It’s a long night for Nemesis. For once, he doesn’t dream of Elias, but that’s no comfort to him. Instead, he dreams of the dead woman, with her uncanny-but-not-quite-perfect resemblance to Lusitania Renwick, as Tobias Fitzroy’s hands close around her neck and she struggles, miserably, hopelessly, for air. And then he dreams of desperate sobs, and he dreams of different hands closing around a different neck, of struggling for air, and of covering bruises with long sleeves and collars and gloves, and of washing faces so that no one can see the redness or the streaks, so that no one has an excuse to admit that they suspect something is terribly, terribly wrong. He dreams of pain just strong enough that he can’t fully ignore it. He dreams about fear and about anger and about miserable orphans and about willful ignorance.

And then he wakes up and reassures himself he’s none the worse for any of it, despite the throbbing of his knuckles.

At Nemesis’ request, it’s Percy who comes to meet him this time, knocking nervously on the door of Beaumort’s. The place has a reputation, according to Theory; Nemesis hasn’t seen evidence of that until now, but if Percy of all people, the same Percy who had eagerly entered the secret tunnel at the Theatre Obscura, is nervous at entering, that’s a sure sign there’s something sinister about the place. Evie trails behind him, seeming less scared for herself and more worried for Percy, who, despite his visible trepidation, hasn’t hesitated to rip the door open and dramatically proclaim his presence.

Even Theory looks a little tense as the five of them sit around the dinner table in the loft. The table normally only has three chairs, so Percy has been forced to pull up an armchair, and Evie a padded stool from downstairs which Theory uses to get books off of the shelves too tall for her to reach. The five of them look, Nemesis thinks, like an especially ragtag group of strangers gathered by chance.

Percy is the first to speak, quieter than Nemesis has yet heard him. “The newspapers aren’t reporting on this, predictably. Not even the Sun. I wanted to, but Ms. Alhazred wouldn’t allow it. Something about keeping our cards in our sleeves and not inciting mass panic.”

He sighs. “She said you and I should go to the constables, Nemesis. If we get permission to investigate – which we probably will, because the Correspondents have agents among the police – then we can collect more information, and then… Once we figure out what’s going on, some of it can go public.”

Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “All sounds like a lot of hassle. I’m not entirely opposed to inciting mass panic, though, so maybe my opinions on how to go about this can’t completely be trusted. I’ll trust you for now, as long as Fitzroy gets taken down.”

“Even if he isn’t guilty?” Evie asks.

“He’s guilty. No way he’s not guilty.” He pauses, hearing his heart beating like a jackhammer in his chest, and makes sure to take a deep breath before he continues speaking. “But, yes. Even if he didn’t kill this specific woman – I don’t care. I want to ruin his life.”

This earns him concerned looks from everyone except for Theory, who seems completely unfazed. “You two do that. Meanwhile, you wanted me to take a look at that book you stole from Fitzroy’s study, right?”

“If you don’t mind,” he confirms.

Percy frowns; his eyebrows furrow in a way that’s, quite frankly, cute. “I’m not sure this is really necessary to prove anyone murdered anyone –”

“Nah, it’s not. I’m just curious, as it were.”

Theory speaks, calm and even. “I can try my best. This looks like it might be a strange sort of Pre-Al-Mushrite, not one I’ve seen before. I can certainly translate it, but it will take some time. I must say, it’s gorgeous. It looks as though it might be thousands of years old, but it’s very well-preserved. It’ll be a welcome addition to my collection, once I’m done.” She gingerly runs her hand over the spine. There’s an attentiveness from her that Nemesis has never seen before.

“So we’re just outright stealing from Mr. Fitzroy?” Callie asks. “Not that I have any moral issues with that. I wouldn’t still be here if I did. I’m just curious.”

Nemesis starts to wonder where else she could possibly go, but realizes that he’ll feel like a bad person if he lingers on this topic much longer. He’s useless when he mopes. “Yes, we are. Of course we are. And we’re going to do more of it, if I have any say in the matter.”

Evie frowns. “You really hate Fitzroy, I’m getting the sense. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but you haven’t even met him, have you?”

“You could call him an old enemy of mine,” he says. “No, I will not elaborate on that whatsoever, so don’t bother asking. My own feelings on the subject don’t matter nearly as much as solving this crime.”

“Right, right. We’ll get going soon. But first,” Percy tents his hands and glances sharply across the table at Theory. “I have some questions for you, Ms. Hayes. About this bookstore, and about your family.”

Theory flinches, barely visibly, at that last word. She almost manages to keep her expression completely neutral as she stares back at Percy, her voice as controlled as it ever is. “Yes, of course. Ask whatever you’d like.”

“This might be a bit of a touchy question, and I apologize, but this bookstore has its own history. That much I know. Your family is pretty infamous around here, in a really negative way. I mean, you’re one of the only families that’s been blacklisted, definitively, from attending the Institute.” He pauses to gauge Theory’s reaction – which is rather indifferent, of course. She knows all of that already. “The reason they were blacklisted was because they were doing some rather dodgy stuff in this very bookstore. They even named it after their organization – the Beaumort Society. But the Beaumort Society seemingly vanished, around five years ago. What happened?”

She seems almost relieved, though that might just be Nemesis’ eyes playing tricks on him. “Oh, you want to know that? I was never a member, but I know approximately what happened. They thought it would be safer to operate out of Al-Mushriq. Probably for the best, that. So they shifted their base of operations, and they all travel there for meetings. They rebranded, too, and I’m not sure what to, so don’t ask me. Like I said. Haven’t become a member yet. My parents haven’t come back to collect me, or the books. I assume they’re too busy… working.”

“I see. This might seem a little bit insensitive, considering the circumstances, but I think we - a group of like-minded people seeking the truth - should bring back the Beaumort society.”

That provokes a dramatic and immediate reaction from both Evie – whose eyes widen quickly and drastically, giving her a distinctly frog-like appearance – and Theory, who seems to tense in every possible joint, projecting the look of pure simmering rage. Despite that, her response is calm and measured. “Why would you want to do that? It isn’t as though they were a group of like-minded individuals who solved mysteries, you know. They were researchers, and they researched things that would nauseate you. The aspects of artifice so taboo even the Institute won’t dare touch them.”

“I know, I know. But you said they rebranded, right? We can be a new Beaumort Society, except this time, we’re researchers in a different sense. We’re looking into the secrets not even the constables will touch. It seems fairly analogous. Besides, if we want anyone to take us seriously we need name recognition. With how few of us there is, we’re better off working with someone else’s legacy.”

“It isn’t even close, and I don’t think you want this legacy, but I really can’t stop you, if that’s what you want,” Theory sighs. She doesn’t sound particularly okay with the idea.

She glances at the wall. Nemesis follows her eyes. She’s looking directly at the sole photograph on the wall; a framed oval portrait of a younger Theory and what Nemesis concluded long ago must be her parents: a wild-haired man with an equally wild grin and a very neat, frowning woman. The Doctors Hayes had owned this bookstore before Theory, and if their word is to be taken seriously, they’ll be back to reclaim it one of these days.

