Nemesis wakes up with a throbbing pain in his head and a distinct feeling of shame. Somehow, he’s barely shifted in his sleep, and has remained staring at the same spot on the wall. He feels like he’s been bludgeoned over the head - an unfortunately familiar sensation.

With an audible groan, he pulls the blanket over his head again, despite the fact that his room is already dark. And there he remains for what must be several hours, until he finally feels alright enough to stand, change out of his now thoroughly wrinkled clothing, and finally take off his damned shoes.

The cork-board is still there, almost taunting him. He frowns to himself, running a hand over the papers pinned to it. As much as he’d love to agonize over the case which takes up the bulk of the board, simply labeled ‘DISAPPEARANCE’, his mind is swimming, and he’s unable to organize his thoughts into anything approaching coherency. There's vague thoughts, the words 'Correspondents' and 'left' and 'probably dead, anyway' and 'he can't be' resurfacing over and over. He pretends he doesn't hear them.

His hand traces over a photograph of a man. This particular image can’t be younger than five years, but his short brown hair and square spectacles, ever-so-slightly askew when the picture were taken, are unmistakable.

He sighs. Enough of this.

Of course, he promised Percy, so he sits down at his typewriter. It’s relatively new, but already showing signs of use. Painstakingly, he begins to type up his results from yesterday. His dazed and disoriented brain takes far longer than he would like to decode his own cipher, letters swimming confusingly, bumping into each other. His fingers feel like they're slipping off the keys.

He finishes and frowns. It all looks right to him, as far as he can tell, but he might want to redo this when his mind is clearer and he can actually trust his eyes. He thinks some water might be in order, and maybe a nap, though he’s normally opposed to those on principle.

He stumbles out to the kitchen, and even the faint gaslamp lighting is enough to make his head throb all over again.

Theory and Callie are sitting at the table, Theory seemingly taking a break from her translations to read an old-looking and very thick Beian text, Callie nervously hovering by the cabinets, looking entirely out of it. Both look up at Nemesis as he closes the door behind him, faces painted with concern.

Theory is the first to speak, with a voice like a disappointed teacher. “Have you become an alcoholic now?”

“I don’t think that’s how alcoholism works.” He can see why she’d be concerned, though. He hasn’t brushed his hair, or bothered to put on anything but trousers and a dress shirt which isn’t even buttoned up all the way, and he can see the bags under his eyes reflected in the refrigerator. He looks like the sort of person who picks fights in bars.

“You know what I mean. You look awful. Do you realize what time it is?”

“Late?” He suggests. “Please tell me I didn’t miss an entire day.”

“You didn’t. It’s around noon.”

He sighs in relief. “Oh, thank goodness. The Chases were going to come over for dinner today. It would have been awfully rude of me to sleep through that.”

“You couldn’t’ve told us that in advance?” Theory grumbles. “It’s unlike you to be this irresponsible.”

“Not sure if you noticed, Theers, but I was drunk.”

“And that was irresponsible.”

She’s right and he knows it. He frowns. “Right. I’m sorry.”

She looks at him gravely. “Try not to do it again.”

“I’ll do my best.” He glances at Callie. “But, er...aside from all of that, Callie, are you feeling any better?”

“I feel better than you look, but that’s a low bar,” she says. She does look better-rested and more functional.

Nemesis chuckles. “Touche. Can’t rebut that one, I’m afraid.”

“At least you admit it.” She takes a sip of what looks like tea from what he now realizes is the stolen absinthe glass. “You being gone was really inconvenient, you know. Theory doesn’t explain anything to me.”

“I simply don’t see how you expect me to explain what romance is.”

She looks at Nemesis. “I’m sure he’ll explain what romance is.”

Nemesis is less sure of his ability to do that. “How did this even come up?”

“I was complaining about the romance subplot marring this perfectly good work of fiction,” Theory says, gesturing to the book in her hands. “It was all fine until Jie fell in love with Xiang, and then there went any semblance of personality and a solid five chapters that could have actually advanced the plot.”

“That’s one ancient-looking novel,” Nemesis observes. “My condolences about the needless subplot.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” Callie says. “I’m confused now. What’s romance and why is it so terrible?”

Nemesis can’t help but laugh. “I keep forgetting you lived under a rock.”

“I...didn’t? I lived in a fortress.”

“I didn’t mean…” He sighs, her words sinking in. “A...fortress. You said. Like a castle?”

“Pretty much.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, just forget that you wouldn’t realize how weird that is. Er...I’ll explain what romance is, if you’d like to take a quick trip to the general store with me. I need some air to clear my head.”

“Are you sure you should be outside right now?” Theory asks bluntly. “You look like a mess.”

“Here’s a secret: if you throw on a nice enough coat nobody’ll be able to tell.” He does just that, choosing a black knee-length overcoat to blend in more, adding a scarf to completely conceal what he’s wearing underneath, and, of course, the typical cap. “See? I’m the image of functionality.”

“Your face still looks awful,” she replies.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do about that.”

Callie’s thrown on her own coat as well. “Don’t worry. If anyone comments on it, I’ll knock something over to draw their attention.”

“That’s a horrid idea, don’t get yourself in trouble.” Nemesis pats her on the shoulder briskly, before she can come up with any other genius plans. “Come on, let’s go.”

Being on the street in this state, no matter how hidden it is, feels suffocating. Nemesis feels as though every passerby can see through his overcoat as though it’s glass, and finds himself instinctively huddling into himself, making himself smaller, less noticeable, as though shielding himself from the cold. Callie seems to notice, because she sticks by him, standing in front of him, seeming far more confident, almost as if she’s shielding him. It’s as if they’ve changed places, he thinks to himself.

The grocery store is more crowded than normal. Nemesis ordinarily only goes shopping in the early morning, specifically to avoid the company. It feels claustrophobic here, only his coat keeping the clustered people from seeing how pathetic he is.

He stops, as normal, at the kiosk by the door, where stacks upon stacks of newspapers and penny dreadfuls are sold. He picks up his normal papers - the Electric Sun, the Omen Tribune, and the Greater Semper Gazette - and stops, running his hand over the cheap, sensational mysteries that he knows he’ll enjoy no matter how far they depart from reality. The titles are things like The Rats and the Redemption, Jack-of-Smiles Strikes Again, Original Zero Point Zero, and Murder Game in Joker Manor, and-

There it is. The Curious Casebook of Inspector Arkwright , by Konstantin Voronov. The cover, which looks hand-drawn, depicts a long-haired figure in an especially frilly and impractical skirt holding a pipe in one hand. He opens it to the inside cover.

He’s lucked out. This is the first issue. What were the chances they’d have it in stock? On the inside cover, a message is written in Zemlyan - ‘for Hal, my love. Thank you for the help’, it says, or at least he’s pretty sure that’s what it says - he’s always been a better speaker of Zemlyan than a reader.

He takes it, as well as Murder Game in Joker Manor , which he’s heard good things about, and pays.

On their way back, he leads her around the scenic route. Beaumort’s isn’t far from the harbor at the place where the River Lethe meets Drowned Man’s Bay, and that’s where Nemesis leads Callie, finding a bench near the wharf and sitting, watching the ships docked there bob up and down. He can hear them creak.

He sighs and leans back, feeling the wood of the bench creak. “I quite like it here. Something about the smell and the noises is weirdly calming.”

“Huh.” She stares at a tall black ship with bright red sails, streaming out against the gray sky. “Do you know how to sail?”

“A little. Citrea Viridia’s got a fairly large port. Ended up taking a couple lessons in school. You...wouldn’t know how, I assume?”

