The next morning, Theory is still laboring over the books. True to her word, she’s awake before Nemesis, and doesn’t seem to have moved whatsoever in the time he spent sleeping. The look on his face as he slides her a cup of coffee (which he detests, but is well aware she greatly enjoys) is purely one of concern. “I know what you said, but you know how this seems to me, right?”

“Why should I care how it seems to someone like you?” Her words have no bite to them, and she drinks the coffee anyway, begrudging him a sliver of gratitude. It only takes her three sips to empty the cup.

“Someone like me? That’d best not be a dig at the fact that I actually require sleep, Theers, I can’t help that.”

“You’ve never stayed up overnight to study, have you?”

He has to laugh at that. “Stars, of course I have. And without your gifts, too.”

“Hmm. I suppose you never came off as especially bookish to me.”

He glances at her in disbelief. “Theers, you’ve seen how much I read.”

“Well, studious, I mean. It’s a semantic difference and you know it.” She sighs. “I simply suppose I can’t understand why a knackless person would be. How much can you possibly gain from studying, anyway?”

“You realize how that sounds, right?”

She shakes her head.

“Just because I can’t be an artificer, doesn’t mean I can’t study things. That’s ludicrous. Private investigators need to know a lot.”

“Did you go to private investigation school, then? Is that a thing?”

He can’t help himself - he chuckles at that. “No, no. Thought I told you I was apprenticed. I went to school to be…” He frowns. “Er, never thought that far ahead, actually, but I’ve always thought I’d maybe like to be a teacher, or a librarian.”

“A librarian…” She sighs. “I suppose that word does have different connotations where you’re from. Still, interesting choice.”

“I spent a lot of time in libraries when I was younger,” he says as explanation.

“Can’t imagine why you’d need to.”

“Yes, well, you grew up in a bookstore, Theers.”

“Your point?”

Before Nemesis can respond, a door opens, and Callie, not looking well-rested in the least, stumbles to the table.

“Morning,” he says to her. “Blimey. You look like you got hit by a train.”

“I’d be dead if I got hit by a train,” she mutters.

Nemesis hurries to make a cup of tea. By the time he’s back, she’s collapsed onto the table. He gently nudges her, then shakes her shoulder, and she sits up, groggy. He frowns.

“We weren’t even out that late,” he mutters, frowning. “You seem completely non-functional.”

“I’m fine,” she says through a yawn, and Nemesis’s frown deepens.

“You aren’t.” It’s said sternly, but not without sympathy. “You’re a bloody mess. You need to rest up.”

She looks up at him miserably. “But we were going to go to the Obscura today. I can’t rest…”

“You can, and you will.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “You can’t do this to yourself. You’ll be far more useful if you take the time to sleep than if you exert yourself until you can’t function anymore. Trust me.”

“But I want to help…” Her expression is one of abject despair. Nemesis can barely look her in the eye.

“You’ll be less help if you’re on the verge of passing clean out. Do both of us a favor and rest, just for today.”

“But-”

“You know what?” Theory speaks sharply, with authority. “You can stay here and help me with my translations, if you want to be useful. I probably need your help more than he does, anyway - what I’m doing is far harder than just getting information out of people.”

“Love to see you respect my work as always, Theo.” He glances back towards Callie. “...she’s right, though. You’re best staying here - I’ll be fine on my own for the time being.”

“...okay.” She seems reluctant to agree, but concedes at last, clutching onto her cup of tea with a weak, half-asleep hand.

And so Nemesis makes his way to the Theatre Obscura on his own. It’s been some time since he’s walked these streets unaccompanied - they’re large as always, easily the width of a large Citrea Viridian house, threatening to swallow whole any curious foreigners lost within their miles.

The Theatre is no more welcoming than the other times. He enters through the same tunnel he used before. This time, the pattern of trip-wires is in his muscle memory, and it’s barely any time before he’s emerged through the same broom closet. By now, it might as well be home.

The Chases are there to welcome him, though Percy looks far more somber after yesterday’s outing. Evie smiles politely as greeting.

“Hey,” Percy asks, frowning, “Where’s Callie? I thought she’d be coming with you. She seems to like following you around.”

“Less that she likes to,” he replies, remembering the circumstances under which she had agreed to be his assistant, “And more that she feels obliged to. But she’s sleep-deprived to the point where I’d worry for her safety if she had to be outside. I told her to take the day off and rest for her own good.”

Percy nods, visibly concerned. “I hope she does that. I hope she hasn’t gotten sick or anything…”

“Me too,” Nemesis agrees. “How’ve things been going on your end?”

“Pretty alright,” Percy answers. “Evie’s been...well, things are interesting around here, apparently.”

“It’s business as usual,” Evie says calmly, though Nemesis can hear the barest hint of strain in her voice. “They’re just rehearsing as normal, as if a murder didn’t happen here. You can tell Fitzroy isn’t very worried about any investigations, either. He doesn’t consider any of what’s happening to be a legitimate threat.”

“Lines up with what I know of the guy.”

“Do you know a lot about the guy?” Percy inquires.

Nemesis shrugs. “I know a good bit about him. Enough to dislike him, let’s say. Not that I think that’s all that high of a bar.”

“I thought you weren’t from around here,” Evie interjects.

“I’m not. You think I’ve got this accent on purpose?” He’s aware of the irony - that he does, in fact, disguise his accent for one considered more proper - but it isn’t as if he’s faking one of those stylish Omenite accents. He’s tried, and it’s beyond his abilities.

“Then why are you suddenly an expert on Fitzroy’s behavior?”

“About that,” he says, opening the door to the room and exiting into the backstage room. Percy and Evie look on in a mixture of concern and disappointment, realizing that the conversation has effectively just been cut short.

Nemesis takes a brief look at his compass. The needle pointing at him is glowing brighter than usual.

He glances in both directions. He knows what the layout of the Obscura is, approximately - he’s drafted an incomplete floor plan based on his last two times here, which comprises the entirety of the publicly accessible areas, around a third of the backstage, and the tunnels of which he’s aware. But his first instinct is to head towards one of the uncharted territories, because what he hears from it is faint piano music, so beautiful and delicate and sorrowful that he knows there’s only one person who could be playing it.

He realizes he’s missed the sound of piano music wafting through a silent hallway. Even if he didn’t know he needed to speak to the source, he would have been drawn to it regardless, trance-like, pulled towards the point of origin like a compass needle towards magnetic north.

The room is mostly empty, cases and sheet music scattered haphazardly around. Nemesis nearly trips over a broken cello as he makes his way towards the grand piano in the very center of the room, at which Elias sits, looking so effortlessly ethereal as he presses the keys, with that strange cadence of a marionette, unstable yet graceful. The piano plays him as much as he plays it. He’s caught up in the music, and the familiar sight can only be described as beautiful.

It wasn’t just the sound. He missed this, too.

Elias looks up at him, smiling lightly. Not pausing in his playing, he gestures with his head, beckoning Nemesis over. “I didn’t expect to see you here again.”

“I’m surprised. I figured you would expect me, what with all the excitement around here. You know I can’t resist a good murder mystery.” Nemesis sits on the piano bench, a few inches away from Elias, and glances at the stand.

The piece on it is labeled ‘Hymn to Adelaide’. Nemesis has never been formally trained in music, but he reads notation well enough, and a simple glance is enough to tell that this isn’t the piece Elias is playing. Not even close. Hymn to Adelaide is in harmonic E-flat minor and 12/8 time, while what Elias is playing is blatantly a waltz, and though he can’t precisely identify the key, he can tell there’s far less flats than on the paper. Besides, the pages of this piece haven’t been turned at all, and with how fast it looks, he’s sure Elias would have needed to move on by this point. He tends to play pieces a bit slow (Nemesis, his more-than-occasional page-turner, is well aware), but not this slow.

“It’s not a murder mystery,” he says calmly. “It’s real. Someone died. And I suppose I just thought you had a little more self-preservation than to rush in here when Fitzroy already has reasons to be on guard.”

“Me? Self-preservation? Never. I’m here to solve a murder.”

Elias sighs. “You know this isn’t safe, right? You can’t keep operating as if you’ve still got him around to keep you out of trouble.”

Nemesis pretends he doesn’t feel as if he’s just been punched in the stomach.

It’ll be okay. I’ll find him.