“All I’m saying is we’re not getting matching tattoos,” Nemesis says. “You wanna be a society, you wanna expand? Sure. But don’t be surprised when you go mad with power and I defect and work against you.”

“Duly noted,” Percy mutters. “Don’t want this to be hierarchical, know that much. I’d just like an official name for a loose coalition of people who work together to root out corruption!”

“That’s the police,” Callie suggests.

“Nah. All the police do is arrest people who don’t need to be arrested and refuse to arrest the people who do,” Nemesis scowls. “Again, Chase, I’ll work with this, but only until you prove yourself untrustworthy – which I have no doubt you will, eventually.”

“You’re so hostile towards me, Nemesis. You’ve already proved I’m not lying.” Percy does seem a little hurt, and a cursory glance at his compass confirms his sincerity. Nemesis can’t pretend he doesn’t feel a pang of guilt in his chest. It isn’t easy or pleasant, but it’s necessary. In his line of work, he has to be sure that everyone he interacts with will eventually betray him. And they will.

But he sighs, glanced at Percy, then Evie, then Callie, and finally, the still-tense Theory. “I think it’s an alright idea. An alliance to undo all of the other alliances. For now, I’m not opposed. Just know I’ll be keeping all of you in check.”

He forces himself to relax, because despite what he says and despite the guilt, something tells him this is a spectacularly horrible idea. “Admittedly, it’s probably a good idea for other reasons. People in my line of work have a tendency to… vanish mysteriously. Especially someone as young as me, in a city like this… could probably use the backup.”

Percy smiles softly. “Right. Think of it that way. Backup.”

The police station is strangely empty. Nemesis and Percy walk by rows of empty benches to the reception desk, where a woman sits, legs crossed, a tired expression on her face. Behind her, rows of cells are lined up; the prisoners in them are either sleeping, exhausted, or dead. From this distance, it’s difficult to tell.

Nemesis thinks to himself how deeply unpleasant it is, keeping people in here. Even if it’s just a transitional step on their way to prison, and probably makes things easier for the police themselves, he can’t imagine being those prisoners, on display for anyone who happens to enter this room.

The woman at the desk, he notices with a sinking feeling, isn’t someone he recognizes. She has black hair in a high ponytail and piercing blue eyes. When they enter, she looks up from her magazine – The Discerning Manacle, a publication frequented by agents of the law and fetishists alike – to glare at them. Her nametag reads ‘Charlotte Crawford’. “I sense you’re here to talk to me. Make it quick.”

Her tone is so unpleasant. It makes his skin crawl; sends a familiar chill down his spine. He’s met precisely one police officer he’s even remotely enjoyed the company of, and he’d been hedging his bets on his old acquaintance being on duty. Unfortunately, it’s this woman instead. Somehow, he feels like she won’t be nearly as willing to parlay.

Seriously, what’s the point of a constable who can’t even be bribed?

Percy nods. “I’m a reporter with the Electric Sun, and –”

“And you want an interview? No. I don’t wanna talk to you.” She sighs. “I hate desk duty… It’s a waste of perfectly good officers who should be on patrol. Ugh. You can go bother someone else.”

He still seems very composed, which Nemesis thinks is rather impressive. “We were wondering if we could look into the corpse found outside of the Obscura – for investigative journalism purposes, of course. Is there a detective assigned to the case?”

“Don’t see why there would be. She died of natural causes. No need to investigate.”

Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “‘Natural causes’? She had rope marks around her neck. She was hanged.”

“Nothing unnatural about dying of being hanged. That’d kill most people.”

He sighs and opens his mouth to argue, but she raises a finger. “No buts. The Automaton Lex determined that her death was of natural causes. And unless you’re the murderer yourself, I don’t see why you’d know better.”

He feels Percy’s hand on his shoulder. He has to deflate, simmer instead of boiling, because right now (he realizes with a dull, almost too-familiar feeling) he is incredibly close to getting himself arrested.

“... Sorry about my friend. If it’s all so sure, you wouldn’t mind us looking into interviewing people in proximity to the case, right?” Percy sounds sheepish, but also scared. Nemesis supposes he should probably feel guilty.

“Yeah, no, I don’t care. If you wanna track people down, be my guest. It’s your time you’ll be wasting, then, and not mine. Which is what you’re doing right now, is wasting my time, by the way.”

“Duly noted,” he mutters. “Do you at least know which morgue the corpse is being held at?”

She groans, puts down her magazine, and flips carelessly through a stack of papers. “... She was given to Dr. Aleister Burke, one of the Institute’s guys. I’d feel sorry for her if she was still alive, but she’s not, so at least she won’t feel herself getting vivisected.”

“Actually,” Nemesis says, almost on instinct, “It’s only a vivisection if the subject is alive –”

Percy claps a hand over his mouth. “Of course, what my friend is saying is that it’s a very good thing corpses don’t feel pain.”

“Yeah. Thank goodness we don’t have any sort of weird cultural hang-ups around working with corpses. Imagine how much less scientific and medical progress we would have made if we treated corpses like people instead of bones and flesh? I can’t.” She picks her magazine back up and waves them off. “Anyway, shoo. Before I arrest both of you for trespassing.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you for your time!” Percy grabs him and firmly pulls him outside by the arm.

Callie is waiting for them outside, wearing a large pair of sunglasses borrowed from Theory, not wanting to call the police’s attention to herself - though Nemesis thinks it’s accomplishing very much the opposite. (Apparently Art always told her never to trust the police, which is a viewpoint Nemesis can greatly respect.) When they come out, she glances up at them nervously. “How did it go…?”

“Mixed bag, mixed bag,” Percy mutters, seeming just the barest bit agitated. “I mean, we got our permission, and a lead, but Nemesis almost got himself arrested.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“It’s not like almost getting arrested is a new experience for me,” Nemesis grins, despite himself. “But I’ve never actually been arrested, so right now I have a pretty good overall track record, I’d say!”

“That isn’t particularly reassuring…” she sighs.

“You’re such a critic. I know what I’m doing, you know,” he mutters. It’s half a joke.

“Of course you know what you’re doing. That’s why I wanted you on my side,” Percy says with surprising sincerity. “But you need to slow down sometimes too, you know. You can’t solve everything. When we talk to Dr. Burke, keep that in mind. You know how to interrogate, but I know how to interview.”

He pats Nemesis on the shoulder. “Sometimes, you need to know when to act.”

Nemesis feels a little like this might be a covert way of insulting him, especially coming from a person who is supposedly known for being impulsive and having little common sense, but he nods. “... I’ll keep it in mind.” He hopes Percy can’t hear the spite in his voice.

“Good. I believe in you!” Percy offers him a wide smile. The sheer amount of likely feigned positivity coming off of him in waves makes Nemesis unbelievably angry.