“Oh, no. Sometimes Art would take me out sailing around the fortress. It was on an island.”

That might as well have happened, he supposes. The more he learns about Callie's life, the less he knows he can assume. “...ah. I see.”

They sit in silence, Nemesis’ gaze wandering to the lighthouse in the distance. The wind picks up a little bit, pleasantly blowing Nemesis’ hair about.

Finally, Callie speaks again. “You said you’d tell me what romance is.”

“I did,” he agrees. “It’s a tricky thing to explain, I suppose. Simplest to say it’s like friendship but not exactly. Extreme fondness, commitment, a desire for emotional intimacy...romantic love is very difficult to explain in terms beyond that, especially to someone who has never experienced it.”

“Have you experienced it, then?” She asks.

“Might’ve.” The response is noncommittal and quiet. “Doesn’t really matter. Not...like I’ve ever had a chance , in that regard.”

“I see. Art used to complain about the concept of romance. He hated it. Something about it being fake.”

Nemesis shakes his head. “Nah, it’s real. Absolutely, it’s real. Thing is, it’s not just a feeling, it’s a choice. A conscious commitment. Some people don’t get that.”

“I see. He said he loved me, though. Not in a romantic way, obviously.”

“I should hope not.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Romance is different. Probably isn’t for everyone. I don’t think friendship’s for everyone, either. Some people just aren’t meant to function in that sort of relationship.”

“I see. Are you talking about yourself?”

She’s wrong. She’s wrong about him, and that makes the corner of his mouth twitch upwards into a grin. Finally, at long last, he has her beat. “ Tch ...nah. I’ve got a friend, don’t I? I can say, well and truly, that I am capable of love. I’ve held down a friendship for years. That should be proof.”

She nods. “What about your family? Do you love them?”

He scoffs. “I don’t have one. Thought I’d made that apparent by now.”

“I thought so.”

How disheartening. She’s a step ahead of him again.

Another period of silence. When she speaks again, it’s more subdued. “Is Elias the only person you’ve ever loved, then?”

The word ‘love’ makes him pause - but of course, she simply doesn't realize the connotations. “When you use the word ‘love’ like that, it somewhat implies romance. But nah, I’ve really cared about other people.” He pauses. “...other...person, singular. Maybe. But maybe it’s becoming people, plural. Who knows.”

“I see.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Like Percival, and Theory?”

“Sure.” She isn’t wrong, he supposes, despite how much he wishes she were. “And I’d be right angry if something bad happened to you, as well.” There. He’s a step ahead again.

“Hmm? Thank you, but…” She glances away. “Is that how you define caring? Being upset if something bad happens?”

He really does have to think about that one for a moment, because he has no good answer. Finally, he settles on: “a lot of bad things happen to people I care about. I was forced to make it a priority.”

She nods. “That makes sense. I’m sorry.”

They sit in silence again, for who knows how long. Nemesis feels a sort of tense peace. For a moment, it’s almost as though he were a different person, and next to him was a tired man with rectangular glasses. A blackbird rushes around by their feet, searching for food amidst the cobblestones.

Beaumort’s really does blend in with its surroundings. Even though he’s lived there for months, Nemesis is given momentary pause whenever he emerges into the mouth of the street, because he can’t immediately locate it. Once he looks closer, though, it’s there, where it always is, sandwiched between an ordinary if abandoned-looking house and a locksmith’s. Beaumort’s is hard to see unless you’re directly focusing on it, feeling as though it simply vanishes into the backdrop. Chances are, this is one of the defensive enchantments Theory has mentioned offhandedly.

He immediately makes his way to the door, unnerved by the possibility of losing track of the bookstore yet again, but Callie doesn’t follow, instead staring at where the locksmith’s meets the pavement.

Nemesis looks back at her and frowns. “Something the matter?”

“There’s something there.” She points, and Nemesis’s eyes follow her finger, searching the shadows. Where the bricks meet the cobblestones, something small and black sits, ever-so-barely twitching.

Nemesis frowns, immediately moving to its side. Its fur is matted and filthy, but there’s no mistaking what this is - a kitten, and a young one at that. Based on appearances, he’d place it at a couple weeks of age, but it’s likely older and malnourished. When he touches its side, it twitches, and he sees that its leg is bent at an odd angle.

“Bloody stars.” He lifts it carefully. The entire cat is small enough to fit into his hand, and he does just that, wrapping his gloved fingers gingerly around it.

“What...is it?” Callie asks, whispering, as though if she speaks any louder she’ll scare it.

“Do you...do you not know what a cat is?”

“Oh. So that’s what a cat is…they don’t look at all how they’re described in books.” She tries to peer over his shoulder at it, though the height difference makes it difficult. “It’s a lot smaller than I thought it would be.”

“Well, this one’s a malnourished child, normally they’re bigger. It looks injured, too.”

“Oh.” She's at a complete loss for words, he can tell. “Are you going to take it to the doctors’?”

“The Domus Vitae doesn’t exactly service cats. I’ll…” He lets out a pained sigh. “There’s probably not much I can do for it.”

“So you’re going to leave it?”

“Stars, no. I’ll do my best to help it however I can. Er...I’ll keep it alive for tonight, and tomorrow, I’ll get Apollinaire or Dreadful to take a look at it. Perhaps the latter...he works with dead animals, so maybe he’d know how to help a living one.”

“I’m not sure that logic tracks for me, but it’s not like I have any better ideas. I trust your judgement on this more than my own.”

Nemesis spares the quickest, most discreet glance he can manage at his compass. She’s being honest, and he’s not sure if he should feel complimented or concerned.

He makes his way back to the door of Beaumort’s, taking care not to shake the cat too much. He knocks on the door, and thankfully, Theory answers it immediately.

“Need me to open the door for you? Shame on you.” She frowns when she sees the cat in his hand. “Is that a dead bird? Are you bringing a dead bird into my bookstore, Nemesis Jones?”

“Close. It’s actually a live kitten.”

She leans a little closer, scrutinizing it. She raises her hand as if to poke it, decides against, and lowers it again, before frowning. “Kitten, yes. Live? Questionable.”

“Come on, Theers. Half-dead is still half-alive. I’ve been in condition worse than this myself before.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You are a human man, and this is a cat.”

“Does that mean I’d be able to shrug off this sort of condition? I think I was just as close to dying as this cat. And I lived, so it might too. And I’m not going to give up on that possibility.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, just be neat about it. I don’t want any cat vomit on my books, thank you very much. Most of those are irreplaceable.”

“Of course, of course. I should hope, after all this time, you trust me to at least be neat.”

“I suppose I do.” Her tone remains sharp, critical. She crosses her arms. “Really, though...comparing yourself to a dying kitten? I was under the impression that you were a millionaire.”

“I am. Your impression wasn’t mistaken.”

“You’re doing the thing where you try to reveal the least information possible because you don’t want to lie but you don’t want to answer the question either,” Callie says, quiet. She almost seems, he thinks, nervous to point it out.

“Okay, now that she says that, it makes perfect sense,” Theory concurs. “You know you’re allowed to just say you don’t want to answer, right?”

“Theory, Theory, Theory. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Is this fun to you?” Callie asks.

He shakes his head. “...nah, not really. Just feel like I’d be better off answering a question than not, generally said, even if my answer’s a non-answer.”

Theory sighs. “Okay, then, answer me properly. It was a simple enough question.”

“And I answered it simply enough.” He shrugs. “I’d rather not talk about where I got this money, actually. I wasn’t always rich. Nor do I plan to be this rich for very long, if I can help it. Have a bit too many morals for that.”

