Nemesis’ hand curls around the notebook in his pocket. Next to him Percy sighs to himself, and Callie looks miserably solemn.

He’s written down Aharon Apollinaire’s phone number and address. Aleister Burke’s, too. There’s a cork board on the wall in Beaumort’s that’s going to get a good few new entries when he returns tonight. He will stare at it like he does many nights, trying to find the connections between the scattered evidence and falling asleep beside it. Whatever the truth is, it seems beyond his reach.

The train is rather empty at this time of the night; three or four passengers aside from him and his companions, and of course he’s knackless, and so is Percy (and presumably Callie, though he supposes he hasn’t asked), so the train drags onward. The other passengers, almost as if they might be catching onto the fact that the three of them aren’t pulling their weight, seem to stare.

Perhaps it’s just his...distinctive appearance? He thinks he looks striking - these people probably don’t agree, though. Their gazes are tinged with contempt, at least when directed at him and Callie. After all, the two of them are strange people; people who move through the streets like they don’t belong there. Some of the gazes are tinged with intrigue. These ones, he relishes, but they’re few and far betwee.

And all of this is better than what’s surely coming, and he knows this. He would far rather be at home, looking over the new information by himself. And yet, what he wishes could be his priority will inevitably take a backseat to the far more pressing issue, and there will be no resolution for what will feel like eternity.

How selfish. Someone died. He bites his tongue, not looking out the windows as the locomotive finishes its journey towards their destination.

The three disembark, and this time Percy looks to Nemesis.

“Not to seem like I’m not carrying my weight here, even though I’m really not,” he mutters, seemingly just as much to himself as it is to Nemesis, “But I assume you know where we’re going, so – lead the way.”

Next to him, he sees Callie glance away. He supposes she must have had a similar thought about herself. He sighs to himself, even as he gestures them in the correct direction. He’s been here before, after all.

“You’re doing fine,” he tells Percy, though he supposes his tone probably isn’t the most encouraging. “Not your fault you’re freaked out by viscerae, really. Perfectly normal, that.”

“I’d like to think so,” he mutters, following behind Nemesis. “Still, it’s impressive how fast you’ve taken charge. I knew I needed your expertise, but I didn’t expect to be rendered completely useless.” He sounds sheepish, a little ashamed, and not at all angry.

“Don’t worry about it, though. You’ve done plenty. Remember, if not for you that corpse would still be in the theatre, and this case would be cold.”

“I suppose,” he agrees, though Nemesis gets the sense this conversation is far from over. That Percy has hidden depths to him goes without saying, but it’s still a surprise to see them from someone so open even Nemesis’s compass didn’t pick him up.

He shakes his head, dismissing the thoughts. More important things are afoot.

And here they are. A large sign at the front of the building proclaims:

CALLOWAY’S

Pawn shop; fine antiques; books

Nemesis takes a deep breath, steels himself, and knocks on the door.

Geoff Calloway responds immediately, standing by the door in a disheveled shirt and hurriedly-thrown-on jacket. His glasses are askew. He bears an unsettling resemblance to someone else Nemesis knows.

“Oh, Jones. You’re here.” He glances from Callie to Percy. “And you’ve brought that one writer from the Sun and some… girl? Is this for an interview?”

Before Nemesis can greet him, Percy interjects, “I’m afraid it isn’t. We came about… something else.”

Calloway’s face falls. “The… incident at the Obscura, I assume? Word has traveled fast. It’s comforting to know that someone other than the police is investigating it, honestly.”

Callie nods purposefully. “We’re here to… ask you. About that.”

The anxiety is clear as day on his face. Of course, there could be any number of explanations for it. Is he scared of being accused? Is he scared he may be in danger? Either is a perfectly rational fear.

He gestures tiredly at the three of them. “Come in. No sense in talking outside, where anyone could hear us. I’ll put on some tea.”

The inside of his shop is familiar, cozy, and filled with displays of various items in varying states of disarray. Nemesis remembers when he was last here, Calloway had been straightening and tidying things even as he spoke to him.

Calloway gestures to an oak roundtable and the three of them sit, all of them across from the candle at its center.

He puts on a kettle, sighing heavily as he looks through his tea cabinet. “Preferences?”

Nemesis immediately asks for darjeeling. Percy takes an earl gray; two sugars. Callie - after some deliberation - asks for plain water.

“Right.” Calloway nods. “Any preference for water temperature, miss?”

“Not really.”

“Ah.” He seems a bit thrown off his rhythm by the lack of preference, but continues with the kettle regardless.

Percy glances at Nemesis. “You have expensive taste, don’t you? I guess I should’ve seen that coming.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s funny. You seem to have the air about you of a refined gentleman and a rather scruffy criminal at the same time.” He shrugs. “It creates a certain sort of intrigue about you, so I don’t think it’s a bad thing. It’s just weird to see the same guy who cracked a lock while I watched ask for darjeeling.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that part,” Calloway mutters from by the stove.

Callie looks at Nemesis carefully. “... I don’t see where you’re seeing the refined part. I mean, he kind of acts like it sometimes, but it’s clearly an act, isn’t it? It’s not real, just like –”

“Hey. Shh.” He sits up a little too quickly. “Let’s save the armchair analysis for when we’re not trying to solve a mystery, alright?”

“Okay,” she mutters, disappointment clear. “I can do that.”

Calloway brings over the cups and sits, taking a cautionary sip of his own black tea. Nemesis takes one as well, and has to hold back a yelp, because the liquid is scalding. He sees Percy wince next to him. Callie seems unbothered by the temperature of her water.