Dr. Aleister Burke’s office is located in a part of town known as the Institute District. Surrounding the main headquarters of Catacumba in an outward spiral, towers of buildings serve as extra classrooms, offices, and lodging. This particular black brick building is located on the outskirts of both the district and the city. It looks quite a bit worse for wear – a fallen branch is sticking crookedly out of the top left section, and bricks were scattered on the ground like fallen leaves. The street lacks enough lamps, and the trees cast large shadows across the front of the building. A small brass plaque over the door proclaims, in large letters, DEPARTMENT OF NECROMANCY, and then, a smaller plaque, in smaller letters, off to the side: DR ALEISTER BURKE.

“Is he the only professor?” Callie asks as she reads the plaque. She’s visibly nervous. Nemesis supposes the place doesn’t precisely project a comforting aura.

“Looks like it,” Percy mutters. “Pretty understaffed. Not that I’ve even heard of ‘necromancy.’”

“It’s probably a type of artifice, but I don’t know anything about it either.”

“I know it’s a bit obscure, but neither of you have even heard of it?” Nemesis scoffs. Though he, of course, won’t say it out loud, he’s thrilled that he knows something neither of them do. “Necromancy’s a type of artifice, yeah. It involves… well, end goal is reviving the dead. No one’s gotten that far yet, but…”

“That’s… interesting,” Percy comments, visibly unnerved. Callie, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to see anything concerning about this.

“More than a bit obscure, then. I reckon, as long as he doesn’t kill any of us to try and revive us, we’ll all be fine,” Nemesis reassures them.

With that rather optimistic view of things, he knocks on the door.

The door is answered by someone who looks nothing like what Nemesis had imagined Dr. Aleister Burke would look like. In fact, he looks quite like Charles Dreadful.

Charles seems exhausted and sleep-deprived, dressed simply in a white shirt and black waistcoat. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and bandages completely cover both of his arms. His hair is clipped up behind his head. When he sees Nemesis, he frowns. “Why are you here? Did Hayes send you?”

“We were looking for a Dr. Aleister Burke,” Nemesis answers.

“Well, I’m not him. I doubt you’ve forgotten my name, Nemesis Jones.”

“Haven’t. So are we in the wrong place? Has he been secretly dead for years, is that what’s happening?”

“... Heh. No. Goodness, no. Wait just a moment.” Charles leans back in, half-shutting the door. “PROFESSOR! PEOPLE HERE TO SEE YOU! ASSOCIATES OF HAYES’!”

There’s a sound of things being put down, and of footsteps, and the door opens properly. Aleister Burke is tall, with unruly dark hair tied haphazardly back and braided, somewhat sunken hazel eyes, and a long white doctor’s coat over his dark clothing. He is pale and gaunt, looking not completely unlike a reanimated corpse himself. He looks from Nemesis, to Callie, to Percy, taking in each of their rather… distinctive appearances. “Who have we here?” he asks, in a rather deep, intimidating voice, accented Lygredish – one of the older, less urban dialects.

“Nemesis Jones,” Nemesis answers promptly. “Not actually here on behalf of Theory Hayes. Here on behalf of that corpse you’ve been holding onto.”

Burke frowns. “No offense, lad, but that could be several corpses.”

“You just got a corpse collection going or something?” Percy asks nervously. “Nothing wrong with that, I mean, people have hobbies –”

“Not a collection. I need them for my line of work.”

He looks as though the response might have sucked his soul directly out of his body, which Nemesis can’t entirely blame him for. Burke is scary, just by nature of his appearance. Were Nemesis not used to dealing with terrifying older people, this might be difficult for him.

Percy, it seems, is not so used to dealing with terrifying adults.

“Right, right. We’re looking for the one found outside the Theatre Obscura. For crime investigating reasons, and not corpse theft reasons, or anything of the sort. We’ll let you have it back afterwards.”

Burke looks somber. “... Had a feeling it’d be her. Yes, I can help you, er… You don’t look like police.”

“We aren’t.”

“Good to hear.” He glances between the three visitors. “All of you look awfully young, to be doing this sort of work. Fair warning – what’s in my office may disturb you. Any of you are free to wait outside, if you have a weak stomach.”

“I’ll be fine,” Nemesis says confidently. Behind him, Percy nods a shaky affirmation.

“My stomach isn’t weak, and it could beat up Nemesis’ stomach,” Callie mutters. Though it isn’t the proper time or correct, Nemesis admires the chutzpah.

Burke seems to appreciate it, though, judging by the barest hint of a chuckle he lets out in response. It looks utterly foreign on his face. “Right, right. Come on, then. Would any of you like any tea? And do keep your shoes on, by the way – I wash the floors regularly, but who knows what there’s trace amounts of down there.”

Percy laughs nervously. Nemesis pats him on the shoulder, hoping it’s as condescending as he intends.

The room’s interior is, simply put, a mess. Theory Hayes is bad at cleaning, but this place easily puts Beaumort’s to shame. Papers and tools are scattered all over the multiple desks; various cleaning implements are out in the open, clearly having seen recent use; the room is absolutely devoid of anything that could be called ‘interior decorating’.

All of that, however, pales in comparison to the true horrors of the room. A door in the back of the room, labeled ‘FREEZER’, is concerning in itself, but is made even more ominous by the cabinet next to it, labeled ‘BONES’. The door of the ‘Bones’ cabinet is slightly ajar, and Nemesis can see a femur poking out of it.

The walls are covered in large papers, with elaborate diagrams of the human body scrawled on them. Some of the diagrams are benign, like something out of an anatomy textbook (of which there is no shortage in the room to begin with). Others are horrifying cross-sections drawn with sickening detail. The most disturbing, perhaps, are photographs of corpses that, as far as Nemesis can tell by the sheer amount of gore, died terrible, terrible deaths.

And among them, he notices a single photograph. The old paper shows a man with deep brown skin, shoulder-length dreadlocks, and a kind smile. It doesn’t seem to belong in this room of death, but perhaps isn’t the most polite thing to ask about.

And finally, there are the tables; two of them, one on each side of the room. One is covered with fresh blood and viscerae. The other holds a corpse, stretched out and head bored open. Some sort of device is attached to it as blue liquid pumps into its veins. Despite what he can only assume are Burke’s best efforts the corpse seems to remain quite dead.

Next to him, Percy is gagging. Callie looks completely unaffected.

As Charles moves to clean off the bloody table, a rush of feathers comes at Nemesis. He ducks and feels claws tear into his scalp, before Burke shouts “No –” and the sensation ceases.

When he looks up, Burke is holding in his arms what looks to be a skeletal raven; flesh and feathers are scarce on its bones. A red glow peeks out of its eyes. The skeleton miraculously moves on its own, looking miffed at having been pulled out of Nemesis’ hair and letting out a dissatisfied croak.

Burke glances to Charles. “Boy, your infernal bird-creature is bothering the guests.”