“You’d better stay that rich,” Theory says harshly. “You need to pay your rent, idiot. And your assistant’s rent. And, you know what, I’m going to make you pay rent for that cat, too.”

“Aww, Theory.” His tone is more joking. “And here I’d thought you would have grown fond of me by now.”

“Don’t bet on it,” she says, and smacks him on the shoulder.

He enters, carefully making his way upstairs. The kitten in his hand twitches and finally meows, which he thinks is a good sign. If the cat can meow, that means it’s awake and has at least some energy. The fact that it’s expressing its pain means that it is, in fact, in pain. And pain is, at its very most basic level, a sign that the sufferer is not yet quite dead. It brings to mind mornings spent nursing bruises and thinking to himself, with a sick satisfaction, that, for better or for worse, they haven’t managed to kill him yet.

Of course, Nemesis doesn’t know anything about caring for cats, never mind injured ones. But not knowing something has never stopped him. A private investigator’s work begins with not knowing and ends with knowing, and the in-between was taught to him, painstakingly, by a man who certainly hadn’t started out knowing how to teach, either.

The first step, he reasons, is to get an idea of what the damage is. His lack of medical qualifications predictably stands in the way. A secondary-school education in basic medicine does not provide a particularly robust framework for an impromptu veterinarian practice, nor does Nemesis know the slightest about cat anatomy, beyond identifying what is and isn't a bone.

He clears a space on the kitchen table, shoving aside multiple books. He’d feel more guilty about it if Theory had any semblance of organization, but with how haphazardly they’re tossed around to begin with he doesn’t think she has a right to complain. He’s the one who takes the effort to keep the place in order, so he’s also the one who gets to tear the place apart. That tracks, sure. There’s some logic in it. He’ll stick with that.

He questions if she’d be angry if he used one of her towels. Probably would be. Best to be safe - he makes a detour into his room, nearly rifling through his dresser with his cat-less hand until he finds a large enough and thick enough handkerchief he won’t especially miss. He spreads it out on the table, frowning. It definitely won’t be enough to soak up all of the blood. He’ll need to find a way to clean it up after. Is there a reliable way to remove blood from oak? He has no idea.

The cat is placed gingerly onto the handkerchief. Nemesis sighs. He runs into the Theory’s room - something distinctly off-limits - and throws open her perfume cabinet.

It’s strange that someone like Theory Hayes would have a perfume cabinet to begin with. A woman who never leaves her bookstore has no reason to have a cabinet devoted to something only necessary for social occasions, and an excess amount of it. The fact that she wears perfume to begin with was initially shocking to Nemesis. But the way she dressed at the Obscura proved that she does own formal clothing, for the eventuality, so it doesn’t feel like an unbelievable stretch that she could own multiple bottles of perfume.

He has to hold back a cry of “Yes!” when he sees that, not only does she have one empty bottle, she has multiple. He pulls the first one - a cheap drugstore brand - off of the shelf, briefly scanning the labels on the others. Several of them are jarringly high-end. So that’s what she’s been doing with his rent money.

He rushes to the sink, unscrewing the top of the bottle and filling it with water. Actually putting an injured animal under running water seems like a recipe for disaster, but a dirty animal is harder to get a proper look at. He rushes back, holds the kitten in place with a single careful finger, spritzes it with water, and hears a quiet meow.

“Right, right,” he says out loud, mostly to himself. “You bloody hate being wet, right? That's the thing people say about cats? Well, too bad. I’m trying to save your life, so you’ll deal with it.”

He continues trying to clean the animal, frowning to himself. He knows it’s a little ridiculous for someone like him to be upset by a tiny bit of dirt, but part of him bemoans the fact that he’ll need to somehow clean his gloves later. Of course, this is nothing compared to the fact that the cat is potentially dying.

He sprays the cat’s leg, and it meows again. He grins. “You’re one tough bastard, aren’t you? I dunno what happened to your leg, but you’re here and you won’t stop screaming. That’s badass.”

The cat, being a cat, doesn’t respond. Nemesis chuckles to himself. “You know, you still might die. I don’t know a damn thing about animal medicine. Fact, you’ll die no matter what I do. Might be tomorrow or might be fifteen years from now, but it’ll happen, and does it really matter what you do now?”

The cat meows, and he laughs this time. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. What in the stars am I even thinking? Who cares about philosophy when someone’s dying right in front of me? Even if that someone’s a cat, that’s ridiculous.”

The cat meows again.

“Yeah, mate. That’s the spirit.”

Callie’s head pokes up over the top of the railing. “Are you talking to the cat, Nemesis?”

“Might be.” He sighs and runs his hand through its fur. “Maybe I wouldn’t’ve been if you weren’t down there for so long. Might I inquire as to what you were doing there, precisely?”

“Oh, well...me and Theory were talking, mostly.” She comes up to stand beside him, watching him painstakingly clean the cat.

“About how strange I am, was it?”

It’s a wild guess, made primarily out of spite, but the guilty look on her face immediately confirms it. “I’m sorry. I don’t...necessarily think it’s a bad thing.”

“Nah, it’s fine. You’re right. I mean, I was just talking to a cat, wasn’t I?” He sighs. “Could you tell me what the topic of conversation was in more specificity, or would that be an undue invasion of confidentiality?”

“It might be, but I’ll tell you anyway. Because I’m your assistant, and not hers.” She pulls out a chair, sitting down with a bit more weight than he normally observes. “And because you deserve to know what people are saying about you.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He chuckles. “People say things about me all the time. Behind my back or to my face, it doesn’t matter. I know what people think of me. I know it’s not precisely a glowing endorsement. I-”

She observes him for a moment before sighing. “You were going to say you don’t care, weren’t you?”

He nods.

“But that would be a lie, and you can’t lie.”

He nods again, ignoring the tense feeling in his throat.

“Well, it’s not as bad as I think you think it is. She didn’t mean it as an insult, either. She was just confused.”

“At least she doesn’t hate me. Suppose that’s an accomplishment.” He laughs humorlessly. “Puts her in the minority.”

“I’ve never met anyone who hates you. Aside from bad people, of course. People who you’re a threat to.”

Of course, it’s not Nemesis Jones most of those people disliked. He supposes Nemesis Jones is comparatively a social butterfly. He shrugs. “Well, I suppose that’s been your experience. What did Theory say about me, then?”

“That she doesn’t understand why you would care enough to try and save its life, mainly.” She gestures to the cat. “She doesn’t understand why you would expend the effort or get your hands dirty.”

“Suppose she wouldn’t.” So it’s a simple issue of her being unable to comprehend the fact that he has compassion. That lines up well enough. “I don’t understand why she wouldn’t, personally.”

“She didn’t seem hostile about it. More genuinely curious.”

He nods. “Right. She might as well be like you, when I think about it. Is never leaving your home island really that different from never leaving a bookstore?”

“She’s been in society, though.”

“To some extent. But to perhaps a greater extent, she’s been separate from it, So I don’t blame her at all for being confused.”

The cat is pretty much clean now, and Nemesis takes a closer look at its leg. Though he’s no expert, it looks broken, and the blood seems to be coming exclusively from it. Perhaps it was partially crushed, or slammed into something. Whatever it is, the wound looks to be on the fresh side. The cat had dragged itself from wherever it happened to outside the locksmith’s. That, itself, is impressive.

And without any medical knowledge, he can’t do much about it. He turns away from her, gets his spare gloves out of his bag, rips off the filthy ones and puts on a clean pair, so more dirt doesn’t get in the wound. He has some gauze in his bag, just in case, so he wraps it up to the best of his ability, hoping he isn’t somehow making it worse. The cat screams. He wishes he knew if that was a good or a bad sign.