Perhaps he doesn’t pretend well enough, or perhaps Elias simply knows him too well, because he stops playing and puts a hand on Nemesis’ shoulder. “You’ve been making progress. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

Nemesis wishes he could believe that. “I’d like to hope so.”

“I believe in your abilities, even if I do think you’re probably biting off a bit more than you can chew.” Just as Nemesis is thinking of a response, Elias shifts closer to him, puts an arm around him, and resumes playing, and anything he could have said is rendered pointless, the words dissolving into nothingness before they can even be formed.

“Sorry,” he says, as though Nemesis is upset. “I have to keep playing or someone’ll think something’s up. I’ve been practicing for something like eight hours straight, it’d be strange if I stopped now.”

That’s why he’s like this, then. He’s delirious from exhaustion. “Eight hours? Elias, you need to take care of yourself.”

“It’s basically the only thing I enjoy doing. People leave me alone eventually. No one wants to listen to me play the piano for eight hours straight.”

Nemesis thinks to himself that he might like to hear Elias play the piano for eight hours straight.

Elias continues uninterrupted, though. “Well, not the only thing I enjoy doing. Sometimes I’ll grab some books from the library and wall myself up in my room. I’ve been starting on those novels you recommended me - the Dick Remmington books. But mostly I just practice. There’s always something to practice for, and all.”

Normally, Nemesis would be thrilled that, after so many years, Elias is finally reading his favorite books. Instead, he just feels intense concern. That self-professed un-bookish below-average student Elias would be actively seeking out reading material is in itself worrying. “How have you been liking them, then?”

“The language is awful flowery for my liking, but the stories are interesting enough. I haven’t been able to solve any of the mysteries before the characters yet, but I didn’t really expect to.” He begins to shift into a different, slightly more energetic, upbeat movement. “I can see why you like them.”

“I’m glad you don’t hate them too much.” He sighs, watching Elias’ hands fly effortlessly, almost unconsciously, over the keys. “I don’t recognize this piece. It’s a new one, right? And it’s not-” he gestures to the piece on the stand, “-so that means you memorised it too, you unfairly talented bastard.”

“It’s not that piece, no. Fitzroy composed that one. This is...I’ve been working on it for a bit. I’m playing at the reception at the Cabinet’s new exhibition, you know the one. Fitzroy...volunteered me. Not like I can say no.”

“Bloody stars, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He smiles to himself. “I don’t mind that much. It’s no worse than needing to provide musical accompaniment for Morgana’s bi-monthly literary triumphs, really. I get to compose a piece. That’s already not bad by me.”

“So you’ve composed this piece? I thought it sounded like your work.” He pauses, not sure how much of this Elias wants to hear. “It’s beautiful. Really. I missed...hearing this.”

“It’s not bad. I don’t particularly care to work to the best of my abilities for Fitzroy, really.”

“As you well shouldn’t.”

The two fall into silence, Elias continuing to play. It isn’t until he shifts back to a minor key, slowing down, that Nemesis speaks.

“So Fitzroy will be at the gala, then?”

“Of course. He’s everywhere important.” Nemesis might be imagining it, but Elias seems as though his playing is increasing in intensity, slowly getting louder and harsher, slamming his hands into the keys. “Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking of stopping by myself.” Not a lie, he supposes.

“I’d recommend against it. I’d recommend avoiding him at all costs.” Elias sighs. “In fact, I’d recommend not being here, either. I still don’t understand why you are.”

“Because I’m sure that someone within the theatre committed the murder.”

Elias looks darkly at his hands, still moving gracefully across the keys. “Have you ever considered that I’m someone within the theatre? That you’re sitting right next to someone who could, conceivably, have committed that murder?”

Before Nemesis can respond, he feels Elias’ hand lift off the piano, shifting back to curl through his hair. Something cold presses against the back of his neck, feeling eerily similar to a knife, but he knows it isn’t one. Though Elias is loathe to use his knack, the solid shadows he creates are capable of having the same function as a blade, razor-sharp and easily hidden by Nemesis’ hair. Elias’ penumbra expands ever-so-slightly outwards, threatening to envelop Nemesis, and perhaps the whole room.

“Elias,” he says slowly, because he doesn’t really know what else to say.

“That’s my name.” The piano has stopped now. It’s just the two of them and the shadows.

Despite himself, Nemesis finds himself tense, unable to move. How can he, when there’s a sharp object digging into the back of his neck? Too late, he realizes he must have unintentionally ditched the Chases, and it’s just him and Elias in this room.

But Elias would never hurt him, he thinks, even as his breath catches in his throat. “I trust you.”

He hears a sigh, and he feels the knife-like sensation turn into that of Elias’ hand, also cold, sliding down the back of his neck before falling by his side. “I don’t know what I expected. Or what I was trying to do. I just know that you’re an idiot, Nemesis Jones.”

“I’ve been told,” Nemesis agrees, though he can’t hide his sigh of relief as he slumps forward, a horrible sound coming from the piano as he depresses three or four of the keys.

Elias raises his hand again, but this time he wraps it around Nemesis’ shoulder, pulling him back up into a half-hug. “Sorry. That was...uncouth of me.”

Circumstances aside, Nemesis can’t help but laugh. “You think? If I were anyone else I’d be right angry. What in the stars was that meant to be?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” He sighs. “I’m sorry. I hope you know I couldn’t kill you even if I had to.”

“I should hope so. I’m sorry for, er…”

“If you need to search for a reason to apologize to me, that’s a pretty clear sign that you shouldn’t be apologizing at all.” Elias squeezes him, just barely. “But...you should be going, and I should be back to my practicing. Else someone’ll get suspicious.”

“...you’re right,” he admits. “But...just a few minutes, okay?”

“...” Elias moves his hands back to the keys, sighing. “If you insist. Keep track, since you love that pocketwatch of yours so much.”

“‘S not a pocketwatch,” he mutters, still slumped over onto Elias’ shoulder and with no intentions of moving. “Just a few minutes. Promise.”

“...right.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay, Elias. I’m not mad. Not at you.”

Elias doesn’t respond this time. The music starts again, low and sorrowful and haunting and beautiful.

Nemesis hopes the Chases are waiting for him in the hallway, but it’s a different face that meets him. A face he didn’t entirely expect to see here. Perhaps, he had even hoped he wouldn’t.

Jing Liu is sitting on a crate, legs crossed, humming quietly to themself. He supposes they must have been waiting for him, because they waste no time in springing to their feet and crossing the hallway, standing face to face with him.

“You were in there a long time,” they remark. Nemesis feels the tension in the air, but despite that, this is a stroke of good luck.

“I was looking for you, actually.” He takes advantage of Jing’s momentary shock to lean in closer, whispering into their ear. “You’re in danger.”

He feels them stiffen. “What do you mean?” They whisper. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I...I overheard something…” It’s always so hard to tell people things like this, not because of the emotional toll, but because it’s difficult to phrase it in a way that doesn’t massively incriminate himself. “Overheard...Fitzroy and Renwick...talking about ‘getting rid’ of you, and you causing trouble. They’re not actually about to do it, mainly because of Elias, but-”

“Oh.” They sound almost delightfully surprised. “That’s not news. They make their disdain for me known.”

“They make their disdain for everyone known. Do you think they want to kill everyone they look down on?”

Jing nods. “Really, they just want the world to be full of rich, stuffy people like them. Everyone else can either die or accept they’ll never be treated as human. Fitzroy hates it when us plebeians think we’re living for any reason but their mercy.”

Nemesis shudders. “...that’s the impression I got, aye. But they were talking about you specifically, so I thought I’d-”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Jing interjects. “I appreciate it. But you’re not going to get me off point.” The poke him in the chest with a remarkably sharp, bony finger. The nails themselves, Nemesis notes, are neatly clipped short - he would presume for musical reasons. “What’s your angle? Who do you think you are to Elias?”

“I’m...his friend? I thought we’d been over this.”

Jing frowns. “I’m his friend.”

“He is capable of having multiple friends.”

They grumble to themself. “But I’m his friend.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re his friend.” He sighs, hoping his frustration isn’t too apparent. “Like I said, he’s capable of having multiple friends.”

They seem as though they’re about to simply repeat themself, but they think better of it, glancing down at the floor instead. “He’s changed so much since he left for school.”

“That he has,” Nemesis agrees. “We’ve known each other five years now. He’s changed a lot in that time.”