“That isn’t my problem,” Charles mutters, but he reluctantly clicks his tongue and holds out his hand. The raven flies over to perch on his bandages. He carefully scratches its skull before returning to his work.

Nemesis glances between Charles and Burke. “What’s the deal here, then? He your employee? Apprentice?”

“Former apprentice. Assistant, now. He’s my most devoted student. And yes, before you make the obvious comment, I do have others.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he frowns, hoping Burke hasn’t noticed his reaction. “Right, though. We’re here for a corpse, as it were. A specific one.”

“Yes, her.” Burke’s face falls a mite. “Once the table is clean – yes, she’s… Well… She’s fully intact, right now. The police told me it was natural causes, but a single glance is enough to assure that is not the case. Such a shame, she was quite the talented young girl, gone before her time.”

“You knew her?” Callie asks.

“Yes, yes, I did. She was a student of artifice herself – though she primarily worked in a far different field, she did pass through my department once or twice. She was very studious, and I hear she graduated with high honors. Though it’s strange… I haven’t heard of her since then.”

“What’s her name?” Nemesis asks.

“Elizabeth Calloway,” Burke answers, and Nemesis feels his heart sink.

“No, er… relationship to Geoffrey?”

“Relationship. Yes. She’s – was - his daughter.”

Nemesis feels as if the air has been sucked out of him. He imagines tired Geoffrey Calloway, who always seems so exhausted and sad. His daughter is dead, and as it stands right now, her killer will be getting off scot-free. Of course, it isn’t as if the killer being caught would be much solace, either.

The fact is that Elizabeth Calloway is dead – gone – and that her father will never see her again. The thought sickens him.

Percy, who has been staring ceaselessly in a sort of rapt horror at the corpse on the table, leans one hand against the wall. He covers his mouth with the other.

“Need to bow out, Chase?” Nemesis asks, this time free of condescension. “I didn’t know you were so squeamish. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Really, Callie’s stoicism is the more concerning thing at this point.

“Maybe. Maybe –” He shakes his head. “I’ll wait outside, right. Um. Sorry.”

And with that, he ducks outside.

Callie watches him leave, sympathetic but visibly confused. “Why is he so upset?”

“It’s not unnatural,” Charles speaks up, having finished cleaning off the table. “Most people are a little squeamish around corpses. And necromancy, in particular… Reverenti consider it an insult to the natural order, and some artificers consider it a waste of resources. Doesn’t precisely have the best of reputations. That’s why everyone who studies it has a reason to.”

“A reason to?”

“Yes, a reason to. Either a natural draw, someone in particular they’d like to bring back, some sort of experience with death. It’s different for every person, but no one studies necromancy who doesn’t have a passion for it.” He scratches the raven’s head.

Nemesis thinks, for a brief moment, that he and Charles might not be so different. That, if his life was slightly different, he could have ended up here under the wing of Aleister Burke, cutting open corpses and reanimating bird skeletons.

With a loud caw that breaks Nemesis out of his thoughts, the skeletal raven sits on his shoulder. He glances at it. A hint of a smile pulls at his lips.

“Baron’s nervous around strangers, I think. Forgive me. He hasn’t had any opportunity to be around anyone but me or Professor Burke, since I animated him,” Charles explains.

“His name’s Baron?” Callie asks. “... May I pet him?”

He shrugs. “You may certainly try.”

She does just that, reaching out her hand and patting the creature’s awful skeletal head. The raven seems more confused than anything, but it doesn’t attack her. As far as Nemesis is concerned, it goes better than he expected.

“Did you actually reanimate it?” he asks Charles.

“Yes, I did.”

“If you can reanimate a bird, why have necromancers never been able to reanimate humans?”

“We can reanimate humans, that’s never been the issue. But our reanimation isn’t revival. We can allow them to move on their own, to act, almost as if they are truly alive, but they have no memories, they know nothing, and they must relearn how to function on the most basic level, as if they are children.

“It is… a semblance of life. They need no nutrients or sleep, and they cannot be killed by normal means. They must be disenchanted, so having too many of them around is a hazard, in case something goes wrong. That’s why it’s illegal without a certification.

“But none of that really matters. The problem is that if a person is dead… we have yet to find a way to bring them back as they were. And that is, of course, the end-goal of necromancy.” He lowers his head somberly. “In short, in death, the animus is separated from the corpus, that is, the physical – and we have found, as far as we can tell, a way to create a primitive mimicry of an animus, but not to reunite the animus and the corpus.”

“I see. That’s fascinating, actually,” Nemesis remarks truthfully. “But unfortunately, I’m here to investigate a murder, not sit in on a lecture.”

“Right, of course.” Charles stands and migrates back to the freezer, gingerly opening the door and looking around inside.

Burke glances at Nemesis. “You know, you’re welcome to sit in on lectures anytime you’d like. They’re rather small and hands-on.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I actually can’t.” He shrugs, “Don’t have the knack, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, I see.” Burke nods. “Not even a little, hmm? That must make life a little difficult.”

“Not really, actually. Back in Citrea Viridia, people who had powerful knacks either moved here or destroyed things without meaning to. It’s not like here, where most people here learn to suppress their knack if they aren’t studying artifice. I was pretty relieved to not have it.”

“Citrea Viridia? You’re from Llygredyg? Hmm… Lad, what did you say your name was again?”

“I’m Nemesis Jones. Er, if there’s something about that you find… interesting, we can talk after I take a look at this corpse.”

“Right, right.” Burke looks distinctly vexed. Nemesis is both proud and deeply worried that his presence is capable of inducing that emotion.

Charles brings out Calloway’s corpse. It looks just as pale and horrifying as Nemesis remembers it. Slowly, he reaches out to touch her face, to brush her hair out of her eyes. The same terrified look is still painted on her face.

He runs his hand over her forehead, cursing the lack of sensation through his glove. He’s long grown used to the strange way it affects his movement – the suffocating feeling of it, the clumsiness – but the lack of sensation remains an impediment. “I’m not precisely a doctor, so I need your expertise. What’s going on with this corpse?”

Burke leans over the corpse and frowns.

“… It’s difficult to tell. This woman has been dead for over a day, at the very least, and yet…” He places a careful hand over her throat, “… Perfectly preserved. She seems as if she is in stasis – perfectly alive save for the heartbeat. She is a snapshot of a living body, but the blood in her veins does not move, and she does not breathe. By all means, distinctly dead, but there is nothing to indicate that except for the lack of life.”

“That’s horrifying,” Nemesis mutters, though his expression remains undisturbed. “Then you think the marks on the neck could have been made post-mortem, feasibly? You think she can bruise in this state?”

“I was wondering the same thing, actually. As it stands, I see no reason to think the bruising couldn’t be post-mortem. I don’t know that for sure, though – nor do I have any reason to assume it was post-mortem.”