He takes off his hat, flings it across the room. It lands atop a wine bottle and swings around twice before settling, as though he’s playing horseshoes. He runs a hand through his hair, fully aware of the streak of blood now drawn across his face.

Briefly, his mind wanders. He can almost see a familiar hand reaching over to wipe it off, admonishing him for his carelessness. Instead, it’s Callie with a handkerchief that he’s pretty sure he gave her himself, and he pulls away, sighing.

“Oh. Sorry.” She immediately turns on the sink and tries to run it under the water. If she weren’t about to find out firsthand, Nemesis would point out that that’s not going to get any blood out of anything.

“It’s fine. I just, er. Maybe don’t want to be touched right now.” Maybe part of him likes the appearance of the smeared blood and the disheveled hair. Maybe part of him revels in the thought of being a little bit filthy, a little bit scary, like the sort of person who parents would tell their children not to stand too close to for fear that his personality is contagious. The pandemic of proud misery will consume the world, with him at the head.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s just tired.

He carefully moves the cat off of the table. “We should find somewhere better to put it. Could you get me a towel and a basket? Do we even have baskets?”

“I don’t think we have baskets.” She rushes into the bathroom to get a towel.

“I suppose a salad bowl will have to do, then.” It’s so somehow crude, putting a hurt animal into a salad bowl, but the alternative is leaving it on the cold table. He procures the salad bowl, places the towel which Callie hands frantically to him into it, and gently puts the kitten on top. It’s so minuscule that the bowl dwarfs it by comparison. How pathetic. Like a child lost in a snowstorm.

He carefully pets it, gingerly, trying his best not to harm it, despite how tiny and fragile it is. The cat frantically begins licking his glove. Possibly tastes the blood on it, he thinks. “Ah, right. This thing’s probably starved.”

“What do cats eat?” Callie asks, and Nemesis realizes chances are she genuinely doesn’t have a clue.

“Meat, mostly.” He points to the tiny kitten. “That? That’s a predator. Lot of people keep them around to catch rats.”

“Is that the excuse you’re going to use to convince Theory to let you keep it around here?”

“Perhaps.” He opens the refrigerator, easily locating a slab of tuna. He takes out his switchblade and peels off a little bit - not too much, the creature’s far too small, and has been starving for too long - and feeds it to the cat, slowly. To its credit, the cat seems more than willing to eat. He feeds it another piece, still careful.

“Lucky bastard. That’s expensive stuff, you know.”

The cat meows.

He laughs. “Alright, alright.” A third piece, and that will have to be enough. After all, he needs some of this for dinner-

Ah, that’s right. Dinner. The Chases. In all of this excitement, it’s completely slipped his mind that they’re to have guests. The cat is immediately moved to the couch while Nemesis frantically begins cooking. Callie rushes after him, putting her non-existent knowledge of cooking to work in an attempt to help as best she can. Nemesis appreciates it, even if her lack of skill with a stovetop might actively be slowing him down.

“Where did you learn to cook, anyway?” She asks as he labors over a pot of spaghetti. “We’ve been through this seven or eight times already, how you’re rich but clearly weren’t always, but no matter how I think of your life story I can’t imagine you having any excuse to learn.”

“I just wanted to, I suppose.” He adds just a pinch of pepper. He’s fond of it himself, and Theory can’t stand food that isn’t at least a little bit spicy, but one never knows a guest’s tolerance. “Not really as big a deal as you’re making it out to be.”

“I didn’t think I was making it out to be that big of a deal.”

“Ah, but you were .” He leans back against the counter with a sigh. He’s done as much as he can, for the time. “I mean, you’re inquiring as to my life circumstances, and those are a big deal. Not well , either. There’s so much you could have gone after that you didn’t. Forget cooking, think about my accent , my manner , the cost-of-coat-to-switchblades-concealed ratio! Bloody stars, Callie, I never take off my gloves, how’s that for something that needs prodding?”

“I just assumed you find them comfortable,” she admits.

“ Comfortable ? It feels like my hands are in an extraordinarily claustrophobic oven twenty-four hours a day! An expensive, cashmere-lined oven, yes, but an oven is an oven is an oven!” He waves his hands in the air. “These things are prisons , Callie, and I’d be rid of them in a heartbeat were I able.”

“I. I see. I’m sorry?”

“You’d best be.” He picks up his switchblade from the counter, closes it, and pokes her in the chest with the handle. “Mind, you’re forgetting we had this conversation the moment the Chases show up. I like to pretend I’m not wearing gloves at all. Acknowledging that there’s anything strange about it really throws off the mystique, if you will.”

She nods. “...so you’ve told me what I would question you about if I wanted insight into you, and then told me to not question you about it.”

He scoffs. “Well, it’s not as if you’d’ve gotten any information out of me, anyhow.”

“I don’t see how that’s fair.”

The sound of the downstairs chime wafts faintly up into the loft. The Chases must be here. Nemesis manages to hide his sigh of relief.

Percy is the first one upstairs, rushing into the loft with a grin. He’s a little neater and more buttoned-up than usual, clearly taking the idea of being a guest for dinner a little more seriously than Nemesis had expected him to. His grin melts off his face when he looks at Nemesis.

Oh, yeah. The blood. He’d forgotten.

“‘S not my blood,” he clarifies, before realizing that this wasn’t reassuring in the least and, if anything, made him come off as a murderer. “It’s not...I’m not an axe-murderer.”

“I don’t like how you phrased that, because that leaves open the possibility of literally any other preferred murder weapon.”

“Gun,” Nemesis says, unhelpfully, “or maybe switchblade.”

“...that’s...cool,” Percy says, taking a step back.

The cat meows, and he starts. “Is that...one of the desperate cries of your victims?” He says non-seriously. “Or is there...a cat in your house, for some reason?”

“The latter.” He gestures to the kitten on the couch. “Apologies for the shock.”

“That might as well be there,” Percy mutters. “Care to, uh, explain why you’ve got a small dying cat in your apartment? Is this normal for you?”

“It’s new. He picked it up off the street.” Callie answers for him.

He sighs and glances over at the cat. “I hope both of you have your vaccines. Nemesis, you don’t expect me to believe that you know how to take care of an animal, do you?”

“Not more than a normal person. I’ll find someone to take care of it who’s actually qualified, but for the time being, I’m keeping it alive, at least.”

“Well, I guess. Now that I think about it, you do seem like the sort of person to feed stray cats in the street. I suppose this is a logical next step.” He turns his attention now to the lit oven and the large bowl of salad. “You...cook?”

“I do.”

He nods. “I wouldn’t have initially taken you for the type, but now that I think about it it makes perfect sense.”

“Am I...required to make sense to you?”

“I hope not, because you don't," says Callie.

“It’s not that he doesn’t make sense. In fact, every person alive makes sense, if only to themself.” Percy hovers by the couch, staring at the cat before reaching down to gently scratch it behind the ear. The cat doesn’t seem to mind, squeezing its eyes shut and letting out a sound halfway between meow and purr, weak and strangled. “Working in journalism, you meet a lot of weird types. And every single one of them, they think everyone else is the weird ones. We all function on our own internal logic, and it makes perfect sense - to us. No such thing as a person who just doesn’t make sense at all.”

Callie seems almost confounded by the idea, and says nothing, staring at the wall blankly. This, Nemesis has learned, is how she processes things - with a blank stare and silence filling the space until she manages to come to a conclusion, whatever that may be. For now, he stays quiet as well, letting her think.

Percy is the one who breaks the silence. “Huh. Is Evie really still down there, talking to her?”