Calloway sighs into his cup, not meeting any of their eyes. “I fear I know what you’ve come to speak to me about. The corpse at the theatre. You want to ask me what I know.”

“Sort of,” Nemesis admits hesitantly. “I’m… Er, I’m sorry. It’s… I think we know who the victim was, and…”

He can see several expressions wash over Calloway’s face, one after the other. A sneaking suspicion – disbelief – abject misery. Finally, he seems to resign himself and weakly glances down to the ground.

“I thought I’d come to terms with the fact that something like this would inevitably happen, but to think – of all the ways, all the places…” He shakes his head and runs a tense hand through his hair. “It’s not a shock, no. Not nearly a shock. I knew it was a matter of time. I simply… didn’t expect – I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I would be.”

“You knew this was going to happen?” Percy immediately asks.

“Not this, specifically, no.” He shakes his head. “But… Lizzie hasn’t been okay for a while. It started when she began attending classes at Catacumba. We found strange ciphers in her room, saw her muttering to herself in tongues, and she went missing for long periods of time. It’s all normal teenager stuff, you know – but then at one point she went missing and she never came back.”

“Is that normal?” Callie asks tentatively. “Sorry. I’m not from around here.”

“Not normal, so much,” Percy answers. “More like depressingly hard to avoid. With everything going on, the most susceptible people are student artificers. It’s hard to graduate from the Institute without getting involved with one group or another, one way or another.”

Calloway nods. “It wasn’t like that, back in my day, you know. Back in my day, it was easy to just drift through the Institute like any other sort of schooling. Then again, I was always studious. Not really one for parties. Supposedly, it’s the parties where they really get you.”

“And you don’t go to many of those?” she asks.

“Don’t. Already clarified that, I thought.” he takes a tense sip of tea. “Really not – really never been my thing, you know. I’m sort of… Well, social interaction wears me out, you know.”

“I know how you feel,” Nemesis agrees.

“Right. And my wife was never like that. She’s, er, she’s why I’m a bit more outgoing now, actually. Sort of rubbed off on me. Lizzie always took after her, anyway, er…” He leans in closer, lowering his voice to a strained, careful whisper. “Speaking of Ophelia, though… Please, if you can, don’t tell her about Lizzie. She’s, er – how do I put this, she still – she thinks Lizzie’s… gonna… come home someday.”

Before he can even finish his sentence, a sob bursts out of him. “I’m sorry – I’ve come to terms with this, time and time again, I don’t know why it’s still –”

“It’s alright,” Nemesis mutters, offering him a handkerchief which he takes and miserably bashes into his face. “It’s – it’s a reasonable thing to be upset about.”

“Of course it is,” he agrees. “I know that. I simply thought… I was beyond this.” He shakes his head. “But, no more of this. You youths came here to investigate a murder. You shouldn’t… spend too long worrying about me.”

“But –”

Nemesis cuts Percy off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No, he’s right. We’ve a murder to solve. That’s all that’s important right now. After everything is resolved, that’s when we stop to mourn.”

Percy seems almost more upset about being cut off than he is about Geoffrey Calloway’s pain. At least, that’s what Nemesis would figure the indignant look on his face suggests. “Oh, so you’re a philosopher now?”

“Not a philosopher, no. Just a man with opinions… Well, that’s also what a philosopher is, I suppose.”

“Okay, okay, we’re all philosophers,” Callie says, voice raised very slightly. Nemesis and Percy both immediately quiet down. “But we’re also here to solve a murder, aren’t we?”

She turns her attention to Calloway, now. “You said she was in with the wrong crowd. Did she ever give any hints as to her affiliations?”

Nemesis feels a surge of emotion, equal parts impressed and threatened. She’s taking after him so fast, and he hasn’t even really taught her anything.

Calloway sighs. He start to take a sip from his cup, before realizing he’s already emptied it. There’s a slight tremor to his hands. “Lizzie was… she was an artist. She loved to create elaborate mechanisms, art that seemed as though it was almost alive. Simply based on that – a major suspect comes to mind, off the bat.”

Percy nods. “Of course...the Benefactors’ Circle. It’s hard to seek a career in art without crossing paths with them.”

“The Benefactors’ Circle?” Callie asks, glancing at Nemesis.

He simply frowns in response. He’s been getting into everyone’s business like there was no tomorrow, but he is, of course, only human. He’s lived in Omen for a short enough amount of time, and there’s enough going on, that if mention of the Benefactors’ Circle has ever crossed his path he hasn’t considered it important enough to write down, and it’s failed to stick in his mind.

Of course, in retrospect, he should have immediately known anything with a name like that would be yet another secret society. Has he simply never heard of them before? With how many links there are between all the societies operating in the city, it seems unlikely. Has he not cast his net as wide as he should have?

He hasn’t felt this frustrated in some time. Normally, he’s always the one who manages to be a step ahead of everyone else, knows all the things they don’t. He meets eyes with Percy, and he can tell that he knows that he doesn’t know, and the feeling of helplessness threatens to tear through him yet again, anger and despair fighting back and forth within his mind as he sits there in stunned panic, trying his best to not let on that there is anything amiss in the least.

Thankfully, Geoff Calloway picks up the slack for him. “The Cabinet of Marvels. She wanted to work for them. She’s even had pieces of hers displayed there, in more minor exhibitions. The next major one was meant to be her big break, and there’ll be a piece of hers displayed there, posthumously. Though I suppose they don’t… know that it’s posthumous. Regardless, the top echelon of their donations is known as the Benefactors’ Circle, which is, coincidentally, also the name of the society that’s formed around it. Very hard to get into the art field without paying them their dues.”

“What he said.”