He pulls his notebook and pen from his pocket, dutifully writing down what Burke is saying. “I see, I see. Now, you’re a necromancer, so you really can’t object to what I’m about to do without seeming like a massive hypocrite.”

And, without further elaborating, he lifts Calloway’s hand and slams her wrist down on the side of the table with enough force that a disgusting crack rings through the room.

Burke and Charles look on grimly. Callie still seems unperturbed.

Gingerly, Nemesis brushes back her sleeve. Underneath, her wrist is rapidly swelling. It’s probably good that she isn’t alive to feel this, because judging by his own limited knowledge it looks most definitely broken, and badly, too. And indeed, a horrifying, deep purple bruise is rapidly spreading across the length of her wrist and forearm.

“That’s one way to find out,” Burke mutters. “To be frank, I’d considered doing the same myself, but that just seemed disrespectful.”

“I’m pretty disrespectful in general, so lines up.” Nemesis rummages in his bag before removing a camera, carefully photographing the wrist and watching the image print itself before doing the same for Calloway’s face and neck. He steps back to get a larger shot of her whole body, splayed out on the table.

Finally, he reaches to her other hand, gently lifting it and brushing back the sleeve. The wrist is stained with a deep purple circle.

He frowns, photographing it as well, then turns to her legs. Around her ankles, a similar purple circle stands out against her snow-white, utterly dead skin. He photographs that, too. “Bloody hell. Right, that should be it, for now. Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

“Right.” Burke glances at Callie, then Charles. “Oh, Charles, would you mind showing the girl out? I’d like to speak to Jones here for a moment.”

Nemesis tenses. Damnit.

“Sure,” Charles says, though he seems a little on the confused side. He gestures to Callie, who glances nervously at Nemesis.

He waves to her, giving her a half-grin he hopes is reassuring. She lowers her head and follows Charles out, not seeming completely comfortable with it despite her compliance. The room is left empty: just Burke, Nemesis, and Elizabeth Calloway’s corpse.

Burke turns to him and sighs. “Might take a bit. Would you like some tea, lad?”

“No thanks.” He pulls a flask from his bag, replacing the camera. “Don’t really trust you not to poison me. No offense.”

“None taken.” The ghost of a forlorn grin crosses Burke’s face. “You’re just like him, down to the paranoia.”

Nemesis sits down on a chair, currently the one piece of furniture in the room not occupied by corpses. He tries not to think about what might have been on it in the past. He puts his legs up on the table on which Elizabeth Calloway’s corpse is resting, and begins to take a sip of the liquid in his flask before deciding that he’s being rude enough. “I dunno what you mean by that,” he quips back.

Burke sighs. “Right. You’re really pretending you’ve no relation to Arthur? You don’t need to do that, you know. I’m on his side, and on yours.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort,” Nemesis mutters, bringing out his compass. As far is it seems to be concerned, Burke is entirely sincere – though his eyes widen when he sees it, and he slowly pulls up his sleeve to the elbow.

On the back of his forearm is a tattoo – a large letter ‘C’.

Nemesis turns over his compass. On the back is an identical logo.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, agitated and tense, and he knows Burke can tell he is. “Never told me he was part of a secret society. Seems like something important to mention before you mysteriously go missing, but what would I know?”

“Seems like it would be,” Burke frowns. “So he got himself in hot water again, huh… Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. You fool. Vanishing and leaving your son to sort it out without so much as a word. I didn’t even know he had a son.”

“Not his son,” Nemesis immediately clarifies. “Er, I mean. I’m his apprentice. Was.”

“Then ‘Nemesis Jones’ is an alias...”

“Obviously.”

“And he’s really just vanished without a word? Even to you?”

“Aye. He left his compass to me.” He pulls out his decoder with a frown. “This, too. It was a gift, he told me, and the compass was a loan so I could solve a specific case – but then I came back to his office and he was just gone, and that was when I knew I had to leave Citrea Viridia.”

“Sounds like Arthur, unfortunately. I recognize those dials. He made them himself, as I remember. Spent a while on the whittling. When I asked him why afterwards, he said he just wanted to occupy himself.”

“Right. I was hoping – if I found someone who recognized the compass, they could direct me to his whereabouts. But it seems that’s a dead end.” He sighs in an attempt to hide just how frustrated he is. “Funny. He always told me the people in those societies were freaks who just wanted to screw everyone else over for their own shady reasons. Turns out he was one of them. Heh.”

Burke frowns sympathetically. “I wouldn’t let that color your opinion of him, lad. The Correspondents were founded as a countermeasure to the Eyes, back when they first got started. Back then, our goals were simple: collect information and prevent the Eyes from getting things done. It wasn’t until Alhazred – one of our members – got a bit too… secretive… that us thirteen original members split up. The organization as it stands right now couldn’t be farther from what it was meant to be. In fact, I’d say Arthur’s negative opinion of such matters probably came primarily from his own experiences. He doesn’t have a nasty bone in his body.”

“He doesn’t, no,” Nemesis agrees. Although all the logic adds up, it does nothing to put his mind at ease. “So you all moved on after? You haven’t been in contact with him?”

Burke shakes his head. “No. Sorry. At least, I’ve not spoken to him in years. I’ll try to get in touch with some of the others, see if they have, but my hopes aren’t terribly high.”

“That’d be lovely. Thank you. And you don’t think you can tell me much about how this murder was carried out? What happened to this poor girl?”

“I don’t think so. I reanimate people, not so much heal them. Charles studies some medicine, from a teacher who I trust greatly. I’ll give you his building number, if you’d like to stop by and talk to him. He’s quite the doctor.”

He glances apprehensively at the corpse. “Think it’d be better if I could take her with me, but that seems out of the question. If anything, best to stop dragging her around and get her to her father for a proper burial. You’re not going to hold onto the corpse, right?”

“Goodness, no. It’s a bit more… unsavory, reanimating someone you knew as a mindless mound of flesh. It shouldn’t be, but I simply can’t get over my squeamishness in those circumstances. Charles has no such inhibitions, apparently.”

“That’s weird,” he mutters. “Right, then. I’ll be off. Nice meeting you and all that, society rubbish aside. Just give me that doctor’s address and I’ll be on my way.”

Burke writes down the address carefully, handing the paper over to him. “For what it’s worth, I’m sure you’ll find the answers you seek. If you really are his student, well – there wasn’t a question on the planet that guy couldn’t solve. You’ll do fine, lad.”

On their way to the doctor’s, Nemesis cleverly dodges all of Percy and Callie’s attempts at interrogation. By the time they find themselves standing outside the ordinary-looking brick building, the two have learned a significant amount about his taste in interior decorating, as well as how much he hated a specific anatomy teacher he had been forced to endure years ago, but nothing about what had transpired between Nemesis Jones and Aleister Burke in that room.

“You think that Charles guy was an agent of something or other? He seemed really dodgy,” Callie asks, finally.

He thinks back to how frankly Burke had spoken about his own history, and how he had spoken about Charles. “Nah, not a chance.”