“Must be,” Nemesis says with a shrug. It doesn’t concern him where Evie Chase is or isn’t. Perhaps, he thinks, she’s staying down there with Theory because she dislikes being around him. That seems plausible enough.

“I can go check on them,” Callie offers. “I hope nothing bad happened.”

“I’m sure nothing bad happened. We’d’ve heard it,” Nemesis says, sighing. It would be just like his luck to have something both horrible and silent happen while he kept track of an oven upstairs.

Thankfully, nothing bad seems to have happened, because, with impeccable timing as always, Theory and Evie ascend the steps. Evie is dressed less formally than Percy, but still elegantly, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Both women seem more animated than usual, somehow. It’s a far cry from the slightly frustrated Theory that had greeted Nemesis at the door.

“Of course, we get free tickets for shows we’re in,” Evie finishes her sentence. “And I’m more than happy to get you some nice seats. I won’t...mention your surname to Fitzroy, though. He’s too...involved.”

“I’m glad you realized that without me having to point it out. You’d be amazed how many people don’t.”

By people she, of course, means Nemesis. He frowns. “How in the stars was I meant to know your family’s history?”

She shrugs. “You could have figured it out, detective.”

“Private investigator.” He sighs. “Why are you two negotiating ticket sales, exactly?”

“It isn’t like that,” Evie says. “Theory says she enjoyed last night’s performance, so I offered her more tickets. After all, I know it might be a bit out of a bookstore owner’s budget normally.”

Nemesis snorts. “She can afford it. I know how much rent I pay her.”

“Maybe I spend all of it on books. Have you ever considered that?” Theory crosses her arms. “May I ask why there’s blood on your face, also?”

Nemesis gestures to the cat.

Evie glances over Theory’s shoulder at it. “May I ask why there’s a cat in your apartment?”

“A good question to pose to him.” She gestures to Nemesis.

“I mean, I wasn’t about to let it die .”

Evie sighs. “...fair, yeah. Entirely fair. Take it to a clinic tomorrow, though. Better not to take risks, right?”

“Better not to,” he agrees. “I’ll admit it’s not exactly my area of expertise.”

“I hope not. That would be far too many areas of expertise for any one person to have.” Evie gestures to the table, where Callie is still sitting in contemplative silence. “May I sit?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry about the lack of proper chairs, again.”

Nemesis frowns silently to himself. That might be the first time he’s ever heard Theory apologize to anyone. He wonders if some fundamental aspect of the universe has been altered without his noticing.

Of course, there’s a far more rational explanation. He watches how Theory pulls out a chair for Evie. She wants to impress her, that must be it, but why? Theory Hayes has never come off to him as a person who cares what anyone thinks of her.

“You know,” he says jokingly, “you could spend all that rent money on a couple more chairs, right?”

“ You spend your money on chairs, if you think we need them that badly.”

He frowns. “I just might. And while I’m at it, I’ll actually stack the books around here into something approaching neatness, and maybe buy a new kettle, because the one you have is a little rusty for my comfort. I wear gloves, but I fear for you using it.”

“Feel free,” she replies nonchalantly.

He sighs. “Why do I feel like I’m paying you to be your interior decorator, housekeeper, and chef all at once?”

“Because you are.”

Percy smiles at Nemesis. “But you don’t actually mind, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he agrees. “I like having things to do, and it might as well be this.”

“That’s admirable,” Evie remarks, and he has to stop himself from making his shock visible. Just yesterday she was talking about how untrustworthy he was, and here she is, calling him admirable.

“I don’t really think so. Just what I’m like. It’s selfish, isn’t it, if I’m only doing it because I want to?”

“Not at all. Someone else is still benefiting from it.” Percy pulls over a stool for himself. “Do you mind if we keep the cat by the table? Just so we’re keeping an eye on it. Reduces the risk of anything bad happening.”

“That’s a good idea,” Nemesis admits. He picks up the cat’s bowl and places it on the counter, making sure that he sits next to it.

“Oh, we brought you flowers and wine, by the way. I wasn’t sure which sorts either of you prefer, but I figure if you could drink undiluted absinthe you could drink just about anything," Evie says, looking at Nemesis bemusedly to punctuate the last part of her sentence. If she was angry at him yesterday, she seems to have gotten over it.

Theory stares blankly at Nemesis. “...he drank...what now? No wonder he was so drunk…”

“...what’s absinthe?” Callie asks, quiet.

“Really strong alcohol. People normally dilute it with water.” Theory sighs. “Nemesis Jones, are you an idiot?”

“Well, obviously I’m not about to answer in the affirmative.”

She scoffs. “Obviously not. Can you get a vase for the flowers?”

“No problem.” Theory owns precisely one vase - a tall, plain black cylinder. He calmly snips the flowers’ stems and puts them in it, a little haphazardly. There are many things he has at least a basic level of training in, but flower arranging isn’t one of them.

Evie gestures towards him, as if asking for the vase. He gives it to her, and she immediately goes to work rearranging them.

“I have a part-time job at a florist’s,” she explains. “You did it so sloppily that it actively bothered me. Theory deserves a little bit better than that, don’t you think?”

“I reckon you’re right.”

She seems a little thrown off by him agreeing, but before she can say anything to the extent, the oven dings. Nemesis rushes to get food in order, and the four of them talk among themselves. Callie remains quiet, but Theory and Evie are much the opposite, speaking in a particularly animated manner.

“That dress you wore in the show was pretty spectacular,” Theory says. “I know I look like I prefer to dress practically, and I do, but there’s just something so nice about a fancy dress. It’s sort of a shame I never get a chance to wear any myself.”

“I know the feeling,” Evie agrees. “It’s part of what I like so much about being an actress. I’m fine just doing odd jobs and following Percy around six out of seven days a week, but the seventh I want to dress up like a noblewoman and speak on a stage in front of hundreds.”

“You like acting, then?” Theory asks.

“I do.” Evie’s voice is far softer, happier, than normal. “I’ve bounced from job to job my entire life, but it feels like I might finally have found my calling. I only took it to begin with to help Percy with his investigation, but, Fitzroys aside, I don’t think I can give up acting now.”

“You do seem so much happier since you got that part than you ever did before,” Percy agrees, and he sounds overjoyed. If Evie’s current state is ‘much happier’ than normal, Nemesis is a little worried about what she used to be like.

“Of course, I’m more than happy to do anything if it helps you with one of your cases. But it’s nice to find something I actually enjoy doing, as well.”

“Do you enjoy being a florist?” Callie asks.

“It’s not bad, but it’s not on the same level as acting.”

Nemesis, finally finished getting everything ready, sits down at long last. “When you find a career that makes you that happy, hold onto it. That’s what I’ve always been told.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Then does being a private investigator make you happy?”

He smiles. “Of course. The happiest. And I think everyone else here feels the same about their vocations?”

Theory nods her assent, as does Percy. Callie, though, shrugs. “I’m pretty indifferent to mine, actually.”

“That’s fine. You’re young.”

She frowns. “You’re barely older than me.”

He smiles. “I’m not old, either. I’m just lucky.”

“Goodness, if Nemesis is old, what does that make me?” Percy chuckles. “It really is superb odds that we happened to be standing next to each other in line, isn’t it? Two young nosy bastards with the desire to expose Tobias Fitzroy’s crime and the skill to do it.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call yourselves,” Theory remarks. “So, have you two become best friends in such a short time frame, or are you just a spectacularly nice person?”

“He’s a spectacularly nice person,” Evie answers promptly, but Percy waves a hand, cutting her off.

“I like to think I’m a nice person. I think most people do. But part of it really is that I consider Nemesis my friend.” He smiles at Nemesis, though there’s a more serious edge to it. “And my rival, of course.”