Callie frowns. “Then do you think that they ended up killing her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Nemesis raises his eyebrow. “Are they and the Actors’ Guild at war, then? That would explain why her corpse was in the Obscura.” It seems a logical train of thought. Almost too easy.

“Nah,” Percy says, shattering his hopes of saying a single productive thing in this conversation. “They’re staunch allies. The Cabinet of Marvels is hosting a reception in honor of their new exhibition, and the Fitzroys are all going to be in attendance. He’s actually had his art put up there, too – Morgana as well, if I recall correctly. There’s even theories about the Cabinet actually being run by Fitzroy in secret.”

Nemesis frowns. “The Cabinet’s run by Phineas Sterling, innit?”

“Well, yes, but… there’s this thought that he’s just in Fitzroy’s pocket that’s rather pervasive. See, Sterling’s somewhat of an eccentric, and he doesn’t have as much of a public presence as he does…”

“It’s not hard to have less of a public presence than Fitzroy,” Callie mutters.

“Still, he’s kind of a recluse. His spokesperson and financier, a guy named Banks, has a presence similar to Fitzroy’s.” Percy pauses to think. “Still less, though, I’d suppose. Doesn’t go to quite as many galas. Also, not really as much of a people person. Prefers to talk money, if you know what I mean.”

“If one’s public status is based around how many galas one attends, everyone in this city would be famous,” Calloway observes. “He isn’t the main draw at as many galas, is what I assume you meant.”

Percy looks, in Nemesis’ opinion, just the tiniest bit miffed. Observing that brings him equal amounts of concern and satisfaction. “I said what I said.”

He takes a cursory glance at his compass. For once, it’s picking up Percy – not clearly, but ever-so-slightly, with a golden needle quivering in roughly his direction; glowing with a faint yellow-green light. It’s so sad, he thinks, to see that even someone so superhumanly honest is seemingly capable of lying.

“I suppose they were both funded by the Vigenere barony. And both of them are speculated to be members of the same organization, as well.” He remembers Fitzroy talking about how Frederick Vigenere’s death had made things difficult. Was he in cahoots with both of the societies at once, or was he simply an enthusiastic patron of the arts who unwittingly funded conspiracy? Unfortunately, knowing the city, Nemesis is forced to assume the former.

“The same organization?” Callie asks nervously. “Another society?”

“More of a society alliance. The Omen eyes are the richest people in Omen – Fitzroy, Vigenere, Banks, they’re all members, and so are their societies by extension. It’s quite the powerful crowd.” Percy sounds remarkably matter-of-fact. “One of the main ways the Correspondents market themselves is as an alternative to the Eyes, in fact.”

“Well, none of that sounds even remotely good.” Nemesis says, throwing Calloway a curious look. “Back to the point: have you ever had any interactions with the Fitzroy yourself, then?”

“No. Not at all. I’m not… important, see. I own a pawn shop. This is all my wife and I wanted to do, out of school. Now that she’s sick, I’ve got to make twice as much money with half the hands, and now Lizzie’s gone too…” Calloway leans his elbows against the table, running both hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t – shouldn’t trouble you with all of that…”

“No.” Nemesis stares directly at him now. “I want to know more. About you. Your business. Your wife – how long has she been sick? All of that’s important in understanding why your daughter ended up in the situation she did.”

“If we understand that, then we can understand why she died, and that could lead us to who did it.” Callie looks to Nemesis, as if to confirm that what she’s saying is correct – when he gives her a small nod, he can see the corner of her mouth quirk up ever so slightly into a smile.

Calloway doesn’t look up. “My wife has been sick two years now, I think. It was gradual at first, but she’s been bed-ridden for at least six months now, and has had difficulties working for longer than that. It was all I could do to support her and Lizzie. And then Lizzie… she started acting so erratic. The things she made became so strange, and she started spending more and more time away from the house. She stopped talking to me. Six weeks ago, she vanished entirely.”

“Started making strange things?” Nemesis asks. “What do you mean?”

“Things that seemed… different, from her normal art. The things she made normally …– mechanical sculptures of scenes that would seem to come to life – they were beautiful. But she started building strange…” He searches for the word. “... The only way I can describe them is contraptions. I – I’ll show you, if you want.”

“I’d like to see them.” Nemesis stands, and Callie and Percy both stand after him.

Percy’s mood seems to have already bounced back – at least, as far as Nemesis can tell. He smiles somberly as he carefully pushes his chair back in, ever polite. “Even though what happened is tragic, I want to appreciate your daughter’s art. I’ve never heard of her before, which means she’s never been on most people’s radar. Even though she’s dead now, we can still appreciate her legacy – the things she’s created.”

Calloway nods. “Of course. She made… some awfully beautiful things, she really did.” He sniffs, turning away, and Nemesis feels his heart fall again.

Mysteries are exciting, of course. It’s easy to forget there’s always people on the other end. People who spend their last moments alone and afraid. People who will never see their daughters again. Always people, always complications.

Nemesis Jones is a good person. Nemesis Jones cares. And Nemesis Jones forces all the selfish thoughts of himself and of mysteries that have no solution in sight to the back of his mind.

His compass doesn’t pick up any deceit from Calloway. That makes it worse, really. A kind, tired, introverted pawn shop owner has lost his daughter, and he’s not even involved in the conspiracy surrounding her death. If this were a mystery novel, he thinks it’d be a shitty one. Sparse leads and nothing but bad feelings to be found. A carefully curated tale of woe and tragedy with no higher meaning and, alarmingly, potentially no resolution.

He clenches his fist. He’ll do anything and everything in his power to keep it from coming to that, and he won’t linger on the deeply alarming thought that his power is almost certainly nowhere near close to enough.