“Doesn’t need to be an agent of anything to be dodgy.” Percy still looks a little worse for wear; slightly unsteady on his feet. “Reanimating corpses – keeping bones in a cabinet – that’s so… disgusting.”

“That’s very harsh,” Callie mutters. “All it is is bones, right? It’s not like he’s experimenting on people.”

“They were people.” He shudders. “It’s gross. I wouldn’t want anything like that done with my bones after I died.”

“I wouldn’t care. Just bones and all,” Nemesis inputs. “Really, I’ll be dead. I won’t be able to care anymore. Something that used to be a person does not necessarily a person remain.”

“’Does not necessarily a person remain’... You two are so strange,” Percy mutters, dejected. “A corpse is still the remains of a person. If I die and you two are in charge of my corpse for some probably-ridiculous reason, please just have me cremated. In a proper crematory, Nemesis – do not attempt to incinerate my corpse yourself.”

“Noted,” Nemesis says perhaps a bit too snappily, and knocks on the door.

Instantly, the door opens, but he doesn’t see anyone at it – at first. His vision pans down, and standing before him is some horrible sort of creature; one with ashy red skin and pointed horns and red pupils against black sclera. They’re dressed in a white shirt and a black coat and with shockingly humanlike choppy chin-length black hair.

And they have a revolver pointed straight at Nemesis’ head.

He flinches, stumbling back and reaching for his own, as a voice rings out.

“Stabby, no. We aren’t shooting people who knock politely.” The creature – Stabby? – lowers the gun as a figure approaches from the shade of the room.

They’re just a little shorter than Nemesis, with choppy, disheveled gray hair that just grazes their shoulders, dressed in a somewhat threadbare gray blazer, white shirt, and a slate-blue tie. Their one visible eye is a light, clear gray – the other is covered with a bandage which wraps loosely around their head, half-stained through with some sort of viscous blue substance. They look like they might have just lost a fight.

The newcomer glares at Nemesis, and he can feel himself withering in their gaze. Despite it, he keeps up appearances, not letting any cracks appear in his facade. “Hello. We were directed here by one Aleister Burke, for...medical advice.”

“Medical advice?” The gray one raises their sole visible eyebrow. “Can’t just go to the hospital for whatever it is?”

“Not really,” Nemesis replies briskly. “It’s sort of important and time-sensitive, actually.”

“...okay.” The two stare at each other for a brief moment, before the gray-haired one follows up, “...you aren’t going to elaborate, then?”

“Rather not, really? If that’s alright with everyone here.” Nemesis shrugs. “Unless you’re the doctor, but you don’t really look the part, no offense.”

“...none taken. I’m not.” They glance around the room, then lean back behind the door. “...wait here while I fetch him. Stabby will watch you, and keep in mind they have an itchy trigger finger and the common sense of a young teenager.”

Nemesis and Stabby meet eyes. He can easily buy that this child-thing is capable of shooting him with zero remorse. Behind him, he can practically feel Percy’s tension and Callie’s outright fear. His own hand is on his revolver, but he doubts it will make much of a difference. He’s quick on the draw, but maybe not quick enough, and deep down, he knows he’d have trouble shooting a child, even if it happens to be a horrible child with horns and a gun.

He doesn’t know how long their staring match lasts, but finally it’s interrupted by the gray-haired one’s return. Following them is a man about Nemesis’ height, who–

And Nemesis finds himself practically unable to look away, because this man is beautiful. It isn’t that he’s especially attractive – by all means, he might be if he were some decades younger – but he isn’t , and Nemesis can even see the faint signs of age appearing on his tired face, though he doesn’t look especially old. He has shaggy blond hair that reaches beneath his shoulders, shiny and looking as though it must be exceptionally silky to the touch, framing his light brown skin and hazel eyes, hiding behind small, oval-shaped glasses which sit significantly down his nose. His clothing is disheveled, a black overcoat and messy white shirt, and his face bears a soft, kind smile. Behind him, a soft light that manages to be bright without being blinding fills the room.

Nemesis is sure he’s staring, but the man seems nothing but polite. “Forgive me for not immediately answering the door. Mallory said you had something important and time–sensitive to bring to my attention…?”

Nemesis blinks. “Y...Yeah. I did.” In the moments he’d been staring at the man, Calloway’s murder and the conversation he had with Burke had left his mind entirely. “It’s, er…”

“Your arm, right?” The man purses his lips concernedly. “You’re guarding it, that is – it’s rather clear you’re trying to keep from injuring it more. I’ll take a look at it, if you’ll just take off your g-”

“No.”

The man’s eyes widen. Part of Nemesis wonders if his tone isn’t a little harsh there, but he stands his ground. “I’m not taking off my glove. Er–this isn’t even why we’re here. There was a murder.”

His eyes widen again. “...ah! Of course, Aleister was just telling me about that – he called me ahead to tell me you were coming, nothing more – you’re here to investigate that, I take it?” He clicks his tongue. “I had a friend many years ago who used to need me to tell him this, too - you can’t solve the murder if you can’t keep yourself in one piece. Come here, lad. It’ll just take a moment.”

Nemesis frowns, but, despite himself, takes a tentative step in. Stabby and Mallory look apprehensively at him, but let him pass. Behind him, Percy and Callie nervously follow.

The place is small, minimally decorated, but homey. A table sits in the center of the room, illuminated by a soft lamp, casting its warm light all over the scattered papers and what looks like a half-consumed cup of tea. The doctor pulls out a chair for Nemesis, gently but sternly moving him towards it before pulling out a chair for himself. Carefully, he takes Nemesis’ arm, stretches it out across the table, and purses his lips when Nemesis can’t help but wince in pain.

“Oh, dear.” He frowns and adjusts his glasses. “Would you mind terribly if I took a closer look? Your reaction makes it seem as if there’s some significant damage, and all of that isn’t very conducive to mystery-solving, you know. Even when there are other things on your mind, it’s always best to be in good condition..”

Nemesis, despite the sense of inherent ease that being around this man instills in him, grits his teeth, fighting through the irrational peace of mind to restore his default, well-reasoned distrust. “I would mind, actually,” he hisses, yanking his hand out of the man’s arm and ignoring the immediate pity he feels when the doctor’s face falls, as though he had just been slapped. “I am fine. I have managed, and I will continue to manage, and I would prefer the gloves stay on, if you’d please.”

The doctor blinks, then nods, despite how hurt he looks. “...I suppose I understand. I’ll at least give you a little something for the pain, if you would accept that.” He stands, rifling through cabinets before coming out with a small bottle. “You’ve...not developed an opioid dependency at such a young age, I’ll hazard a hopeful guess?”

“Not yet,” Nemesis sighs. “...whatever that is, you’re drinking some before you put it within my arms’ reach.”

The doctor frowns. “...that’s not the best idea, but...if it sets your mind at ease.” He carefully picks up a spoon from the counter, pours some of the reddish-brown liquid into it, and puts it in his mouth, wincing. “...there?”