“I barely got to see him at all those five years, you know,” Jing says.

Nemesis struggles not to roll his eyes. “My condolences. At least he’s back now, isn’t he?”

“He’s back, but he spends all his time all holed up by himself, and I-” They sigh. “I...get it. I really do. Because if I were engaged to Lusitania Renwick, forget leaving my room, I’d actually jump out of-”

“Same. Can’t imagine it.” Nemesis feels a spike of anger at the mention of her name. “She doesn’t respect him at all. He doesn’t like being around her. He seems to dread her very presence.”

“That’s because he does,” Jing agrees. “He can’t stand being around her. It makes me want to scream whenever they’re in the same room.”

“Lusitania Renwick is perhaps among the most spectacularly unpleasant people I’ve ever met,” he says matter-of-factly. “And that’s a bloody high bar, you know.”

“She really is. We’ve had a lot of unpleasant actors around here, but she really takes the cake.” They lower their voice, seeming almost incredulous. “She doesn’t remember my name. She called me Jim the other day.”

“Doesn’t surprise me at all. That woman’s probably not capable of respecting anyone, never mind an employee.” He frowns disgustedly. “That Elias is being forced to deal with her…”

“It’s so much worse than that. She’s insisting on being around him all the time. She gets upset when he talks to anyone else, doesn’t let him have any time to himself, doesn’t even seem to care if he’s actively uncomfortable. She’s an awful person,” Jing says, voice rising to an enraged, shrill tone.

“I know you’re upset - trust me, I am too - but careful, careful, don’t let anyone overhear you. You’re already on their shitlist, aren’t you? Let’s not do anything to aggravate that.” Nemesis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He remembers how he’d helped Elias sneak out of just about anything that involved socialization, how much he’d seemed to recoil at the very thought of human interaction. The way Lusitania behaves around him, though he’s seen admittedly little of it, makes him seethe.

Jing looks as though they’re about to argue, but they relent, sighing. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Uh...thanks, by the way. For the heads-up. I don’t actually think I’m about to be killed in my sleep, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“You should do. Wouldn’t do for you to get hurt.”

They cross their arms and scoff. “Not like you care, Jones.”

“I care, in a rather general sense, about Fitzroy harming people. I care in a less general sense about Elias being harmed, and you are close to him.”

He pauses. “...you don’t seem that horrid a person.”

They raise an eyebrow.

“Listen, I’m not saying I’ve been thrilled with you so far. You did threaten to get me arrested, and all. But you don’t seem evil, and that’s really a depressingly low and yet existent bar around here.”

They fiddle sheepishly with the end of their braid. “Yeah, I’m, uh…I’d like to think I’m not evil. I’m sorry, uh...that was a bit awful of me.”

“It was a bit awful of you,” he agrees. “But, lucky for you, I don’t really hold grudges. Let’s just not do that again, aye?”

“Yeah, I’m not planning to. I just-”

“Oh, Nemesis! There you are! We’ve been looking all over for you!”

He whirls around, towards the source of the voice. Percy seems out of breath, Evie just barely behind him, looking far less exhausted. Though he’s a little put off by the interruption, he supposes he’d been getting off-topic, and this is a welcome reminder.

“Sorry, sorry. I got a little carried away,” he tells Percy. “I was just talking to Jing here about...the murder?” He looks at them seriously, his glance begging them to play along.

Either they don’t get the message or, more likely, intentionally disobey it for the sake of being contrary. “We were definitely not talking about anything of the sort, but, you want murder? We can talk about murder.”

Nemesis sighs, pulling his compass out and clicking it open, hoping Jing won’t question why it is he’s checking the time. “Okay, then. Tell us about the murder.”

“Alright. If you say so...Nemesis Jokes.”

He rolls his eyes as Percy lets out a single snicker behind him. “Good one.”

“I know,” they say, smiling one of the most smug and insufferable smiles he’s ever had the displeasure of witnessing. “Really, though, I don’t have that much to say. I didn’t kill her, obviously. I don’t even know anything about the murder.”

Though a yellow-green arrow finds itself fixed on Jing, there’s no hint of the normal light. They’re being honest.

“She was killed by an artificer, and was used as the prop corpse during the performance of Edward and Lucia.” He rattles off the details in a voice flat enough to unnerve himself. When did he get so blase about this whole affair?

Jing winces. “Eugh. Thought that thing smelled funky. In that case, I was helping with the parts of the set that required artifice - not just a simple lever and trapdoor.”

No dishonesty, and they sound almost proud of it. Jing is a talented artificer, Elias has mentioned offhandedly. Nemesis supposes it’s fair for them to be proud of their skills.

They continue. “I was in the orchestra pit during the show itself, but I don’t think that proves my innocence at all. Beyond that, I don’t know much.”

Nothing but honesty.

They tap their temples, genuinely seeming to consider their words, shockingly thoughtful. “The people who would set up an effect like that, and probably put it back after it’s been used...would be the stagehands. Corey Morgan and Jack Fletcher.”

“Morgan and Fletcher would have, yeah,” Evie corroborates, “But it’s hard to imagine them as the murderers. I think Fletcher’s knackless, as note.”

“It’s noted. We can never rule out a suspect, though. Not without something conclusive,” Nemesis says briskly

Evie replies: “Oh, if you need something a bit more substantial, people who aren’t the Fitzroys, Morgan, and Fletcher aren’t generally meant to go in the prop room. It’s not locked or anything, but it’s pretty much an informal rule, and you’d get treated weird if you were caught violating it...unless you were Renwick, maybe. Fitzroy lets her get away with just about anything.”

Jing nods. “But, of course, someone could have snuck in. That doesn’t conclusively rule out anyone, if we’re being detectives.”

“My job is literally being a private investigator.” Nemesis, any previous thoughts about Jing aside, admires the commitment to honesty at the expense of refusing to conclusively disprove their own involvement to anyone without a lie-detecting compass. It’s the sort of integrity that’s rare to see in people who could potentially be suspects in a murder.

“As another note, does the name ‘Elizabeth Calloway’ mean anything to you?”

“Never heard of her.” True.

“And are you loyal to the Actors’ Guild?”

Jing freezes stiff in shock. “You-you can’t just say that out loud!” They say, halfway between a whisper and a shriek. “Do you know what’ll happen if someone hears you?!”

“Well, are you?”

They lower their head and lean in closer, whispering. “Not even fucking slightly. I’m here because I need the money to live, and the moment me and Elias can ditch this place I’m never looking back.”

“I assumed so,” he admits.

“Well,” Percy says, smiling awkwardly, “Thank you for your time, Jing! We know it can be a bit tough to be asked questions about a murder that happened at your workplace that you’re probably still processing emotionally in your own way but we really do appreciate your cooperation. Do you mind if I quote you for any possible articles, by the way?”

“...you’re welcome. And sure, but only if it’s completely anonymous.” They shrug. “Next time, maybe don’t do your interrogations in the middle of a hallway if you don’t want the Fitzroys to get onto you, though, dumbass.”

He sighs. “...advice taken. Good day, then?”

“Nah, average day.” They turn to leave with a dramatic snap of their head, nearly slapping Nemesis in the face with their braid in the process.

Nemesis sighs and glances at Percy. “They’re right, which I utterly despise. Shall we find these Morgan and Fletcher fellows, then?”

“We should. Even though they would have had the best opportunity to plant the corpse, I somehow doubt they committed the murder - but I still think they’ll probably have some important insights to tell us, if anyone around here does,” Evie agrees.

“You think maybe everyone’ll just be unbearably cagey and we’ll get nothing out of this at all?”

“There’s…” Evie frowns and admits, “...a chance. A pretty good one, if I’m being realistic.”

Percy glances at Nemesis, and he can see a familiar horror dawning on his face. “Nemesis, is this...is this case even solvable?”

“Any case is solvable if you try hard enough, in theory.” He sighs, meeting eyes with Percy’s disappointed stare. “...there’ve been cases that haven’t been solved, yes. Not by me in particular, not yet, but a third of murders go unsolved, you know.”

“That’s...not comforting.” Percy looks unsettled.

“The good news is that, back in the day, I saw some pretty hopeless-seeming cases get solved neatly. There’s always a possibility.”

“But you don’t think it’s likely?”