Depressed people aren’t productive.

The door is simple and oak, with a glass handle. Calloway’s hand shakes as he attempts to open it. He succeeds on the third try. Nemesis peers in, and has to stifle a gasp.

The room is crowded with things stacked halfway to the ceiling and piles of boxes occupying at least half of it. The walls themselves are largely unadorned; plain and brown and covered in spiderwebs and the faintest coat of dust. In the back of the room, a single window has a heavy black curtain thrown over it.

But the contents of the room itself are far more fascinating. Within it, various sculptures, varying in size from roughly that of a shoe-box to some larger than Nemesis himself, are leaned against walls and stood on boxes, replicas of everything from objects to animals to people to natural landscapes, made of cogs and silver wire and scrap metal, twisted into hollow yet beautiful facsimiles of anything and everything imaginable.

Wide-eyed, Percy picks up a small crab and turns it over, examining the intricate shapes forming it. “Did she make these by hand? All of them?”

“She did. Some Artifice involved with the mechanisms, but the chassis, that was all her. Back in the day she used to just sit in this room for hours, welding and sculpting away. She’d pick the locks and get into the metal and blowtorches whether I wanted her to or not.” Calloway chuckles quietly. “She was such a boisterous child.”

“Sounds like it.” Nemesis looks at the nearest humanoid statue. It’s about Callie’s height with slightly wavy copper wire forming a ponytail, a gear and a disc of multi-colored sea-glass for eyes, and holding a similarly scrap-metal bird in her hands.

“She worked so hard on that one,” Calloway says. “It took her almost a year, but she wanted to make a statue of herself. This one is one of the more recent. She made it in her last year of school, I think.”

Nemesis reaches out to touch her shoulder. For once, he wishes he could feel the metal, but, of course, his gloves prevent that. He’s sure it’s cold. Cold is painful, but it’s also somehow comforting.

It’s a strange feeling, expecting to feel cold metal and instead feeling nothing but the lining of his gloves. Even after years, he’s not used to it. Not enough.

“And what’s this?” Callie asks, holding up what looks like a wooden tube.

Calloway glances over and shrugs noncommittally. “I wouldn’t know. She didn’t talk about her artwork, as of recent. I wasn’t aware she could whittle.”

“That’s not whittled,” Nemesis says immediately. “Not unless she’s gone properly to town with an unconscionable amount of sandpaper, because it looks entirely too cylindrical. Could I see that?”

Callie hands it to him, and he turns it over in his hands. It’s made of what looks like a dark cherry wood, lightly lacquered, with a golden band wrapped around each end. A disc is inserted into it, made of glass that seems transparent at first, but when he looks closer it shines a faint purple. The other side has a teardrop-shaped hole (almost, he thinks, like a keyhole) through which one can peer in. The overall appearance isn’t unlike that of a particularly unusual spyglass.

Of course, when presented with a hole through which one may feasibly look, one would be a fool to not look through it. He does just that, positioning it in front of his eye.

Through the device, the room is cast in a somewhat brighter light. The wires and scrap metal seem to almost glow, their edges blurring outwards into purple halos. Though it’s somewhat disorienting, he turns – the blurring seems to apply selectively, because though the crates and the door and his companions are warped, except for Callie, who blurs faintly at the edges. He turns back to the statues, back to her. Still blurred.

He frowns, hoping she doesn’t notice, and glances back at the statues. The warping shifts in front of his eyes.

“Anything interesting?” Percy asks, seeming almost amused.

“Reminds me of how things look after a couple glasses,” Nemesis remarks. He reaches to lower the device when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement.

He turns, rapidly. Whatever it was, he can’t see it now. He pauses, baffled, not lowering the tube.

And it takes a moment, but then, it’s unmistakable – in the ripples and distortions, Nemesis can see movement. Outlined in that eerie purple glow with blurred boundaries between where metal ends and light begins, the statue of Elizabeth Calloway begins to move.

It’s slow at first – a careful bend of wires as her head twists, the arm lifts ever-so-slightly. The bird flaps its wings and elegantly flies off. It feels as though the metal should be creaking, but the entire process transpires before his eyes in unnerving silence.

“... You three seeing this?” he practically whispers.

“Seeing what?” Callie asks.

“Whatever it is, I don’t think I’m seeing it,” Percy agrees.

“He simply means the artwork,” Calloway explains. “What he’s holding there is a kinetoscope – one of Lizzie’s inventions. It’s what makes her work so remarkable. It’s enchanted to make the statues look as though they’re almost animate.”

Almost seems like the understatement of the decade, but Nemesis supposes that would be a feasible enough explanation. “Thanks for explaining. Thought I’d gone mad.”

“Of course. Tends to catch people off guard the first time.”

He can feel Percy and Callie crowding around him, intrigued.

And as he continues to watch, the bird does a lap around the statue, which puts its hand in front of its face, as though laughing amicably to itself. The absence of sound continually unnerves Nemesis – it’s like watching a film, but without the background music or the text. The statue twirls her finger through her hair, and then gestures to Nemesis, as though she has a secret to tell him. Against his own better judgement, he takes a step closer.

The bird lands back on her hand, and she pets it gently, before reaching up and tapping her eye – the glass one. And then he has to stifle a quiet gasp as she plucks it out with a smile, before replacing it and placing a finger over her mouth.

A secret. This is a secret. Elizabeth Calloway was a woman with many secrets, clearly. One of them ended in her death. Was it this one?

The statue seems to giggle, returning to its default configuration. Nemesis waits what feels like an hour but is realistically closer to a minute, but it doesn’t move. The sequence is finished.