It would be a lot of trouble, Nemesis thinks , to poison the tincture, and have a spoon on hand which has the antidote on it. More likely, perhaps, the tincture simply isn’t poisoned. And yet, somehow, that seems to him the less plausible option. He sighs, reaching his hand out. “...right...if I drop dead in mysterious circumstances, Chase, you know who did it.”

Percy, who’d been carefully observing a rather colorful plant, gives him a thumbs-up. “Noted.”

That being done, he pockets the bottle, though he knows it’ll take a decent bit of mental fortitude to actually get himself to drink it. It’ll be fine, as it always is. The pain won’t bother him too much.

The doctor sits down across from Nemesis, a look of concern on his face. “You’re quite the strange-looking bunch, no offense. Obviously not police, though I suppose Aleister would have warned me were that the case.” Across the room, Nemesis notices Mallory stiffen, giving the appearance of someone unhinged and perhaps, if he has to make a crazy leap of logic, on the run from the constables. He can’t pretend he doesn’t find it a relatable state of being.

“We aren’t,” he clarifies, pointing at Percy first. “He’s a reporter.” Then, Callie. “She’s an anomaly.” And, finally, to himself. “And I’m Nemesis Jones, private investigator extraordinaire, as you likely were told. And you are…?”

“Oh, how rude. I haven’t even introduced myself–” The doctor’s eyes narrow. “...you...don’t even know my name?”

“Nah. Aleister Burke sent me here, gave me an address. No information beyond that and ‘doctor’, but figured I might as well.” He pulls out the photographs of the corpse, sliding them onto the table. Behind the doctor, Mallory leans over, squinting at them with a frown.

“Looks like she was hanged. What’s the problem…?” They ask calmly.

“No, no, Mallory. Well, yes. But there is something strange going on here…” The doctor frowns, looking closer. “That skin, those veins...it all looks awfully strange. You say this woman was...no manifestations, right?”

“I should assume so, yes. I’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”

“The reason I ask is...well, it looks similar to the manifestations that the Fitzroy family have, just from a glance. The sort of manifestations so overpowering of the features that it makes one question if the subject is even human.”

Now that Nemesis hears him say it, he has to admit the resemblance is undeniable. He frowns. “If manifestations make you not human, I’m pretty much the only human in this city.”

The doctor chuckles. “Perhaps...you are M’amand, I take it?”

He nods. “...half. Doesn’t really matter. Not like I’m...in touch with it. I mean, what’s more important is…” He points to the picture. “People don’t just...spontaneously develop manifestations, do they?”

“Not spontaneously,” he says. “But over time, yes. It’s possible. My own halo–” he gestures vaguely behind him, at the light that seems to softly emanate from him, “–was not something I was born with. In fact,” he smiles benevolently. “I’m part M’amand, as you are, but unlike you, presumably, I have the Knack. Over time, Manifestations may develop in anyone who studies artifice diligently enough.”

That’s entirely news to Nemesis. He frowns. “...’part’ Shepherd is a little vague. You’re like, a sixteenth, or something? ‘Cause far as I know we can’t have the Knack at all. Anyway, manifestations can develop, aye, reckon that requires a little more explaining.”

“No, I’m half. Half...M’amand. Which is the name of our people.” His voice is calm but stern. “The genetic potential does not exist for the Knack among the M’amand, but my other half - my Luciellite father – had it, quite strongly. Strongly enough for me to inherit his manifestation, which, over my lifetime of practice, has...developed into its current form. And you are, judging by your accent, Llygredish. Not quite the same potential there, I’ve heard.”

“M’amand. Shepherd. Whatever. They’re just words. I call myself one, you call yourself the other. M’amand’s a mouthful, and it’s not like anyone’s ever called me that, anyway. That was what they called the language when I studied it in school, even. I call myself what other people call me. Shepherd.” He scowls. “Lygredish, yeah. You’re telling me if I’d been a bit luckier I’d have the knack, too? ‘Cause I know my father did.”

The doctor purses his lips. “My mother would have had a few stern words for you about the way that term is used, but...to each their own. Anyway, there’s no telling, but you would have had the potential.” He sighs and glances at the pictures. “As I was saying...manifestations are mostly genetic, and genetic ones can often be very drastic, as with Ashley here–” he points at Stabby, who frowns, “–but those who study artifice seriously may attain them as they gain in power. Tobias Fitzroy, I know, was likely not born with his, as I’ve never heard of that sort of Manifestation before, and these...well...they tend to be well-documented. Morgana, however, seems to have hers innately. Aleister commented on this, you said?”

“Aye. Said he knew her beforehand, and she wasn’t like that.”

“Well, that’s quite strange, then,” the doctor mutters. “Unfortunately, I can’t say that I would have an explanation for such a rapid onset – other than that perhaps she overwhelmed herself channeling something beyond her control. That has been known to cause such drastic manifestations in the short moments before immediate death.”

Nemesis frowns to himself. If she’d simply killed herself through stupidity, how would the Fitzroys have gotten their hands on her corpse? None of that adds up. “...couldn’t’ve been it, but I’ll...keep it in mind.”

“You do that. And...be careful. There’s a reason the police normally handle this.”

“The police…” Nemesis scoffs. “The police can’t even handle routine paperwork.”

The table rattled as Mallory slams their arm into it. “And what would criminal vermin like you know about the police, then?” Their face is a contorted mask of fury, almost enough to scare Nemesis, but anger only scares him when it’s cold, authoritative, heartless. Mallory seems more akin to someone gone past their limits, now on the verge of going feral.

All from one comment… “I think that’s a bit presumptive, first off. Assuming I’m a criminal, just because I act like one.” He quirks his eyebrow, and he can feel them simmering. “The police called this one natural causes. And, unfortunately for them, I have some measure of common sense. Sorry, not sorry.”

Mallory growls, but before they can say more the doctor gently places his hand on their shoulder. Immediately, they detense, stepping back from the table and out of the room - but Nemesis can still see the malice in their glare, and he knows that this conversation is far from over.

The doctor sighs. “...forgive me. It’s been quite the time since Mallory came into my care, and even now, they’ve not fully...well, become used to society and such.” He folds his hands and leans against them, sighing again. “I’ve no love for the police, and neither do they, most of the time. It’s...it’s instinct, really, is what it is.”

“Instinct. Right. Awfully weird instinct, to call people vermin.”

He sighs again, tired. “...well, no. It’s wrong. Forgive me. And, if you can, forgive them.”

Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “I see no reason to.”

“I can’t pretend I don’t understand,” he says, glancing away. “Regardless, my opinion is that it’s a rapidly acquired manifestation. That’s all you came here for, so that should satisfy you, right?”

“Hey, now. You’re acting like we just barged into your place and harassed you–”

“Well,” Percy mutters with a sigh, now carefully inspecting a magazine lying on a counter in a distant corner of the room, “That’s not too far from what we’ve been doing, is it?”