He shrugs. “I mean, we don’t have much to work off, but I think it’s too soon to say. We’ve only spent two days on this.”

Percy nods, not looking reassured in the least. “Okay. Okay, we can do this. Fletcher and Morgan, they said?”

“Generally, those two are hard to find,” Evie says. “Stagehands. Seem to vanish into the scenery. Suppose that’s part of their job, and all.”

“Probably a useful skill.” Nemesis glances at his compass. Places like here, where so many people are constantly lying and so many things are constantly hidden, tend to pick up from all directions, so one won’t get any leads from just doing that, but it’s almost a habit by this point.

“Nothing coming up, huh…? I actually wouldn’t know, I have no idea how to read this thing,” Percy mutters, glancing over Nemesis’ shoulder.

“It takes a little practice. It’s more intuitive than you’d think once you learn the ropes.” Nemesis says matter-of-factly. Of course, he thinks proudly to himself, he’d picked it up quick.

“Can you teach me?” Percy asks, and Nemesis shakes his head. “Aww, why not?”

“I don’t see why I’d need to, since I can already read it. It’s my compass, and all.”

He sighs. “You seem awfully touchy about this. Don’t tell me you’re insecure about your worth as a detective, and you think I might surpass you in skill if you didn’t have the compass to keep you ahead?”

Nemesis scoffs and shakes his head, holding up his compass so that Percy can tell he isn’t lying. “I have the utmost faith in my skills, compass or no compass. I don’t want anyone else near it because it used to belong to someone I respect very much.”

A blue needle is fixed on him, shining with the typical faint glow, but it doesn’t light up any more. The compass, at least, has deemed this statement to be entirely truthful.

Percy leans in to look closer at it. “It’s, er...it’s glowing a little…”

“Because I’m a generally secretive person. Not lighting up any more when I speak. That means I’m honest.”

He frowns, realization dawning. “And you’ve just conned me into teaching you how it works, even though I said I wasn’t going to, so well played, I suppose.”

“Wasn’t on purpose,” Percy admits, and the compass detects no insincerity.

“A generally secretive person?” Evie looks pointedly at him, seeming almost apprehensive. “Did you just admit to being a habitual liar?”

“I’m much the opposite. I don’t lie on principle. I simply have things I don’t talk openly about. It picks those up. I don’t know precisely how it works, but I think it’s based on how much it’s actively weighing on your mind.”

“So if it’s based on personal perception, someone could say something that they think is true, but isn’t…” she continues.

“Right, it probably wouldn’t pick them up.”

Percy cuts in. “I know you said you don’t want to teach me how it works, but would you mind telling a lie really quickly, just so I know everything you said before was true?”

“Er, if you insist.” Nemesis stares directly at his compass. “I’m eight feet tall.” Immediately, the arrow fixed on him lights up brightly, before settling back down to its steady, faint glow.

“I see.” Percy seems satisfied for a moment, before his face falls again. “You said it’s based on perception, and if someone was lying without knowing it, it wouldn’t show up...do you think someone could deliberately fool it?”

Nemesis considers it for a moment. “I don’t think so, no. I mean, they’d have to know it exists first off, right? Far as I know this is one-of-a-kind, so they’d have no practice...and I think the mere act of thinking about fooling it might set it off like crazy.”

“That’s useful, but couldn’t someone use that to their advantage? If it’s constantly going off, then you can’t tell what’s true and what isn’t.”

“Dunno why anyone would want to set off false positives, but they could, I guess. False negatives are what I’m more concerned about, though, and I’m pretty sure they’re impossible.” He sighs. “...and we’ve been simply talking in the hallway again. Not really a great look for us, I reckon.”

Percy nods. “Right, right...Eves, do you think you can track down those two?”

“I don’t know what they get up to, but I think I know someone who does. Follow me.”

She gestures the two of them after her, and leads them through the strangely expansive backstage area. High ceilings and dusty crates of props form the skeleton of the room, and various knocked-over music stands and artificial trinkets are strewn about. Percy nearly trips over a folding chair. Nemesis takes notes, filling the pieces missing from his map in, bit by bit.

Finally, they emerge into what seems to be a simple storage room. Boxes and crates are stacked to the ceilings, some lying cracked open on the floor, others perfectly sealed. If this room was ever decorated, those decorations have long since been stripped from it, leaving a desolate and depressingly cardboard-colored room.

Though it’s muffled by its surroundings, once the door is opened even a crack, Nemesis can hear it - the beautiful music wafting through the room. Not as good as Elias’s piano, he thinks, but he can’t deny the morose wailing of the violin is gorgeous in its own way.

The source is an individual perched atop one of the many stacks of crates, legs crossed, an almost mischievous-looking smile on his face as he plays. He has messy, short black hair, wears a long, warm-looking black coat, and, from where he is, Nemesis is at almost exactly the same height as his extremely scuffed-up boots. Despite the appearance being that of a vagabond, he notices jewelry - a pair of earrings, a bracelet, both silver - and the violin looks, to him, expensive, with its cherry-red wood and gleaming silver strings. Their eyes are covered by a pair of circular mirrored glasses on an elaborate chain, not unlike Salem Riddle’s.

When they see Nemesis and the Chases, they finish their song with a flourish before launching themself down to the floor, landing elegantly on their feet before grinning. “What brings you two here?” They ask, voice accented Zemlyan. “I thought you would be off solving the murders, like I always overhear you two talking about.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Evie says. “This is Nemesis Jones, by the way. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We’ve not,” Nemesis answers for the stranger. “Konstantin Voronov, I presume?”

It couldn’t be anyone else. Elias has told him before about the figure - a traveling Zemlyan violinist, somewhat eccentric and always thrilled to see their new locales. They’re famous, even in Llygredyg, but Nemesis supposes that the night at the Obscura was the first time he’d ever heard them play. He’s not let down in the least.

“That’s me!” They proclaim excitedly. “But you can just call me Kostya, I’m not really upset over the formalities. And you are...hmm…” They pose dramatically, tapping a finger to their temple, feigning deep thought. “...I don’t know who you are, but I like your hair!”

Nemesis smiles, despite himself. It’s hard to resist a compliment. “My name is Nemesis Jones, and I’m a private investigator.”

“Private investigator...like Dick Remington…” Kostya trails off, scrutinizing Nemesis carefully. “...actually, you even dress like him. Are you a fan?”

He’s never been this quickly and deeply read, even by Callie. It’s all he can do to contain a horrified gasp. “I...might’ve read some of the books, but it’s not-”

“Ahaha! I’m joking, I’m joking!” Kostya grins, clapping him on the shoulder from an awkward angle of two inches down. “You just remind me of him a little, that’s all. They’re some of my favorite books, personally. They inspired me to write some of my own serials, but none of them took off...I suppose I don’t have that spark!”

That’s not something Elias had ever mentioned. Nemesis supposes that he would have no reason to know. He hopes he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic as he asks: “Oh, er, you write serials? Where are they published? I’m always looking for new mysteries to read...just in my spare time, you know.”

They trail off, sounding far quieter, slower, as if choosing their words with a deliberacy they lacked earlier. “Right, well, if you really want to...the most popular of my works is published in Zemlyan originally. There’s an Acerbian translation, but it’s not very caught up...and neither version has that many readers.”

The Zemlyan version not being popular makes sense, but that a mystery serial written by someone so already famous would be lacking in readership is more curious. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure...Hal is the only person who really talks about it with me…” He frowns, though Nemesis is unsure how upset he actually is. “I suppose no one wants to read it...perhaps I’m not that good of a writer. It would mean a lot to me if you would, though. An actual detective...I could use your feedback.”

“Private investigator,” he corrects. “I will do, though - what’s it called?”

“Detective, private investigator, it’s all the same word in my language.” They wave a hand dismissively. “My story, though...the Curious Casebook of Inspector Arkwright. It’s a sort of mystery of the month serial. I do hope you’ll like it.”

Nemesis writes down the name in his notebook, just to be sure. “Right, I’ll give it a read, and I’ll try my best with the feedback, but I’m a private eye, not a literary critic.”

“It’s the thought that counts!” Kostya insists, grinning ear to ear. “And, really, I’ll appreciate it.”

“Oh,” Percy adds, “I’ll try to read it too. I also like mysteries. Maybe not as much as Nemesis, though.”

Evie shrugs. “Not my genre. Good luck, though. But didn’t we come here for a reason?”