He doesn’t lower the kinetoscope. Time is limited, and he knows he has to do some things he might later regret. He can feel the figurative gears in his brain whirr as they try to come up with a solution, and finally settle on one which he thinks is so easy to see through it might as well not even be worth trying.

“Er, Mr. Calloway,” he says, “Is it just me, or does something smell strange in here?”

Although he’s not looking at Calloway, he can hear his voice, tinged with nervousness. “Whatever do you mean? It just smells like dust and metal to me.”

“It’s almost like something is burning, isn’t it?” Again, the lie feels sickening. It’s one thing to lie to someone, and another thing entirely to lie to an exhausted, grieving man who’s been nothing but kind so far.

“Is it?” Calloway pauses, and Nemesis supposes he must be trying to detect it. “... Oh, stars, did I leave the kettle on?”

Did he? Nemesis honestly can’t remember, but he thinks it’s rather unlikely. Despite that, Calloway leaves to go check, and without a moment of pause Nemesis shoves the kinetoscope into his bag.

“What are you doing?!” Percy exclaims, just barely keeping from shouting.

“Trust me,” Nemesis mutters. “I might seem like a massive knob who is committing a crime at the moment – and I am both of those things – but trust me.”

“I trust you,” Callie reassures him.

“I could probably stand to trust you more at this current moment,” Percy says. At least someone around here is honest, Nemesis thinks.

I don’t especially trust you either, anyway…

From outside, he hears a dull thud and Calloway exclaiming. “Philly! Goodness, what are you doing out of bed?”

Nemesis’ heart soars. The universe has given him just the opening he needs. He plucks the glass disc from the statue, and it comes out with a satisfying click. He supposes it was there just to be removed, anyway. He slides it into his pocket as Calloway peers his head back in.

“Thank you for pointing out the kettle, Jones,” Calloway says, and a quick glance at Nemesis’ compass detects honesty. What were the chances that the kettle would actually be on? He’d been fully prepared to lie and take the rather long shot that it would suitably occupy Calloway, but, as it turns out, he’s lucked out in every possible way.

“That’s… Er… It’s no problem, sir.”

He smiles carefully. “That being said, it seems my wife has regained strength enough to stand. As loathe as I am to kick out such kind people –” (Nemesis has to stifle a laugh) “– who are doing something so important, I can’t have you loitering in our supply closet.”

“That’s perfectly understandable,” Percy agrees. “We probably need to regroup and talk, anyway.”

“You’ve been hugely helpful,” Nemesis adds. “Thank you so much, genuinely.”

Calloway smiles tiredly. “Of course. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call me.”

He leads them back through the shop. Sitting at the chair which Callie had been using earlier is a woman who looks far older than her age; her graying, stringy hair is tied up messily, and she’s dressed in a nightgown and shawl. To Nemesis, she looks like the concept of sickness made flesh. Calloway gestures to her.

“This is my wife, Ophelia. Ophelia, this is Nemesis Jones… and company. They might stop by here again.”

Ophelia smiles. He can tell that even doing this strains her – he can’t imagine how she’s managed to walk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear.”

He thinks about the fact that her daughter is dead. He now sees why he was told to keep it a secret. He forces a smile onto his own face. “It’s lovely to meet you too.”

On the way back, they stop by a small cafe by the name of The Bitter End. Nemesis pays for their food (another round of tea and a shared plate of scones) and the three find a booth sequestered in the back, away from the door.

As Callie consumes scones at a rapid pace (he supposes this is be the first time she’s ever tried them), Percy looks vexed. Finally, he speaks in a voice low and tired.

“You stole from the victim’s family.”

Nemesis nods. “Guilty as charged.”

An exhausted expression is turned on him. “Why, Jones. Why would you do that?” “I’ve got no idea what to think of you.”

“This might be alarming, Chase, but I’m not a good person.”

“Yeah,” Percy agrees. “I’m getting that idea.”

Nemesis takes a slow sip of tea. Somehow, it stings just the tiniest bit to have him agree. “That being said, I’ve an explanation for my actions, if you care to hear it.”

“Go on.”

Callie pauses mid-scone to listen.

He takes a deep breath. He’s not sure why it feels so difficult to explain. After all, his reasoning is simple and straightforward, for once. “When I looked through the kinetoscope, the statues looked like they were moving. That’s the real art of it. And the statue told me that I should take her eye.”

Percy stares flatly at him. “...you must be aware of how much you sound like a complete lunatic now, right?”

“I’m aware that I don’t sound like a lunatic at all, actually.” Nemesis folds his hands, continuing his speech matter-of-factly. “Chase, sometimes strange things happen. Elizabeth Calloway managed to create something spectacular and I experienced it. None of that points to lunacy.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “So the statue told you to take its eye?”

“Essentially.” Nemesis pulls the eye from his bag, turning it over in his hand. What little light there is inside The Bitter End reflects off of it, casting a purple light onto Percy’s forehead. “In the moment, I just panicked, I’ll admit. But now that I think about it more, I wonder… I wonder if it really did mean something.”

“You didn’t look like you were panicking.”

“I didn’t really feel like I was, either.” He doesn’t like to admit things like this – just how little control he has – and yet here he is, revealing something terrifying to Percival Chase in a nearly empty cafe. “I felt clear and rational and controlled. Maybe a little tense. I felt like a slingshot pulled taut. I felt like someone was pushing me forward, but that someone was me. I couldn’t stop myself, but no, it made complete sense. I was thinking with the utmost clarity. More clarity than normal, even.”

Percy shakes his head. “... I see.I really wish I could say I don’t get you, Nemesis. But we’re more alike than not, in that regard. I feel the same, sometimes. I’m just more cautious about it.”