“It absolutely is,” Nemesis snaps.

The doctor smiles a little bit. “Forgive me. My tone may make me sound tired, but I’m truly not upset by any of this. Mallory is merely...exhausting to deal with, but, of course, it is something I’ve committed myself to at this point. It isn’t quite as thankless as I make it seem.”

“Then this is something you do as a hobby?” Nemesis glances up. Callie has been absolutely quiet this entire time, and here she is, staring directly at Stabby. “...you collect...weirdos. People who don’t belong in society. Is that it?”

Instead of looking mortified at the accusation, the doctor chuckles lightly. “I see how it might seem that way. This office has become somewhat of a home for wayward and very eccentric youth, yes. But no. I merely help those in need of it. That is what a doctor is meant to do, after all. These two happen to need a bit more help than most. I’m happy to provide that.”

Mallory peers back in from the other room. “Don’t accuse Dr. Apollinaire of things like that. He selflessly helped something like me. It’s not a ‘collection’. He treats me…” They trail off, and Nemesis realizes that they’ve said something they weren’t supposed to. Still, they finish the sentence: “...with the dignity one would typically reserve for people.”

Nemesis’ eyes widen as the dots connect in his mind. “No way. You’re an Automaton Lex, aren’t you?”

And at the same time, Callie blinks. “Did you just say...Apollinaire?”

Percy glances between the two of them. “I feel as though I don’t really have the necessary background information to be shocked but I also feel as though I am anyway, somehow.”

Apollinaire sighs. “...let’s...tackle these one at a time, shall we? Otherwise, we might all get overwhelmed with incoherent information, and that would be a shame, because I believe both of these questions deserve answers. I’ll begin with the simpler of the two.” He sits up straighter, more official, turning to Callie. “My name is Dr. Aharon Apollinaire.”

“Then…” she glances around the room. “You’re...the man Art told me to find?”

His eyes widen. “Art! Of course! You mean Artair Smith, right?”

“...yes?” Nemesis can tell she hadn’t been aware of Art’s surname until just now. “He told me to find you.”

“Ah, well...that can’t be good news,” Apollinaire mutters sheepishly. “Normally, he’s very self-reliant. The sort of person to say he’d sooner die than crawl back to me for help. Who are you, by the way?”

Callie nods solemnly. “That sounds like him. My name is Callie. I’m his...sister.”

Apollinaire looks quietly, barely confused. “I never knew he had a sister, but that doesn’t shock me. What’s happened to him, then?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. He said people were coming, and that I needed to get out and find you. He basically kicked me out, completely unceremonious. I’d never seen him that scared before.”

Apollinaire frowns. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” she confirms. “I remember what he said, word for word. ‘I don’t know how, but they found me. They’re coming. Run to the docks, go to the mainland, and don’t look back. Find Apollinaire. I love you.’ Except he was shouting it.” She lowers her head, and Nemesis can see her hands, threatening to shake, folded in front of her, gripping each other tightly, as though if she holds tightly enough she would be holding her brother’s hand instead of her own.

He thinks back to long nights of reading alone in Beaumort’s, wishing a familiar presence was there to sit next to him.

“I see. It’s pretty rare for him to admit he doesn’t know something.”

Percy quirks an eyebrow. “That’s the part you’re choosing to focus on?”

“Hard not to, if you knew the guy like I do.” Apollinaire runs a hand through his hair. He looks tense. “...I’m afraid I’ve been out of contact with him, ever since...our reason for seeing each other somewhat unraveled.”

Nemesis feels as though everything is coming together in his mind, even though the revelation raises far more questions than it answers. He leans in, carefully, whispering into his ear. “Your reason for seeing each other...the Correspondents, right?”

Nemesis leans back, and Apollinaire frowns quietly. He isn’t surprised, of course he wouldn’t be, Burke told him, but Nemesis isn’t prepared for the look of sadness that crosses his face. It makes Nemesis just the tiniest bit sad as well, despite his best efforts to keep his emotions stable. Whatever had happened...

“Well, yes,” he admits. “That is, back in the day, when we met. We were both founding members, and Mallory was...a group effort, between the two of us and Aleister Burke. But then, of course, since the schism, we’ve been out of touch…” He trails off. “...and you’re right, about Mallory’s origin. Artair being an inventor, and Aleister a necromancer...they found a decommissioned Automaton Lex on Mallory Lane, and decided to attempt to get information from it. An automaton can exist in multiple forms...so they removed it from its previous form, and removed some of the safeguards that were placed on it. And from there, we got Mallory, and I was more than willing to house them. Aleister wouldn’t have had time with his teaching, and Artair simply didn’t want to..”

He smiles at them warmly. They cross their arms and glance away. “...that was a long time ago. I might as well be vermin like you, at this point.”

“...the mindset’s not quite there yet,” he admits, putting a hand on their shoulder that makes Nemesis’ heart spike with envy. “But we’re working on it. And in the meantime, I have someone to assist me with alchemy. They’ve quite the knack for it.”

“...that’s a little excessive,” they mutter.

“...Is Stabby a similar situation?” Percy asks, gesturing to the child, who looks as though they just might pull out their gun.

“Not at all. Stabby is merely in my care.” He ruffles their hair, and Nemesis feels downright as if he could cry. “That being said, I find it curious, that, of all people, Artair would direct the sister I’d never even heard of to me. I wasn’t aware he had such high regard of me. In fact, I remember him regularly calling me a waste of flesh. I suppose he must simply consider me trustworthy. He trusted me with the automaton form he made for Mallory, after all.”

Callie glances sideways at Mallory. “He did always like to build automatons. He couldn’t get anywhere near this level of realism, of course. Not with the materials he had. And he never...actually activated them. Maybe because of that, but he mentioned...actually bringing an animus to an automaton is horribly difficult, even a semblance of one...so Mallory already had an animus, and it was merely transplanted into the automaton form Art made?”

“Not quite,” Apollinaire corrects. “Not an animus in the human sense. Sentience, in automatons, is a series of electrical impulses. The presence of an animus has yet to be proven.”

“Isn’t it electrical impulses in humans, too?” Nemesis asks.

“I suppose so,” he concedes. “We simply don’t know. There hasn’t been much research on it. The ones researching it – myself, Artair, and Aleister – have moved onto different areas, and it is not as though we are drowning in means or subjects, anyway.”

“I see.” Callie sighs, glancing down at the floor, hands folded nervously behind her back. “So you can’t help me?”

“I never said that. I just don’t know what Artair would want me to do. I think he would have simply named me as a person who would have allowed you to stay with him. He actually had a generally low opinion of my usefulness.” He sighs. “As for...actually resolving the issues...I don’t think I can help. I’m just an apothecary, after all.”

Callie nods. “I already have a place to stay, anyway. So the one clue I had was a dead end.” Nemesis thinks back to his compass. They’re in the same position, then. Questions answered, but with no solutions in sight.