She glares witheringly at Nemesis. He’s beginning to get the feeling she might not be his biggest fan.

“Yes, we absolutely did.” He pulls out his compass, clicking it open as loudly as he can. Unlike those with the knack, he can’t actually amplify the noise through sheer power of spite, but he sure can try. “That is...Mx. Voronov, you are aware that a murder happened, correct?”

Kostya whips off their glasses, and stares Nemesis directly in the eyes. Theirs are a shocking blue-gray, and Nemesis feels his mind almost begin to swim for a split second before catching himself, staring them back.

“I did not commit this murder,” they say, low, steady, almost threatening. “I was not involved in it in any capacity, and I was unaware it happened until just now.”

Normally, Nemesis would consider this to be among the most suspicious responses he’s ever received in an interrogation, but his compass cleanly picks them up, ice-blue, and the needle glows only faintly. They’re telling the truth.

He snaps it shut. “I see. You know that’s a bit of a suspicious way to respond to that, right?”

Kostya immediately brightens. “Well, yes. I was just trying to make sure my point got across! People always say in Zemlya that when one is in danger it is best to be calm and terrifying, so it’s a habit.”

“Er...alright, then.” He nods. “That’ll be all, er - actually, we’re looking for Fletcher and Morgan. Do you know where they are?”

“Oh, those two are very hard to keep track of. But they should be around, somewhere. One of these other storage rooms.”

“You don’t know any more than that?” Evie asks.

“I’m not their father. I don’t follow them around all the time. They could be in the vents and I wouldn’t know.”

“The vents here are large enough to accommodate a human?”

“A fifteen-year-old, at least. I don’t go up in the vents. It’s none of my business what’s in the vents. I think it’s considered impolite around here, anyway, and I wouldn’t want to offend one of your strange customs. Those two are a different story. A stagehand needs to get around quietly, y’know?”

Nemesis glances at Evie and Percy, sheepish. They look back, seeming equally thrown off. “...we’ll check the vents as a last resort. For now, we’d best return to searching.”

“Fine by me!” Kostya’s voice has become almost singsongy in tone. “I’ve got to be going, anyway - Hal was going to look over my newest draft, and I don’t know why I stick around here to begin with when there’s so many interesting places to be...that goes for the city, not just the building. I’m a wayfarer at heart, you know - I guess I mostly stay for Hal. Anyway, I’ll be seeing you, I hope. Feel free to direct feedback to my post box.”

They wave, replace the glasses on their face, and leave. Nemesis watches them go, noticing that they haven’t even bothered to pack up their violin yet, electing to simply carry it in one hand and the case in another.

Before he’s out the door, though, he stops to glance back at Nemesis. “Oh, and by the way...just between you and me, I’m pretty sure Tobias Fitzroy is capable of murder. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“What’s that mean?” Percy asks frantically, but he gets no response, and Kostya leaves properly this time.

Evie’s voice is even and frustrated. “So, we’ve wasted another several minutes. Shall we go speak to someone about the murder itself, or do you just want to talk about swords with Walter, maybe?”

“That’s a bit unfair, Eves, mean, really, they were the one leading that conversation. We can just find the others now, it’s no big deal. We have time,” Percy mutters.

“If you say so.” She scoffs.

Nemesis moves ahead through the room, checking his compass for anything hidden with no results. Behind him, he can hear Evie and Percy whispering to each other, but he pretends he can’t, listening in silence.

“He’s an idiot,” Evie insists. “He’s the opposite of helpful. He’s unhelpful, even.”

“He’s a smart idiot,” Percy replies, sounding a little subdued. “Really, he’s got way more experience with things like this than either of us. It’s safer with him around.”

“Until he gets us all into danger by not paying attention to things when it counts. Really, Perce, you could have picked anyone from the Electric Sun and you come up with this-this lunatic?”

That one, Nemesis thinks, hurts just a little bit.

“No one who works for the Sun is an actual detective. I sort of trust him, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why. Actually, I can. You have no regard for your own safety and that’s why I’m around.” Evie pauses. “You could have written your article ten times by now,” she tacks onto the end.

“It’s never just about the article and you know that. It’s about finding out the truth, and-”

“Yes, Percy. I know.” He hears her sigh, drawn-out and fatigued. “Do you really think this guy has ever found out the truth about anything?”

“I mean, objectively speaking, he’s solved some cases, yes - look, let’s not talk about this now, right in front of the guy. Or maybe at all. Maybe let’s not talk about this because I’ve made up my mind and you’re just being overprotective, Eves.”

He doesn’t hear her response. That probably means there’s not one.

The hallways lead him through a few more unremarkable storage rooms, covered in dust and absent of anything of interest, not even slightly drawing his compass’s attention. The Chases, done with their whispering, are content to follow him in silence, their footsteps accompanying his through the echoey halls.

When they emerge at last, it’s into what looks like a lounge. A long table with an elaborate black lace runner draws immediate attention, as does a crystal chandelier shining unnervingly throughout the room with a blue light. Black and purple leather couches sit by the outer edges of the room, and cabinets above them. The walls are lit by faint blue-tinged gas-lamps. Nemesis assumes this is Morgana’s handiwork. It seems far more her style than her father’s.

Of course, that assumption might be one of convenience, because Morgana is sitting on one of the couches, holding in her hands a glass of a cloudy liquid with a familiar smell. Next to her, Walter looks relaxed and approaching the borderline of not being entirely sober, holding an empty glass of what had surely been alcohol as well. A couch over, Shuai seems to have barely so much as touched her own glass of champagne.

Morgana raises her glass to Nemesis as greeting. “Evie! You’ve brought your brother along, and...Nemesis Jones as well? Might I ask what the occasion is?”

“I wanted to talk to you, actually. Call it curiosity. The show left me with a lot of questions.” Not technically a lie, but it feels close enough to it. Flattery, certainly.

If Morgana doesn’t buy it, it doesn’t show. She continues to smile at the three of them, gesturing to the couch next to hers and Walter’s, on which Shuai sits. “Well, I suppose you’re a friend of hers, then, and a friend of Evie’s is a friend of the theatre’s. You’re welcome to have a drink with us, while you’re here.”

The last thing Nemesis needs right now is to lose his sobriety, but something tells him he’d be far better off seeming less alert than he truly is. He slides into a third, empty couch. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Percy and Evie both seem somewhat puzzled as to why he’s agreeing, but they take a fourth couch for themselves, Percy muttering a quiet “thank you” under his breath.

Morgana stands, carefully nudging Walter off of her shoulder and crossing the room towards one of the cabinets. “Any preferences? We have the sort of selection you’d expect, just about anything you’d want.”

“Oh, um, I don’t drink,” Percy mumbles. Perhaps ashamed, Nemesis thinks.

“Just water for me,” Evie says immediately. Almost too fast. She’s protective of her brother...maybe, Nemesis thinks, she’s trying to keep him from feeling left out. Or perhaps she simply wants water. No way of knowing for sure.

“Oh. Alright.” Is it just him, or does Morgana seem a little downcast?

She turns to him, locking eyes immediately. It seems Morgana isn’t capable of looking directly at someone without making eye contact, instilling a feeling in Nemesis not dissimilar to that of a handshake where one individual is squeezing the other’s hand so hard that it threatens to snap bone. Nemesis sees eye contact, in general, as primarily a method of asserting dominance. He’s sure Morgana’s intentions are better than that, but he finds himself repressing his fight-or-flight response.

“And what would you like, Mr. Jones?” She asks, slow and polite, no hint of intensity whatsoever.

He points to the glass still in her hand. “What you’re having, Ms. Fitzroy - if that’s not a problem, of course.”

She stares at the glass, face flashing with trepidation. “Are you...sure? This is absinthe.”

“I’m aware.” He raises an eyebrow. “And I’m sure, yes.”

“Well, if you say so.” She pours him a glass nonchalantly. She reaches for a spoon, but Nemesis shakes his head.

“No need for all the festivities. It’s fine the way it is.”

Percy, Evie, and Shuai all look at him with visible concern, and Walter with half-drunken confusion. It’s understandable. He’s not even sure what possessed him to say it. He knows as well as anyone that absinthe is generally diluted for a reason. Morgana purses her lips, as though about to argue, but concedes, handing him the glass.