Nemesis remembers the crossword, and stealing Elizabeth Calloway’s corpse, and somehow doubts that. As far as he can tell, Percy’s sister is roughly three-fourths of his impulse control.

Callie finishes her scone and furrows her brow. “... Are you two friends or do you hate each other? Because I honestly can’t tell.”

“This is one hell of a conversation to have in a cafe,” he mutters to himself, slowly taking as drawn-out a sip of tea as he can manage.

Percy almost doesn’t chuckle at that. “I don’t hate Nemesis. I just think he’s very alarming.”

Nemesis leans back in his chair. “See, if anything, I think our issue is that we’re too similar. You’re like if I were normal-behaving and pleasant to be around and I’m like you if you were a worse but smarter person.”

Percy looks taken aback, somewhere between offended and in agreement. “... Just about. You’re stubborn, though, and you’re always convinced that you’re right.”

Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “I generally am right.”

“See, this is what I mean. You’re frustrating.” Percy sighs, adjusting his glasses, just a touch snappier than normal. “I don’t hate you, and I’m trying to understand you, but you’re an… acquired taste.”

Flatly, Nemesis mutters, “I don’t hate you either. Sorry if I seem like I do. You don’t trust me very much.”

“You don’t trust me very much either,” Percy observes. “I’m normally a trusting person, but, like I said. Acquired taste.”

“Well, I trust both of you, for what it’s worth. And I don’t want you two to fight,” Callie says.

Percy laughs. “Honestly? I don’t either, because I feel like he would absolutely wipe the floor with me.”

“Good of you to recognize that,” Nemesis says, hoping the slight grin on his face indicates that he’s joking. It seems to; Percy smiles ever-so-slightly. “We’re not fighting, though. We’re allies.”

At that, though, his expression falls. “Speaking of which. I have a theory, but you have to promise you won’t insist I’ve gone mad.”

“Promise.”

He leans closer. “Swear it. Formally.”

He can see the anxiety on Percy’s face. He supposes it’s a bit of a strange request. “Do you want to like, write out a contract, or… What are you getting at?”

“Just say it. ‘I swear I won’t call you mad’, and then don’t break it, or I’ll be right angry with you.”

Percy raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Just so we’re clear, you’re aware what you’re doing right now is both incredibly strange and incredibly alarming, right?”

“Absolutely.”

He nods nervously. “Just checking. Right. I swear I won’t call you mad.”

He looks more bemused than threatened. Nemesis nods and leans back away from him. He supposes he’s glad to see that. Tense as things are, the last thing he needs is to completely alienate him. Perhaps he simply doesn’t enjoy it when people are afraid of him.

“I think she left clues. Clues to something. And I think, if we follow that trail, we’ll find whoever killed her.”

“... You know what, Nemesis, I think you’ve lost your marbles.”

He laughs when Nemesis punches him in the arm. “What! I didn’t say you were mad, did I?”

“You’re a bloody smartass, Chase.” He can’t hide the tiny grin on his face. This is the exact same thing Elias would always do – except somehow, with Percy, it’s less endearing and more frustrating. And yet, even going through the same motions brings him a strange sort of comfort, despite the circumstances. “Right, you got one over on me. Nice job. How do you really feel?”

Percy’s smile isn’t as nice as Elias’, but it’s pretty good. “I think you might be right. Society business tends to all lead into each other. If she was involved then that’s probably why she died, and whatever she was doing beforehand will lead to that. It’s at least worth a shot.”

“Exactly.”

What he doesn’t say is that his reasoning doesn’t begin and end there. When Nemesis Jones is presented with a trail, he will follow it, consequences be damned. He would have taken the eye even if he was sure it had nothing to do with the murder.

“Well, that’s good,” Callie says, having finally finished all of the scones. “It’s the only concrete lead we have so far, and all.”

Nemesis sighs. In the moment, it’s so easy to forget that one is working off of barely anything.

They make their way back to Beaumort’s at a leisurely pace. By the time they arrive, it’s beginning to be evening, as signified by the darker gray sky and brighter street-lamps. Callie immediately heads in through the door, complaining of her feet hurting (which Nemesis supposes they would, after how much they had been bleeding just a week prior), but Percy stops on the corner outside.

“There’s still the theatre itself to investigate. People to talk to and things to search. You’re with me, I assume?”

He nods. “Of course. Though this is where it gets dangerous, you realize.”

Percy glances away from him. He supposes the thought was not at the forefront of Percy’s mind. “... I realize. I’ll be careful, and I trust you will as well.”

“I will,” Nemesis agrees, even knowing that he’ll definitely be liable to do something horribly reckless. “Take care, now. Say hello to your sister for me.”

“Of course. And you say hello to Ms. Hayes.” He waves and turns to leave.

“Er… Chase.”

Percy doesn’t fully halt in his trajectory, but he does look back over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“Thanks for the help.” He sighs. As difficult as it is to admit – “I wouldn’t even be on this case if it weren’t for you. And I trust that the two of us together will be able to get to the bottom of this, no matter how long it takes.”

Percy smiles, just barely. “You’re a smart guy, Nemesis. Weird, but smart. I’m glad to have you on the team, even if you’re a bit…”

Nemesis smiles back. “Even if I’m a right knob half the time?”

“More like ‘concerning’, is the word I was looking for.” He turns around properly to clap Nemesis on the shoulder. “Take care, Nemesis. I mean it.”

Nemesis tips his cap. “You take care too, mate.”

Percy smiles, a soft, warm, kind smile. “Night, Nemesis.”