Nemesis must admit, he hadn’t been able to predict that. “Your...rival? I didn’t think we were fighting.”

“Well, that’s because we aren’t, I hope.” Percy sounds upbeat, excited almost. “That’s not what a rival has to be. Sometimes, rivals are simply two people who push each other to better themselves. No vitriol required!”

“Wow, I’ve never thought of it that way,” Theory remarks wryly.

“That’s not what the dictionary said,” Callie mutters.

Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know that I really consider you a threat, Chase. Nor that I’ll be coming for your job anytime soon, either.”

“Well, that’s good, because I need my job. But we don’t have to be direct threats to each other for us to drive each other to improve.” Percy shrugs. “But maybe I’m just weird, or you’re just really prone to interpreting things as threats when they actually really aren’t.”

Again, with the making wild assumptions about Nemesis. It feels almost like a ‘gotcha’. Percy is doing what Nemesis is doing, jumping to conclusions left and right, but his success rate, so far, seems questionable, and he lacks tact. It seems, if anything, a poor imitation of Nemesis’s own techniques, and the statement is clearly inflammatory and designed to throw him off.

But this is Percy, so for once, Nemesis doesn’t assume malice. Instead, he’s merely left confused by the behavior.

“And you love jumping to conclusions. About me specifically, actually. Want some advice, Chase? You’ve got good features. Use them and stop trying to one-up mine. My methods aren’t really meant to be imitated.”

Percy’s eyes widen. He looks caught off-guard, but not offended. More, if Nemesis has to look closely, impressed. It’s rare to see that look in response to his own actions. He has to stop himself from reacting.

Percy, though, seems to have none of the same reservations, because he reacts, and reacts strongly. “You figured me out so easily,” he says, grinning. “You’re right, though. I don’t think I’m very good at reading people at all.”

“I didn’t say that,” he corrects. “What I mean is I’ve got my methods, and they’re pretty quick and flashy. You’re someone who figures things out in quieter, less dramatic ways, I think, and there’s no shame in that. Focus on your own skills instead of trying to copy mine.”

Percy nods. “See, Nemesis, you’re proving my point, though. Here you are, pushing me to better myself. We’re rivals in the truest sense.”

Nemesis laughs. “Was all of that to get me to prove your point?”

“No, just a happy coincidence.” Percy’s grin only grows. He looks genuinely happy with himself. Nemesis isn’t about to be mad about that.

Evie and Theory have already moved on to a conversation of their own, it seems. Though earlier he’d been too focused on Percy, now it would be physically difficult to not listen in.

Evie has leaned halfway across the table. Her elbows are on the table, Nemesis observes. “Really, though, I promise you, this place is awesome,” she continues. “No one will even care that you’re a bookstore hermit. Plus, I get an employee discount.”

“You get a lot of employee discounts.” Theory fidgets awkwardly with her fork. It’s the most frazzled he’s ever seen her.

“I work a lot of part-time jobs.” Evie laughs. “But seriously, you’d be more than welcome to show up any time.”

“I don’t know…” she shakes her head. “Who would watch Beaumort’s?”

“Doesn’t the sign on the door say it’s only open when you can be bothered?” Percy asks.

She pauses. “I suppose so, yeah. I...I’ll stop by sometime. What are your hours?”

“I’ll write them down for you, why not?” Evie looks at Percy. “You wouldn’t have a spare pen and paper, would you?”

“You know I always do.” He searches through his pockets for a solid few moments, taking out, in the process, a handkerchief, three crowns, a wrapped hard candy, and several crumpled-up bits of paper with what look like notes to himself scribbled on them. Nemesis can only get a proper glimpse of one before it’s shoved back into his pocket - he can make out the words ‘BEG’, ‘INTERVIEW’, and ‘STERLING’.

Finally, Percy manages to procure a few small, blank squares of paper, badly crumpled but usable, and a pen. He hands these off to Evie, who promptly begins attempting to squeeze the requisite amount of information onto the tiny paper in minuscule, neat writing.

“Speaking of writing things down,” Percy turns to Nemesis again. “You said you’d write down who was and wasn’t lying at the Obscura, right? I hope you weren’t too hungover to remember.”

“I wasn’t.” It’s said with no small amount of pride. It had been one of the first things he’d thought of, even in his sorry state. “I can’t promise I didn’t misspell a couple words, but it should all be readable.”

“I appreciate it. Partially because me and Evie had a running bet about if you would or not.”

Nemesis laughs. “Glad I won you a couple crowns, then.”

“Not even. Just bragging rights.” Percy frowns. “Oh, I so should have bet money on you.”

“Next time, Perce,” Evie laughs.

Nemesis notices Callie looking at him across the table and meets her eyes. “Do you need me to explain what betting is?”

“I might.”

The evening is, all things considered, incredibly pleasant. Nemesis has to consider a dinner conversation that even Theory Hayes can enjoy a success by any standard. By the end, half the bottle of wine is gone and everyone is more than a little tired. Nemesis’s watch informs him that it’s well past midnight.

Callie has already taken her leave, explaining that she’s exhausted and would like to sleep early. Percy has stopped to feed the cat another small slice of tuna, and is now sitting beside it as it falls asleep. Theory has seemingly vanished - likely gone off somewhere to read, if he knows her at all. As far as hostesses go, she leaves much to be desired.

Evie approaches him. Thought he was already aware that she’s taller than him, and moreso with the two-inch heel she’s wearing factored in, there’s truly nothing like being alone in a corner of a room with someone taller than him to induce a rush of very mild frustration.

“Have a moment?” She asks.

He nods, putting on a smile that he hopes doesn’t look too fake. “Of course. What’s up?”

She looks seriously at him. “...you should show me around the downstairs. I want to see the books.”

That’s the most blatant excuse for going out of earshot he’s ever heard, especially since she’d been down there with Theory for ages. He nods. “No problem.”

The two descend the staircase. The lights have been turned off downstairs, so as to not attract any potential customers in Theory’s absence. Nemesis walks purposely to the desk, visualizing in his mind’s eye the layout of the bookstore, assuming that Theory hasn’t put any books in inconvenient places since he was last down here. His assumption appears correct, because he makes it to the front desk without tripping over anything, locating the candle Theory keeps around for reading. He lights it, and looks at Evie.

The shadows loom over the two of them, covering vast swathes of the bookstore in pitch-blackness. By the light of the candle, he sees Evie’s face, stony-cold and resolved.

“You may have noticed,” she begins, not wasting a moment. “That my brother finds you fascinating.”

“I’m not sure that’s precisely how I would describe it, but yes. I suppose I’ve noticed, yes.”

She sighs. “This isn’t the time to be sarcastic. This is serious.”

“Alright, alright.” He nods. “I got the sense. People don’t really hold non-serious conversations in dark bookstores, away from other people.”

“You’re approaching this wrong. Do you have the physical ability to be serious?”

“I think you’re misunderstanding me. Just because I don’t sound serious, doesn’t mean I’m actually not. This...merely happens to be how I talk.”

“See, I don’t like people like that. I don’t understand you.”

“A lot of people don’t understand me.” He forces his tone to become lower, calmer. “...but I’ll try to be a bit more serious, if that makes you more comfortable. I’m not in the business of harming people.”

“Are you not?” She crosses her arms. “I’ve been wondering if you’re legit for a good while, actually. You’re nothing like how Percy described you. You supposedly solved cases so fast, but once we’re around to actually watch you solve a murder you seem completely scattered and basically useless.”

“Harsh, but okay.” He sighs, leaning back against the desk. He’s sure he must sound exhausted, even though the conversation has only just started. “So this is what you’re here to talk to me about? You think I’m a fraud? How would one even go about fabricating a career as a private investigator?”