Carefully, Nemesis studies its beautifully sculpted shape. A wide reservoir glass, crystal-clear, with beautifully blown spiral cordons marking it and an intricate stem, multiple spirals twisting together. It’s actually rather inconvenient to hold onto, but anything, he supposes, to show off one’s wealth.

Inside, the absinthe is a pleasant light green shade, though the smell wafting up from it is horribly dry and pungent. Nemesis realizes that drinking undiluted absinthe might not be the best of ideas. In fact, he’s not sure why he refused to have it diluted. That wasn’t the smartest of moves, in retrospect.

Such a shame, but there’s no backing down now. He looks Morgana dead in the eyes and takes a long sip. It doesn’t burn nearly as much as he expected. In fact, the taste is, if anything, quite pleasant, until he lowers the glass and feels the bitter aftertaste spread through his mouth. It’s a good bit more than he’s used to (one does not simply make a habit of drinking plain absinthe), but it’s not unbearable, not by any means.

He takes another sip.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, finally broken when Walter begins to applaud loudly.

“Oh my stars, that’s badass!” He practically stares at Nemesis, wide-eyed, speech uncontrolled, loud, and just the tiniest bit slurred. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He shrugs. Just in case, he makes sure his movements are just barely jerkier than normal. After all, if this goes the way he plans it to, it’s meant to become an interrogation. Perhaps people would be more willing to let down their guards around someone who looks a little less than fully functional. “‘S not that badass, either, you ever met a Lygredish private school student? Swear most of ‘em could drink me under the table, no problem.”

Morgana laughs softly and quietly. It’s not an un-endearing laugh. “You know it tastes better when it’s diluted, right?”

“I’ve been told. I never...do I look like an absinthe drinker to you, honest?”

“Not especially. That’s why I was surprised you asked. Why the interest, if you’ve never even tried it before?”

He shrugs again. “Good a time as any, right?” This is all edging a bit too close to outright falsehood for his comfort. He’d had no reason, of course. He’d acted on pure impulse, and now here he was, three-quarters of a glass of absinthe left to drink. She’d poured it a lot fuller than he’d expected.

“I suppose so…” Shuai says trepidatiously.

“That’s the spirit!” Walter agrees.

“I suppose so…” she repeats with even less passion this time, deflating and taking a sip of champagne.

Evie crosses her legs and leans back in her chair. “...right, so if we’re done...being impressed by someone doing the unthinkable act of drinking alcohol...Morgana, we did have some questions to ask you.”

“Oh?” Morgana doesn’t sound all that surprised. “I assume this is about the murder, if I know your brother any.”

“Well, you do know me any,” Percy mutters, sheepish. “We were just wondering how you’re doing, in the aftermath and all.”

“Oh, well…” She sighs, immediately becoming wistful. Maybe too wistful. It feels like a performance, an unsettlingly good one, but one clearly staged. “It’s all so frightening...having this sort of thing happen on my own doorstep. I don’t know anything about it, though.”

Nemesis clicks open his compass. Morgana, predictably, is isolated by a purple needle. She’s lying.

“I don’t know anything either,” Shuai says, and she’s telling the truth. “I think something strange is happening around here in general, though. Things are always...concerning.”

“Concerning? Can you elaborate?” Evie asks.

“Well, like-”

Walter cuts her off. “I’ve got...sometimes there’s...it feels like time slows down and things are sluggish, sometimes, but that’s…”

“That isn’t related,” Morgana agrees. “Or, at least, I can’t imagine how it is.”

“...are you sure you aren’t epileptic?” Nemesis suggests nervously.

Walter frowns. “I don’t feel epileptic.”

“Mate, you don’t just feel epileptic-”

“What Walter is saying,” Morgana cuts in, “Is that they’re simply normal lapses of attention, right?”

“Yeah. They don’t feel not normal,” he agrees. “What I mean is that it’s probably not a big deal, but it’s still concerning.”

Evie sighs. “Not the sort of concerning I meant, then. I mean...suspicious concerning. Things that would point in the direction of a method or culprit for the murder.”

“Oh. Hmm.” Walter considers for a moment. “Well, I know I didn’t do it.”

The compass detects full sincerity. “If you had to guess, who would you think it was?”

“Well, I’d assume it’s-” He glances at Morgana, then back at Nemesis. “...I’d assume it’s one of the stagehands. They’re allowed in the props, right?”

“Or the sanxianist,” Morgana adds. “They don’t mean badly, but they’re very impulsive. I could see them snapping.”

Neither of them read as genuine.

Shuai has drained her champagne glass as the other two were speaking. Finally, she speaks herself. “I wouldn’t know. I mean, I’m not a detective, you are.”

Entirely genuine.

“I’m a private investigator, first off,” Nemesis corrects, before continuing. “So none of you have seen anything suspicious?”

“No,” Morgana says, and the other two nod their assent. All three clearly pick up as lying.

Nemesis does his best to hide any sort of reaction. “Alright, then.”

“Okay, and now that you’ve asked us questions,” Walter says, “we get to ask you some, right? Because I’ve been really curious about you, Mr. Det-Private Investigator.”

“...sure?” Nemesis answers. Next to him, he can see both Percy and Evie look just slightly nervous.

“Okay. You seem pretty interesting as a person - uh, no offense, sorry-”

“I take it as a compliment.”

“Okay, then. You’re from Llygredyg, right?’

“Hence the accent, yes.”

“Then why come to Omen?”

Nemesis pauses, just for a moment. This question is difficult to answer without revealing too much or lying outright. Finally, he settles on: “Even in Citrea Viridia, not much really happens that would require a private investigator’s services. I heard that there’s much more going on here, so I just hopped on a train.”

“Just like that, huh…” Walter nods. “That’s pretty brave of you. I moved here as a kid, with my family.”

“It’s not all that brave. You just get on a train.”

“And do you make enough money off of being a private investigator to support yourself?” Shuai asks.

“Clearly, if I’m here and not starving.”

“Right…” She nods. “How much Dick Remington have you read?”

What is it with today and people bringing up Dick Remington, all of a sudden? He shrugs. “Fair amount. It’s not totally accurate, but it’s fun enough to try and solve the mysteries before Remington does.”

“Just checking.”

“I suppose that makes me the only person in this city who’s never read Remington,” Morgana remarks. “Even Elias of all people has been picking some up lately.”

“I’ve never read Remington either, even though Percy begs me to,” Evie says.

Morgana carries on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Right, speaking of Elias. You two are friends, isn’t that right?” She looks directly at Nemesis, and though there’s nothing unpleasant about it in theory, he feels inexplicably threatened.

“Yes, we’re friends.” No point in hiding that and getting called on it. “Why do you ask?”

“Right, you’re friends. I didn’t know Elias had friends at school.”

“I’m a full year older than him, actually. I met him on the train from Citrea Viridia. Same cart. Ate brunch together and found we quite enjoyed talking.” None of it’s an outright lie. He had met him on the train back. It just hadn’t been their first meeting.

“I see. He seems to like you. He doesn’t open up to many people, you know.”

“I’m aware.” Somehow, he feels like he’s the one being interrogated.

She’s silent for a moment, looking at him seriously, before their silence is interrupted by a faint ring-tone.

Morgana sighs. “...oh, I’ll go get that. Apologies.” She leans down to kiss Walter, and Nemesis notices Shuai staring at them. Does he detect a hint of jealousy, he wonders, or is he jumping to conclusions?

Morgana leaves, and Shuai immediately glances back at Nemesis. Did she catch him staring?

“Morgana’s just protective, I think,” she finally responds. “That’s why she was grilling you about Elias.”

He thinks back to what he’s been told about her. Elias had never given him the sense that she was especially protective, but Elias hadn’t talked about her very much at all.

“Well,” he stands up, “I think I’ll be going, no offense. I’ve got places to be, but this was lovely.”

“Yeah, this was cool! Don’t be a stranger, alright? You seem like a nice guy.” Walter gives him a thumbs-up.

“Hmm, yes,” Shuai says. Is it just him, or has she inched closed to Walter while he was talking? “I’ll see you around, as well. Next time, get your absinthe diluted.”

“Will do.” He waves, gesturing to Percy and Evie to follow him.

It isn’t until he’s out of the room that he realizes he’s still holding the glass of absinthe. Perhaps he’s a little bit more out of it than he’d initially thought.

