Historian? Or Dr. Maddeson, the philologist?
“No,” I stated.
“Read this as soon as you can and tell me what you think of it. Now, what have you learned since our last meeting?”
He laced his fingers over his knee as I slowly took the notebook. I was wary of a trap, but he retained his casual demeanor.
I discarded the notion of telling him about Dr. Maddeson. It was too valuable a lead. But I could hardly deny learning anything at all. I braced the notebook across my stomach and said, “I searched Mr. Stoke’s house and determined that he did not flee entirely, at least not of his own accord. He left items behind of great sentimental value.”
“There was no sign of the artifact?”
I shook my head. “Unfortunately not. Mr. Wake, if you saw him, I believe we may conclude he is simply in hiding. Likely from you. If you would cease your harassment, our mutual problem may go away.”
“Ah, see, that is where my encounter with the detective becomes particularly interesting,” Wake said. “He was running when our paths crossed, and seemed to consider me an unexpected inconvenience.”
“He was running from someone else?”
“Yes.” Wake’s eyes were keen, searching my face as if he were waiting for something. A clue. A betrayal.
Well, he would learn nothing on this particular front, as I had nothing to share. “Did you not see who it was?”
Wake shook his head. “But your detective does not seem the sort to flee from common criminals. I lost him near the Old Citadel. Does he have friends or relatives in the area? Somewhere he might go?”
“He does not,” I admitted, warming to the puzzle. Harden’s mirror shop was close, but I was not about to say that. “I will go through his contacts. It would seem there is a third party involved in this affair, more dangerous than you. How disconcerting.”
“Indeed,” Wake agreed. “What else have you uncovered?”
Our conversation proceeded in a series of questions and cautious answers. I fetched Mr. Stoke’s ledgers and address book, combing them for acquaintances in and around the citadel. This produced several names for Mr. Wake, which I presented as far more promising than I actually felt them to be. This seemed to satisfy him, however, and within half an hour, the man rose. I could only hope that I had not consigned those poor contacts of Mr. Stoke to violence.
“I will see you again, here, tomorrow night at the same time,” he told me as he made for the door. “Do not be late.”
A Note to the Reader:
Emeline and the Glass Coffin
She was Pretoria’s first love. Her death was the hammer that broke the Guild’s tenuous grasp on my sister, and turned her discontent into a bitter, driving force.
Her name was Emeline and she was, for five years in the Guild’s hallowed halls, as good as a sister to me. Forcibly relinquished to the Guild by her Separatist parents at the late age of thirteen, she staunchly clung to her parents’ views. Her willfulness and passion collided with Pretoria’s natural inclination towards self-governance and petty insurrection, and together the two of them began to sow ever-increasing discord among the young mages at the Harren Guild Academy for the Instruction and Edification of Young Women.
The Guild paid little mind to love affairs like her and Pretoria’s, so long as no unsanctioned children could be conceived and one still fulfilled marital obligations to the Guild. But rebellious ideals were another matter entirely. Young mages began to defect, their perceived poison to spread beyond the walls of the Women’s Academy, and action was taken.
When I recall Emeline’s face now, I remember it only in her final moments—submerged in water behind walls of glass, her auburn hair glistening like flame and her skirts of pale, sodden white adrift as she screamed and spasmed and drowned before a hall of mages.
That, dear reader, is the final punishment for a rebellious mage—the Glass Coffin.
Present Day
Imoved through the grounds of New Harrow’s extensive university in the clean light of morning. A few hatted heads turned and whistles chased me across the campus towards the main building, where a shy young woman directed me to Dr. Maddeson’s office on the second floor.
“Mr. Stoke sends his respects,” I told the lean, brown-haired professor across his book-strewn desk. I had snared only a few hours of sleep, and the amount of coffee this lack had necessitated left me jittery. But I strove to remain composed. “I am his secretary, Ottilie Fleet.”
“Tell him likewise, Miss Fleet.” Dr. Maddeson’s moustache, a long-tailed, drooping specimen, dipped further in discontent. His gaze flicked over me, searching for something. “You did not bring the artifact?”
Ah. Now there was a development.
“No, sir,” I said, summoning one of the lies I had concocted throughout my largely sleepless night. Aside from the late hour of my return home, Hieronymus was feeling neglected, and had howled and batted my toes throughout the sparse hours in which I had found my bed. I had also been forced to scale the balcony again, which had fouled my already sour mood after meeting Wake.
“It was my understanding that Mr. Stoke had alreadydelivered it to you, and I was to retrieve it today,” I lied.