“That’s not...that’s not all of it, but now that you’ve mentioned it, you really don’t seem legitimate.” She scowls. “You’re, what, eighteen? And established as a private investigator?”

“I’m nineteen.” He shrugs. “How do you propose I’ve faked my line of work, then?”

“I have a few theories. Firstly, that you’re not really Nemesis Jones, and you’re just going by his name and stealing his accomplishments.”

He takes out his compass and flicks it open so she can see the needle pointed at him, tinged, as always, with the faintest blue-gray glow, which seems far brighter in the darkened bookstore.

“I am Nemesis Jones.”

The glow stays consistent.

She frowns. “How do I know that thing is what you say it is, anyway? You’re the one who insists it’s a lie detector. Maybe you do that so you can convince people you’re telling the truth.”

It’s a clever conclusion, and one Nemesis had never considered. “You see how it behaves around other people. I suppose you’ll just have to believe me, though. You’re right, it’s my word against yours.”

Evie stares at it intensely, and pokes the glass right above the midnight-blue needle focused on her, glowing faintly. “My middle name is Victoria.”

The blue lights up, illuminating her face, and she sighs. “Right, it’s Miranda.”

The glow goes away.

“Alright. I don’t think that’s proof, but I suppose it’s all I’ll be getting.” She sighs, staring directly and unwaveringly at the compass. “Okay, maybe you orchestrated cases so that you could pretend to have solved them.”

He has to hold back a laugh - he’s sure she wouldn’t appreciate that response. “That’s the plot of a penny dreadful I picked up this morning, pretty sure. No, I’ve not done that.”

The compass confirms his truthfulness. Evie’s scowl lessens. “I guess you do seem like the type to read those. Looking for inspiration, are you?”

“Maybe so. Or maybe I just enjoy mysteries of varying quality.”

She nods. “Okay. I’ll buy that. But there’s a secret, isn’t there? There has to be.”

“You mean, about why I’m so allegedly successful but have taken so long to solve this murder?” She nods, and he continues. “First off, it’s been less than a week. Solving a murder takes the constables several weeks. I don’t know why you expect me to be that much more efficient than the entire police force.”

“I don’t expect much from the police.”

“Yes, well, that’s fair,” he concedes. “Regardless, I’ll admit my methods aren’t always the most...orthodox. I tend to break and enter a bit more than your average law-abiding citizen. Some of my jobs are just tailing people. Some actually amount to what’s essentially theft. I’ve wiretapped phones, threatened people at gunpoint...a lot of my clientele, and thus the people I deal with, are...criminals. Blackmailing people like that isn’t just necessary, it’s expected. I’ve also bribed police officers, mostly just the same police officer multiple times, and I’ve forged documents. An investigator does what he must.”

He sighs heavily. “In the case of the Obscura...it’s more difficult. The people involved are richer, more influential. The police are watching closely. One wrong move...bad things happen. I need to be careful. Stay out of sight, as much as possible. More traditional methods are all I have to work with.”

The glow of the compass needle pointed at him decreases, just barely.

“So that’s it? You have slightly questionable methodology?”

He nods, and the needle indicates truth. “I’m not one of those detectives in the stories, who can figure out a culprit from a long glance at the crime scene. I need information, and sometimes the way I get that information involves breaking laws.”

“You don’t hurt people?”

“Not innocent people. Least, I try not to.”

Completely honest.

She sighs, and he can sense relief in her voice. “Okay. Good.”

“Was that all, then?”

She shakes her head. “I...actually somewhat went on a tangent there. I didn’t intend to interrogate you.”

“It’s fine.” He begins to grin before realizing that she probably doesn’t want to see that. “I interrogate so many people, it’d be ridiculous if I got mad when the shoe was on the other foot. My methods are a secret, though, so keep it quiet.”

He realizes, to some alarm, that she has no incentive to do that whatsoever, and is now in a position to completely ruin him. Though being considered a criminal would not be the end for him, nor would the loss of his few more reputable clients, he can’t return to being looked at like that. Not with envy, nor confusion, nor admiration, but disgust.

Evie nods. “I won’t tell anyone. I have no reason to. Just know that if you do anything to Percy, that’d be a reason.”

The compass detects complete sincerity. Nemesis nods. “I’m not planning to do anything to Percival, whatever you mean by that. He’s not done anything I’d consider bad enough to warrant it.”

“You’d better not.” She frowns. “My brother...is a wonderful, good-natured, kind-hearted person, with nothing but good intentions and infinite curiosity.”

“Lines up with how I’d think of him.”

Her voice lowers. “He’s also impulsive, reckless, and a little naive. Half my life has been spent tagging along with him on stories, making sure he doesn’t get himself caught in the middle of a society conflict or involved with criminals. You saw him follow you into that tunnel. He makes bad decisions in the name of finding the truth, and I’m the one who needs to stop him from going too far.”

“I can’t pretend I’m not the same. He does impulsive things...like join the Correspondents, you reckon?”

“That’s...what started it, actually. He got involved with them when he was pretty young, and he was so proud when he told me. I had to follow him from then on. Not go to university, work all these jobs so I can be everywhere at once. I find things out so he doesn’t have to risk more than he already is.”

“You’re a very devoted sister,” Nemesis says, honestly. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“He is,” she agrees. “But he doesn’t always take my advice. But you...he looks up to you. So set a good example.”

“Looks up to me…” He sighs wistfully. “That’s always strange to hear. The whole rival thing...didn’t entirely make sense to me, if I’m being honest, but if it helps him, I wouldn’t even mind if he really did dislike me.”

Evie looks carefully at the compass, which indicates no dishonesty from Nemesis. She frowns. “You really wouldn’t?”

“Well, there’s different types of dislike, mind. I don’t want to be thought of as utter scum, but if someone sees me and thinks ‘wow, that absolute bellend again, love to wipe that smug smirk off his face’, that’s fine by me, long as the other person gets something out of it.”

“I...see. That’s all fine by me, then...what I’ve been meaning to say boils down to this: don’t let Percy get hurt. Keep him out of trouble, or-” she grabs him by the collar and yanks him closer, “I will hunt you down for sport.”

No dishonesty. He’s not even sure she’s being hyperbolic.

“Of course. I don’t want to see him get hurt, either. Far too nice of a bloke for that.” He points to his compass, holding it up at an angle so that both of them can see it. “According to this thing, he’s possibly the most genuine person alive.”

She releases him and laughs, soft and airy. “That doesn’t surprise me. Okay, then. That’s settled. I’m sorry for being so antagonistic to you.”

He tries his best to smooth out his collar where she grabbed it, but it’s no use. The fabric has become horribly wrinkled. “It’s no issue. I hadn’t honestly thought much of it, and in retrospect, it’s actually quite reasonable.”

“Still, I-”

She’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the staircase. Of course, this bookstore is quite old, and the decaying wood makes horrible creaking noises whenever it’s used. The cause of these noises, it seems, is a curious-looking Percy, who leans over the rail in a way Nemesis wouldn’t precisely call ‘safe’.

“What’re you two up to?” He asks, grinning. “Conversations in the dark? Sounds fun, can I join?”

Nemesis has to hold back a chuckle at that. “We were just finishing, actually. Sorry. Next time, maybe. Be careful and don’t fall.”

“Right!” Percy vaults over the side of the rail. It’s dramatic, and for a moment, he’s elegant as he sails through the air, but he doesn’t land well, dropping onto one foot. For a moment, he seems surprised, then winces, steadying himself against a nearby bookshelf.