“Uh, Nemesis, you’re,” Percy says a moment later, almost on cue.

“It’s a nice glass, and I think I might as well keep it,” he says, shrugging, careful not to spill the liquid inside. “If I’m to spend this amount of time amongst the bourgeoisie, I may as well get something for my troubles.”

“You’re also the bourgeoisie,” Evie points out, to which he shrugs.

“Let’s just say that’s not always been the case. Not that it’s important right now. We’re still looking for Fletcher and Morgan.”

“Right, right. They’re evasive, those two.” She frowns and glances about, as if searching for them, even though Nemesis is sure if they were in this hallway they would both already be aware.

“‘S fine. We’ve exhausted basically all of our options, so the rule of dramatic irony says that they’ll show up soon,” he replies, attempting to maintain his normal projected confidence.

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Percy says nervously.

“And I’m positive that’s not how it works,” Evie adds.

But, unfortunately, it is how it works, because it’s not five minutes until the three come upon a storage room, featureless as the rest, except for the people in it - two boys who look around fifteen, if not younger, one with straight black hair, the other with far more wavy chestnut brown.

The brown-haired one, who is slightly shorter, notices their presence first, and nudges his companion. “Weird people staring at us, Corey.” He sounds nervous.

“Weird people are always staring at us. There’s nothing but weird people around here.” This one sounds distinctly more exhausted as he turns to face Evie. “Okay, though, I’ll bite. What do you and your...friends...want?”

“We wanted to ask you some questions, if that’s alright.”

The black-haired one - Corey - frowns at Evie. “Should be fine. But first off, who’s this tool?” He motions with his thumb at Nemesis.

He would be offended if not for the appearance of the two boys. Clearly, they aren’t from the lavish backgrounds typical of the actors. Instead, their scowls and posture indicate something very different to Nemesis, something he can relate to far more.

“This tool is named Nemesis Jones. Private investigator,” he says, bowing to them properly.

The brown-haired one does seem a little impressed, but Corey doesn’t, scoffing. “Holy shit, Dick Remington’s here to tell us off.”

What is it with Dick Remington today? Nemesis shakes his head. “Not tell you off, just ask you a couple of questions.”

“Oh, sure. That’s what they all say. How do I know you’re not with the police?”

Nemesis frowns and gestures to himself. “Mate, do I look like police to you?”

“No, you look like Dick Remington.”

“Fair, I suppose. I hate to be that guy, but things are at stake. We’d really appreciate your cooperation.”

Corey glances from Nemesis to Evie, to his companion, then sighs. “...alright, alright, fine. This is about that weird prop that turned out to be an actual dead woman, right?”

“Wouldn’t’ve been anything else,” Nemesis agrees. “I’d just like to ask you if you noticed anything suspicious at that time, since you two were close to it.”

“I didn’t do it. Jack didn’t either,” Corey says, and the compass reads him as genuine. Nemesis isn’t surprised - he looks fifteen at oldest. If he’d committed this murder, he would have been shocked.

“I didn’t,” the brown-haired one, Jack, agrees. He, too, reads as entirely truthful.

“When was the prop first procured?”

It’s Corey who answers. He seems to take the lead in general, between the two, Nemesis observes. “Only a day or so before the performance. I don’t remember anyone actively commenting on it. It just kind of showed up in the prop room overnight, which isn’t how things are usually done around here, but neither of us wanted to comment.”

“I see.” Certainly, that’s concerning.

Percy asks the next question. “Did the prop feel off or strange in any way? Did you suspect anything was up before the unthinkable actually transpired? Oh, and do you mind if I quote you? Anonymously, of course.”

Corey frowns, before settling on: “Sure, if you really want to. But, uh...first off, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but human corpses are pretty heavy.”

“I’m not aware, no,” Percy replies, “but now that you say it, it absolutely makes sense. Nemesis, did you know that human corpses are heavy?”

“Er...secondhand? I’ve never held one myself?”

“I see…” he says, seriously. “Sorry, though, Mr...uh...Corey. Keep going.”

“Mr. Morgan,” Corey corrects. “Anyway, yeah, it was so heavy that Jack and I couldn’t really properly get it into position on our own, so we had to ask for help. Elias offered. He’s stronger than he looks.”

Evie glances at Nemesis. “That’s strange, isn’t it? He doesn’t seem like he’d be that strong, based on how he looks and acts.”

“He’s not especially, but I know for a fact that corpse doesn’t weigh too much.” After all, he’d very briefly held it - and so had Evie.

She seems to realize this, because she nods. “Right, you would, since you took a look at it at Burke’s.” It’s a convenient lie, and not one he’s going to contest.

“It wasn’t that light,” Corey insists.

Nemesis sighs. “How old are you, lad?”

“I’m nineteen,” he lies, the needle lighting up before he even finishes his sentence.

Nemesis shakes his head. “I’m nineteen. You’re, what, thirteen? Fourteen?

“I’m seventeen,” he lies again, and Nemesis shakes his head. “...fine, fifteen.” This time, the compass reads him as truthful.

Nemesis nods. “You’re quite young. Did you lie about your ages to get this job?”

“No.” This time it’s Jack who answers. “They didn’t care enough to ask to begin with. We’ve worked here for four or five years now.”

“Then you would know what it’s like around here usually. Have you noticed anything strange more recently?” Percy asks, frowning.

“Not really.”

Corey nudges Jack. “No, nothing out of the ordinary, but...you’re new in town, right?”

Nemesis nods. “Reckon I am.”

“Then you wouldn’t know.”

Evie frowns. “...what wouldn’t he know?”

“He wouldn’t know about the rumors.” Corey’s voice lowers, practically to a whisper. “The rumors that people around here keep vanishing, and have been since before me and Jack got our jobs. A lot of previous employees who never returned home from work, and a lot of people who said they’d be going to a show and never came home again...the reason it was so easy for us to get our jobs was that, at this point, no one else wants to work here.”

“Right, right,” Nemesis replies. “I’m aware of the Actors’ Guild’s activities.”

“Then I don’t see why this would be anything different.”

Complete honesty.

“So you think it’s related to society activity?” Percy frowns. “That it’s just another disappearance?”

“I don’t see why not.”

It’s truthful.

“Then,” Nemesis asks, “you don’t have any idea as to who might have done it? Or do you simply think it isn’t important?”

“I don’t have any idea who did it,” Corey says, face hardened, and the compass detects a clear lie. “But - and you didn’t hear this from me - pissing off Tobias Fitzroy is a bad idea.”

Evie nods. “Yes, that much is clear to almost everyone. He’s a powerful man.”

Corey scoffs. “Y’know, the other day I saw him, he was angry. The murder making the news pissed him off, understandably. Even Lusitania was terrified of him, and she’s his favorite.”

“Even Lusitania…” Evie trails off. “...that’s strange, but I suppose she’s always a little nervous around him.”

Nemesis scoffs. “So she’s not as stupid as she looks, is what you’re saying?”

“Hey, be quieter.”

In the time they’ve been speaking, Jing has snuck up on them. They stand beside Nemesis, hand on their hip. “Just warning you, Fitzroy’s on his way here. I think you three should get going.”

“Ah, bloody hell. Does he know we’re here?”

“No, but…” Jing gestures to the three of them. “Follow me. Quick.”

“If you say so.” Percy waves to the two boys. “Thanks for the help. You won’t tell him we were here, will you?”

“Our lips are sealed.” Corey makes a locking motion over his mouth and feigns tossing away the key.

“I hope you solve this case,” Jack adds. “It would be nice if it were a little less scary around here.”

The compass shows that both are genuine. Nemesis nods and follows Jing.

They lead them behind the stacks of crates - just in time, it seems, because Nemesis hears the door creak open. They’re out of sight, but he can hear the sound of Fitzroy’s cane and heels against the floors.

“Work as usual, boys?” He asks, and Nemesis finds himself nauseated by the mere sound of the man’s voice.

“Yes, sir,” he hears Corey respond. “We were just looking for those curtains you asked us to find.”

“Good, good.” Fitzroy sounds so smug that Nemesis wishes he could peer out from behind these boxes and knock him to the ground. “You know, the art of decoration requires a precise eye, and affects far more than one might think.”

“The art of...you...is being a bastard,” Jing mutters. “Haha. Got him.”

“No time for that,” Evie admonishes, whispering. “Let’s get out of here already.”