And then Percy is on his way, and Nemesis carefully opens the door, the familiar book-smell and faint chiming welcoming him back to Beaumort’s. The downstairs bookstore is empty, so he immediately makes his way up to the loft.

Callie is on the couch – he can’t tell if she’s asleep or not, but he’s glad to see her getting some rest. Theory, on the other hand, is sitting at the table, papers scattered around her covered in writing, more books than he can count lying open or stacked nearby. She’s cut a stack of strips of paper to use as bookmarks, but that stack has been upended, and they litter the floor near her feet. Her hair is tied up into a messy bun, and next to her sit six empty mugs of what must have been tea, and an additional mug of what is currently tea.

“Translation going well?” He asks.

Theory scoffs. “Swimmingly.”

“You said it was proto-Al-Mushrite, if I recall?”

“Pre-Al-Mushrite. A variety of it I’m not familiar with.” She sighs, resting her elbow on the table with a quiet thud. “I’m trying to cobble together some semblance of an understanding based on other varieties from a similar time period, but it’s still looking incredibly incoherent.”

Nemesis frowns. “You figured out a general gist yet?”

“Actually, the title is one of the few things I’ve been able to partially translate so far.” She closes the book, motioning to the cover. “It’s still rough, but this word here generally means ‘enemy’, and this one, up here, means ‘blind’ but has also been used to mean ‘obscure’ or ‘unknown’, and this one isn’t even the same language, but it means ‘beginning’. Altogether, something like… ‘history of the unknown enemy’. As far as I can tell, anyway. And then these words, I don’t know.”

“Ah. Lovely. Goodness, I wish that were the most foreboding thing I’d heard today.” He takes a deep breath, reaching across the table to scoop up all of her used cups. “Ancient books that talk about unknown enemies aren’t generally a good sign, are they?”

“Not especially.” Theory shakes her head. “But I’m glad you brought me this book. Whatever’s in here...it’ll be something important, I think.”

“Important? So you don’t just think Fitzroy was keeping it around for casual reading?"

“It’s a couple thousand years too old for that, I think.” She shakes her head. “Whatever’s in here, this book isn’t like anything we’ve ever had in our collection.” She pauses. “... There might be some texts that can help in the Catacumba libraries, but I’m not allowed there, and I don’t think you would do a very good job of making it in, either. I suppose I could get Burke to do it, but…”

“You could do.” He unceremoniously drops the mugs in the sink, deciding that he’s too tired to wash them at this precise moment and then seconds later deciding that he’ll be bothered by the mess if he doesn’t. “Know what, I’ll contact him for you. Needed to talk to him anyway.”

“Did you, now? I wasn’t aware you had an interest in necromancy.”

“I very much don’t.”

“Probably good to keep it that way. No point in even caring about it for a knackless person.” She shrugs. “But if you’d like to get in touch with him for me, then be my guest. It isn’t like I’m ever thrilled to need to talk to people, anyway.”

He grins. “See? Aren’t you happy to have me around now? I’ll talk to anyone you need me to, so you need never so much as leave the house.”

She frowns in response, and his own grin melts off his face. “You know that attitude will get you in trouble one of these days, right? You can’t just go around acting all confident. It’ll end badly.”

“I… I know.” Of course it’s dangerous, that’s no question. “I’m being safe about it, promise. Safe as I can be.”

“I worry that’s not enough.” She pauses, glancing at the wall – at the portrait of her mother and father. “How much do you know about my parents, Nemesis? Like I said, they’re pretty infamous around here.”

“I only know how much you’ve told me,” he admits. “Haven’t really been looking into it too much. I have other priorities, you must understand.”

“I do,” she agrees. “I just wondered if you hadn’t heard any… offhand statements. The Beaumort Society was infamous, back in its day. I couldn’t go to school, or go outside at all, really, because chances were some other society’s operative would have kidnapped me on the spot.”

He glances at her sympathetically, accidentally turning the mug he’s washing at such an angle that it sprays water directly into his eye. Theory snickers to herself as he gets a towel to dry himself off, grumbling.

“Really, though, that sounds tough,” he finally says, running a ginger hand through his newly moistened hair. “Never got to go to school? Socialize? See the daylight - at least, the closest you can get around here?”

“I don’t like the daylight,” she mutters. “I don’t like people. Schools around here don’t teach anything. I learned from my parents. They taught me knowledge that society doesn’t want anyone to know. Secrets of artifice that are considered forbidden. I didn’t need anything else, just that knowledge. That’s all I want.”

He still thinks it sounds like a rather lonely existence. Then again, better lonely than kidnapped, he supposes. “I reckon that makes some sense.”

“I can’t imagine you went to school, either. Somehow, when I think of your past, I imagine you leading a gang of plucky street urchins who steal from the rich.”

He can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, bloody stars, I wish. That all sounds so glamorous and exciting. Nah, the reality was a lot more mundane.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t really strike me as a mundane sort of guy.”

He grins triumphantly. “That’s what I want you to think.”

“... Okay.” She lets out a single quiet laugh. “Well, I don’t think you’re mundane, if that means anything. Anyway, though, my parents. They were well-known for their work. They did things and learned things that the Institute didn’t want people to do and learn. So they eventually relocated to Al-Mushriq...after some of their friends simply vanished.”

He nods. “Trust me, I know about people up and vanishing. I’m being careful.”

She seems a little surprised to hear that, he observes with just a tiny bit of bitterness building. “If you don’t mind saying…”

“I do mind,” he says coldly, and then continues regardless. “It was my, er… Teacher.”

“I see.” She frowns. “And you’re searching for them now, I take it?”

He pauses, then begrudgingly nods.

She sits in silence, before finally saying, quietly, “I hope you find them.”

