONSULTANT – DISCREET AND RELIABLE.
Apply within – Grinn & Latch Investigations – 12 Vireline Street, South Ward
Yvain stopped. He stared at it longer than he needed to, reading and rereading the words. There was something about it, an odd gravity. He had always been good at sensing threads of meaning, the pull of unseen narratives. This one tugged at him.
Far as he knew, private eyes were a commonality in Necropolis since the city had no leadership and therefore no police. Even the local chapter of Knights Chevalier was barely functional.
"Grinn and Latch," he muttered under his breath.
He looked up, scanning the storefronts nearby. The address wasn't far. His fingers twitched, unbidden, like they sometimes did before a summoning, when his mind aligned with something just out of reach.
Yvain exhaled, slowly.
He tore the poster from the board with a firm yank, folded it once, then slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. His boots struck pavement again, this time with intent, as he turned down the winding path toward Vireline Street.
Finding the address wasn't difficult. South Ward had fewer alleys and more signage, and the numbering here made sense. What gave him pause, however, was the building itself.
Number 12 Vireline stood wedged between a shuttered apothecary and a shoe-mender's stall, its facade grimy with soot and time. The lower floor housed a bustling bakery, warm light spilling from its windows, the smell of cinnamon and yeast wafting into the street. A small crowd queued just outside, chatting over flakey bread and steaming cups.
Yvain stepped inside, the warmth washing over him in a way that almost made him forget why he'd come. The hum of chatter surrounded him, punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of trays and the low groan of the oven.
Behind the counter stood a tired-looking woman in a flour-dusted apron, her hair tied back in a crooked bun. She eyed him from beneath furrowed brows.
"You lost, love?" she asked, not unkindly.
"I'm looking for Grinn and Latch," Yvain said, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen over his face.
She sighed, the kind of exhale one reserves for problems that aren't technically theirs. "Of course you are." She gave him a slow once-over, as if trying to decide whether he was a client, a lunatic, or some flavor of debt collector. "Up the stairs, second door on the left. And if you're seeing either of those tight-fisted bastards, do remind them that their rent is three weeks overdue."
"I'll pass it along," he said with a nod, already moving toward the creaking staircase.
The stairs groaned underfoot, wooden slats bending slightly with every step. They were steep, narrow, and smelled faintly of mold and old tobacco. A single bulb flickered overhead as he reached the first landing, and just ahead, he saw a door with the name Grinn & Latch Investigations stenciled in peeling gold paint.
He paused with his hand on the knob, then pushed open the door.
The door swung open with a dull creak, revealing a long, smoke-hazed room paneled in dark wood and lined with filing cabinets. A dusty ceiling fan clacked overhead, struggling valiantly against the heat. A faint smell of burnt ink and bitter coffee lingered in the air.
At the far end of the room sat two desks pushed together in haphazard symmetry, both stacked with ledgers, scrolls, crystal spheres, and clutter that ranged from the mundane to the outright arcane. Between them stood a brass-plated automaton, seven feet tall and birdlike in build, with a head shaped like a raptor's skull. A trio of monocle-like lenses glowed on its face, clicking and refocusing every few seconds. It stood perfectly still, save for the occasional twitch of its articulated fingers.
To Yvain's left, one of the desks was occupied.
A woman reclined in her chair, booted feet propped up, black gloves still on despite the heat. She sprang to her feet the moment she saw him, hastily brushing the dust from her long overcoat and straightening a pair of smudged brass spectacles. A too-bright smile spread across her face as she struck what she must've thought was a professional stance. Hands clasped, back straight, and chin slightly up.
"Good day, sir," she said with theatrical cheer. "Welcome to Grinn & Latch Investigations. We take all manner of cases, murder, unmurder, lost items, found corpses, larceny, ghosts, curses, and infidelity, though I daresay it'd be a rare fool of a woman to stray from a man like yourself."
Yvain arched a brow. "And you are?"
"Ivie Grinn," she said proudly, extending a gloved hand with a firm shake. "Partner, and general genius. And you?"
He was about to answer when she suddenly leaned back and shouted over her shoulder, "Latch! We've got a client!"
As if on cue, the other door opened and a man emerged, tall and rail-thin with oil-slick hair, a fine coat that had once been expensive, and the unmistakable gait of someone who thought the world owed him something. He carried a stack of papers and wore pince-nez glasses perched precariously on a nose that had been broken at least twice.
"Good day, sir, and welcome to—"
"Already did that part," Ivie muttered, elbowing him in the ribs without much subtlety.
The man grimaced, adjusted his pince-nez, and composed himself with an exaggerated sigh. "Very well. I am Latch. Mr. Latch. You've met Ms. Grinn. Together we run this noble and underappreciated establishment." He cleared his throat, trying again, this time with a bit of edge: "So then, what brings you through our humble door, stranger? Something troubling? A mystery in need of solving? We do love a good mystery."
Yvain reached into his coat and drew the slightly crumpled job poster from an inner pocket. He smoothed it out, then held it up.
"I'm here about the vacancy. The augur position. Is it still open?"
Latch blinked. Ivie grinned like a cat catching scent of blood.
"Still open?" she said, grabbing the paper to confirm it was theirs. "It's been aching for someone with actual vision. We've had hedge witches, charm-peddlers, and a man who tried to divine truth using chicken bones and interpretive dance."
"We're very thorough in our vetting," Latch said dryly.
At the far corner of the office, the brass automaton stirred, its monocle lenses spinning to refocus on Yvain. Its head tilted with a soft whir. A pale-blue rune blinked on its chest, casting long shadows over the mess of files and dangling light orbs around the room.
"Applicant presents abnormal etheric resonance. Recommend field assessment," it said in a voice smooth and toneless as oil.
Yvain blinked at the thing.
"Oh, that's Rook," Ivie said casually, tossing the poster aside. "He's our third partner. Don't worry. He only bites if you lie."
"Is he sapient?" Yvain asked.
"No," Latch answered, with a trace of regret in his voice. "He's a servitor, bound to basic directive logic. Capable of impressive pattern analysis, sure, but no true thought. Sapient constructs are vanishingly rare these days. I recall a case once, out in Port Ilira, where—"
"Not now, Latch," Ivie cut in sharply, already regretting the spark she'd lit.
Latch flinched ever so slightly, pushed his pince-nez higher up the bridge of his nose, and gave a small, tight nod. "Yes. Quite right. Another time, perhaps."
He clapped his hands together in a gesture meant to summon focus. "In any case, shall we begin the vetting procedure?"