“I don’t like being in the same room as him,” Nemesis agrees.

Jing gestures for them to follow. As they leave, Nemesis can hear another voice, faint. Lusitania Renwick is speaking.

Truly, it’s good that they get out when they do.

Jing leads them to a door. An alarming number of rooms in the theatre seem to have multiple doors, when Nemesis thinks about it. He probably wouldn’t have managed to find this on his own, camouflaged among the labyrinthine stacks of boxes. He wouldn’t even have had reason to assume it existed to begin with.

They open the door. Outside, it’s darker. Nemesis has learned, by now, how to distinguish Omen’s color - when he first arrived it simply seemed dark all day, but now he can easily distinguish between the day’s gray and the night’s black. It’s been a while, and it’s getting late.

“Thanks, Jing,” he says, exiting into the cool air outside.

They nod. “...feelings on you aside, you need to solve this. Stay safe.”

Percy and Evie join him on the outside, and the door is shut behind them.

Percy sighs, finally, glancing over his notes slowly. He doesn’t look happy. “...all of that feels like a whole lot of nothing in the end, huh? This is harder than I expected.”

“I’m not sure what you expected,” Nemesis mutters. “It’s not like a novel. Solving mysteries is hard.”

“I guess so. Did you at least write down which statements were true and which were lies?”

He nods. “Some of them.”

“Can I see?”

Nemesis has almost opened his notebook when he realizes. “It’s...er...it’s in cipher. I’ll translate it for you and hand it off to you tomorrow, if you’d like?”

“Hmm. Maybe.” He looks at his sister. “We could stop by tomorrow, right?”

She takes a moment to respond, but finally, she nods. “We’ll be by tomorrow, then. To discuss the case as a whole, too. Percy and I will both do more digging into the disappearances ourselves.”

“Alright,” he replies. “I’ll tell Theory you’ll be by, in that case. Good night, both of you. Take care.”

“Take care!” Percy replies. Evie simply sighs.

On his way back to Beaumort’s, Nemesis empties the glass of absinthe. His throat burns and his vision is fuzzy around the edges, but he manages to make it back, stumbling to the doorstep. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself to drink, and though his tolerance remains high, it feels almost as if he’s out of practice.

He stumbles through the door of Beaumort's, steadying himself against the wall. "Hey, Theers. Think I'm gonna be hungover tomorrow, so, er, breakfast'll be on you, I reckon. Also, got you a gift. Hope you like it." He places the glass on the table next to her, with as much care as he can manage. It doesn’t shatter, so he supposes that’s a good sign, taken the circumstances.

“Oh...thank you. It looks expensive. Did you steal this?” She glances at him nervously, the barest hint of concern present. "Well, that's not fair. You know neither Callie nor I can cook."

"Did steal it, aye. You lived before and you'll live now. I'm going to bed before I say anything too incoherent.”

She nods slowly, looking genuinely lost for a response. "...will you be okay? I can't imagine how much you needed to drink to get to that point."

"Low tolerance," he blatantly lies. "Er, sorry, that's a blatant lie. Slipped out, hate it when that happens, genuinely hate it. I'm open with my feelings, you know, don't have any choice in the matter-"

"I'm well aware." She raises an eyebrow. "You're rambling."

"Am I? Rambling? Is that what I'm doing, I'm rambling, now?" He laughs, and he can only imagine how unhinged it sounds to his unfortunate observer. "Elias used to say that about me all the time, even when I was perfectly sober, which is most of the time, because I wasn't some sort of millionaire who could afford spirits while still in school."

She raises an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that you were a millionaire, Jones. Regardless, Elias was right."

"Of course he was-" and there's a hint of frustration present there that he genuinely wishes wasn't. "Elias is right about most everything, except for a few things, but even then I can't really fault the guy, I mean, 's not like he ever means badly-"

"You've officially stopped making sense."

He sighs. "...have I? Right, Elias is good, I wish he had an ounce of self-preservation sometimes. Sometimes he says I've no self-preservation and I think that's bloody stupid considering have you seen the guy? I love him but he's dense as a brick wall, honest..."

He stumbles into the room, immediately shutting the door behind him. No point in turning on the lights - he doesn’t think he’d trust himself around a candle right now. Instead, his eyes settle on the rotary phone on his desk, and a horrible thought enters his head.

Almost as if in a trance, hands shaking, he dials the number to Elias' portable telephone, waiting for it to dial. With every tone, his heart pounds, until finally, on the thirteenth, Elias picks up.

"Nemesis?" He hears the familiar voice, distorted by the device. "You're the only person I've given this number to. I forgot I had this thing until it rang and scared me half to death."

"Sorry, sorry. Figured the post or a telegraph wouldn't be quick enough and your main phone's likely wiretapped. Didn't want to take any risks."

"Right, that makes sense..." Elias trails off, before speaking again, this time sounding distinctly sharp and concerned. "Are you drunk? You sound drunk."

"I'm, like, almost entirely sober, it's fine," he says, consciously aware of the hint of slur to his voice. "I just, er, I needed to talk to you-"

"Okay."

He can't help but laugh at that, and Elias sounds more concerned than indignant when he responds. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking that's such a you-like response. Endearing."

"I - endearing-"

"Anyhow, er, it's, it's a bit more serious than that. I've been meaning to, er, it's been weighing on me, how-"

Elias sighs. "It's...about earlier, isn't it?"

"Might be. Er, Elias, when I said I trusted you, that wasn't entirely, er, that's to say, I might've been fudging the truth a little-"

"I figured." Elias chuckles, low and humorless. "No one trusts a guy holding a knife to their neck. Generally, no one trusts someone who can make knives out of thin air in general. I’ve been telling you for ages."

"Er, no, it's not...I mean, I do trust you, I just, I don't. And I keep thinking you're about to leave me stranded here and I know it's not fair to you, Fitzroy doesn't give you a choice, but, Elias, you're my best mate-"

"Yeah, and I-"

Nemesis cuts him off and continues. "-frankly, you're my only mate, and I’m so unbelievably fond of you, and if I sit down to think about it for a time I trust you to not hurt me but really when I said that I didn't mean it because really I was scared, I thought you just might kill me and I knew I'd not be able to stop you, I'd not even want to stop you, and that's scary. I think about it a lot, how you must be itching to stab me in the back, I know there's no reason to believe that other than common sense but it won't go away. So it wasn't really a lie but it was close enough to a lie that I feel guilty not saying-"

Elias sighs. "I know. I mean, I'm not...completely stupid, I know. That was...it was shitty of me. I don't know why I did it."

"You don't need to hold a knife to my neck to make me scared of you. I've been living in fear of the fact that you simply must loathe me since the day we met, that's never changed. Anything, it's only gotten worse. Every single time we speak I'm convinced it's the last, that you won't miss me after, and it makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry, because surely you can't actually like me!"

His voice rings over the line. He hadn't realized how loud he'd gotten.

Elias takes a moment to formulate his speech, and when he does, it's slow and unsure. "Well, first off, I...like you quite a bit. That's why we're friends. I know I'll probably never be able to convince you, but I mean it. Second, you're drunk. Third, I miss you every day, you know, I-Nemesis, I wish it didn't have to be this way."

"Elias..." he sighs, because he knows he's on the verge of bursting into tears, and that's the last thing he wants. Damn his easily-provoked emotions. "Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry, Elias. Sorry, I'll leave you in peace for the time. I'll call again when I'm sober."

"Um, wait-"

He ends the call before Elias can finish his sentence and sighs. At some point, his hands had begun to shake.

He places the receiver back, almost repulsed by the sight of it. The lie pains him, but he doesn’t think he’ll be calling Elias again. The very thought fills him with a sharp terror.

He stumbles to his bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes before he collapses onto it. Theory will be mad about that, and it’ll mean more laundry to do, but he'll worry tomorrow. Theory is probably mad fairly often, as much as he tries to pretend that she might harbor anything but annoyance towards him, and he doesn’t mind extra work.

A thought flashes through his mind that he simply can’t shake - that he’s failed, again, because Mr. Jones would be so disappointed to see him like this.

He rolls onto his side, eyes wide open, staring at his wall. The blurry, unsteady sight of the cork-board at the other end of the room, covered with his own incomprehensible writing, shifts and bleeds as sleep finds him at long last.