He doesn’t respond, returning to the dishes silently. She returns to her reading, as well, and the only noise in the room is the flow of the water and the quiet rustling of pages.

After a bit, though, she glances up at him. “Jones, how much do you know about aether?”

The question catches him off-guard. “Er… It’s a fuel source, but it’s also used as an anaesthetic, isn’t it? And a solvent? And…supposedly extremely flammable? But way too expensive to ever make for an efficient Molotov.”

She chuckles lightly at his last statement. “You’re correct, but that’s not the entire definition. Aether is the fundamental force behind artifice.”

Nemesis blinks. “I don’t read.”

Theory shakes her head, sighing. “Do they not teach you anything in those fancy Lygredish schools?”

“They teach us things. Literature. Physics. Chemistry.”

She rolls her eyes. “Studying literature in schools… What a waste. Chemistry and physics are important, I suppose.”

“Why would you need to know chemistry or physics? You’re an artificer, the rules don’t count for you.”

“That’s a common misconception. To break the rules of reality, you first have to be aware of them. Physics and chemistry are taught even by the Institute. Most artificers try to work within the existing knowledge, lest they destabilize things too badly.” She twirls her pen idly in her hand. “But, of course, one never gets anywhere playing by the rules. Those of us who seek knowledge in any serious way must break the rules and take the risks as they come.” She pauses for a moment, before scoffing. “Besides, most people’s knack isn’t powerful enough to break through the laws of reality, anyway.”

“... Fascinating.” He supposes that makes sense, though the thought of destabilizing the laws of physics is quite ominous. “We’re getting off the subject, though. You were telling me about aether?”

“I was,” she agrees, seeming to consider her wording. “Aether is the fundamental force behind artifice, like I said. It’s everywhere, interspersed throughout all of matter. Broadly put, as it is currently theorized, the knack is actually a certain amount of control over the aether within objects, allowing a degree of control over the object itself, which varies from person to person in strength and precision.”

“That tracks, I suppose.” Nemesis frowns. “So what does that mean about knackless people?”

“Not much. Just that they lack that ability.” She shrugs. “One of the theories is that different locations have higher or lower concentrations of aether. Acerbis is higher on that scale, while Lygredyg is far lower.”

His frown deepens. “That doesn’t explain the shepherds, though. I’d think the Border Wilds would be full of aether.”

“They are.” Theory sighs. “The M’amand are an anomaly, all things considered. The things we understand don’t seem to apply to them. I’d be curious as to the thoughts of a M’amand scholar on their own knacklessness, but I’ve never met any, never mind ones that would actually have the proper base knowledge to have input.”

Nemesis silently points to himself, and her eyes widen ever-so-slightly.

“I didn’t realize. I suppose Lygredyg does have a higher M’amand population than here-”

“Nah, it’s fine. I don’t really advertise it or anything.” He sighs, trying to look at the mug he’s drying instead of at her. “I’m half, from my mom’s side. Not really a desirable trait over there, either, so I’m used to being quieter about it.”

“That’s sad,” she mutters.

“It’s life. I don’t mind it much. The knacklessness, though, I’ll admit that’s a little more of an inconvenience.”

“I suppose it would be.” She nods, though he knows she can’t fully understand. He doubts she knows many knackless people at all, considering who her parents are. “Anyway, the reason I was asking is that I’m pretty sure I’ve recognized the words I didn’t know earlier. It’s a word for aether, I think.”

He frowns. “The enemy is the aether?”

“From the aether… I think.” She motions with her pen, carefully, upwards.

Nemesis’ eyes follow the trajectory of her hand. “The rafters? Er, the attic? Do you have an attic, even?”

“We do have an attic, but that’s beside the point. The aether… is said to be what makes up the stars themselves. And it’s present here, on the earth. Present in all of us.” She pauses. “Some of us more than others. The aether is the basest energy and foundation of the universe. An enemy from the aether-”

“Bit less than great, I’d reckon.”

“I’d reckon,” she agrees. “Depending on what it is… But, truly, it’s unlikely anything like that exists. Surely, if something that powerful were to be present, close enough that we could write a book about it, surely human civilization would have been destroyed by it long ago.”

Nemesis frowns. “You assume it’s hostile and destructive.”

“Well, that is what the word ‘enemy’ would imply,” she says simply, humming to herself as she turns a page. “But of course, we have no way of knowing if it is or not. You’re right. All we know is what we can glean from this title – and my translation might not even be correct.” At this point, her face falls. “... Do get Burke to the library, please. This isn’t going to leave my thoughts until I solve it.”

“Understandable.” Nemesis knows he gets the same way, whenever he encounters a puzzle or code which he can’t immediately decipher. “I’ll make sure to.” And with that, the final mug is dried and placed carefully back in the cupboard. “I’ll be taking my leave now. Goodnight, Theory. Try to sleep before you pass out.”

“I can stay awake far longer than you, you know. Regular use of one’s knack reduces the need for sleep.”

Nemesis chuckles under his breath. “Okay, that I envy. Still, be careful.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. Goodnight.”

There truly isn’t a more worrying way she could have phrased that. Despite this, he doesn’t press her about it. He figures there’s likely no point. Someone like Theory Hayes is bound to be stuck in her ways to a degree that he can’t exactly fix overnight.

What he can do instead is stand in front of his bulletin board, pinning in more notes and pictures, until the web of Correspondents and Benefactors and Eyes and strange disappearances and murders and quirks of artifice that he surely wasn’t taught about in school seem to spread out, becoming a swirl of words and concepts.

All of it is connected. And somehow, he is at the end of this web, waiting. If only Nemesis could find his way to him.