“Don’t do that again,” Nemesis dryly comments. “Sounded like you put a dent in the floorboard. Theory’s not gonna like that.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He sighs, glancing back up at the staircase from which he’d jumped. “That was stupid, in retrospect.”

“Learn from your mistakes, then. Don’t jump from high places if you know you can’t stick the landing,” Nemesis suggests. “Do you think you’re hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.” He nods. “I won’t. Sorry about the floor.”

“It’s...probably fine.”

“Right, then.” He glances at Evie. “Sorry to end a lovely night like this, but it’s getting late. Evie and I should get going, right?”

“Right,” she confirms.

“Before I do go, though,” Percy reaches into his pocket, rummaging around for a crumpled business card, which he hands to Nemesis. “I’ve already given you my own contact information, but I figured you could use my boss’s as well. She’s strict, but she knows a lot.”

“I’ll look into her. Maybe I’ll put in a good word about you if I do end up seeking her out.”

He reaches out his hand to shake Percy’s, and the gesture is reciprocated energetically. “It was lovely having you over. Feel free to come by any time, though maybe call ahead in advance for Theory’s sake.”

“Will do.”

Evie waves, and the two depart, the doorbell lightly jingling behind them as they walk into the night. Nemesis turns his attention to the business card.

“Alhazred…” he mutters aloud to himself.

Promptly, he makes his way up to the loft, into his room, where he pins it up on the corkboard, directly underneath a paper which reads ‘CORRESPONDENTS’.

“Ahem.”

He turns around. Theory is standing in the doorway to his room. He has no idea where she came from, but she was so absolutely silent in it that even someone as observant as him didn’t hear her.

“Yes, what is it?”

“What was that loud thump, just a few minutes ago?”

He smiles sheepishly. “...nothing important. Just Percy - and I told him off for it, don’t worry.” He wouldn’t quite call it a telling-off, in retrospect, but it’s adjacent enough to the truth. “Nothing’s broken or such, so it’s not that big a deal.”

“Alright,” she agrees. “But be careful. They’re your friends, so you’re financially responsible for whatever havoc he unleashes.”

“That’s fair. I’m sure I unleash enough havoc on my own, without making you deal with Chase on top of it.” He chuckles.

“You do,” she agrees, with no trace of humor. “I don’t know why I tolerate you...oh, right. Money.”

“And because you’ve become at least somewhat fond of me, I should hope.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t count on it.”

“Ah. What happened to us being friends, then?”

She raises an eyebrow. “... I’ve never implied we were friends. If that’s the impression you’ve been under, then my apologies. I don’t have feelings, and I don’t have friends.”

He frowns. “I don’t think there’s a single person alive without feelings, Theers.”

“Well, you’ve met her.” She gestures to herself. Despite her words, she seems almost agitated. “I’m a Hayes. We don’t feel, we only think.”

“Afraid I don’t think that’s how it works. I’m pretty sure feelings are an inescapable aspect of humanity with which we are all burdened unnecessarily. As much as I’d love to be rid of my own, I’ve yet to see any evidence that it’s possible.”

“Well, then, look in front of you.” She gestures to herself furiously. “ I am all the evidence you need. I am the epitome of science, and emotion has been rendered redundant. All that remains is desire for knowledge and the drive to obtain it.”

It might as well be the speech of a villain in a penny dreadful, he thinks. He sighs. “Are you aware you sound ridiculous?”

“Ridiculous?” She scoffs. “Of course, someone like you would never be able to understand.”

“I don’t like your tone there.” He sounds stern, uncharacteristic for himself. “Someone like me ? I’ve a sinking feeling I know precisely what trait of mine you’re referring to, there.”

Is that a faint hint of guilt he detects on her face? No, he thinks to himself with no lack of sarcasm, can’t be - she doesn’t have feelings, after all. She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. You’ve never sought knowledge. Not seriously.”

He has to laugh at that. “Me? Never sought knowledge? I’m a bloody private investigator!”

“It’s not the same. You’re trying to solve a problem. All I want, all I need, is knowledge for knowledge’s sake.”

“Sometimes, I like to know things for the sake of it, too.”

She shakes her head. “It isn’t the same. You’re a normal person. You don’t understand what it’s like, to feel nothing but an endless hunger for knowledge.”

“Nah, reckon I don’t. But I know you’re my friend and I know I’ve seen you experience emotions right in front of me.”

She grits her teeth. “You-”

“You seemed thrilled at the idea of joining Evelyn Chase for another performance. You seem annoyed by me most of the time, but occasionally endeared. Those are all feelings. When you want knowledge, that’s a feeling too.”

She sighs. “...I won’t argue, because you won’t understand. You don’t understand. You can’t understand why my family is so different from everyone else.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Try me.”

“I want to-need to, I need to know everything there is to know. About the powers that be, about our universe, about artifice. My parents were called evil by people too weak to share our goal, but it isn’t our problem that other people don’t want to elevate themselves to their full potential. My parents didn’t let anything stop them in their goals, and I won’t either. Knowledge is more essential to me than breath. I will know everything there is to know, until I snuff out every last star in the universe simply to feel what it’s like when they die.”

“That seems a little bit extreme.”

“I knew it.” She glares at him. “I knew that you wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s not that I don’t understand at all . I simply…” He sighs. “I don’t understand why any of that means you can’t have feelings.”

“Feelings are the root of morals. Morals inhibit advancement.”

“I don’t follow.”

“If my parents were held back by things like feelings, they wouldn’t have made half of the advancements they did.”

“Was...was that you admitting to your parents doing things that are objectively immoral?” He pulls out his compass, almost on instinct.

“My parents did what they had to.” It’s true. “And they didn’t care about friendship or feelings or love or any of those things that all of you love to go on about.” This, as well, is genuine. “And neither do I. I don’t care about you. If you think I do, you’re lying to yourself. Not everyone can be weak like you.”

He angles the compass so she can see the faint glow of the needle pointing to her, blood-red light reflected in her skin. “You’re lying.”

Silently, she reaches forward, placing a careful and cold hand on the back of his neck. “My parents discovered many things. They discovered something interesting, years ago. If you send a specific wave of energy through someone’s body, they’ll be in pain so unbearable it severs them from reality, briefly sending them into a peculiar sort of trance state.”

How horrifying. He can’t imagine the sort of thing that would lead to that discovery. Surely, no one would consent to being in that amount of pain. Surely, there are things Theory isn’t telling him, and for a reason. Suddenly, it’s clear to him why the Beaumort Society was so distrusted.

Her hand is colder than Elias’s. He looks her in the eye and slowly raises an eyebrow. Brave face, even when he has no idea what she’s capable of. “Well, now I’m curious.”

“This will be incredibly painful.”

“I got that.” There are worse things than pain, he thinks to himself. Pain is temporary. Pain is a sign of life.

She scoffs. “Your funeral.”

And then pain rips through Nemesis, so intense that any response fails him. He’s sure he’s screaming, but all his senses are occupied by agony, and he feels himself detach, as though he’s lifting off of his feet and out of his body as lights flash in his vision. The light grows and warps, and he’s seeing things, things he can’t process or comprehend, things that surpass human understanding, as though the whole of the universe is within his view.

And then it’s over, and the pain subsides until the only hint of it is a strange left-over soreness, like a ringing in his ears, quieter and quieter. He’s on the floor. When did he get on the floor?

“Do you understand now?” She asks.

“Not really.”

“A shame. I had thought, maybe, since you agreed to it, that meant you understood.” She shakes her head, sighing. “You agreed more readily than I did, the first time. I had high hopes.”

“Don’t talk about me,” he manages through gritted teeth, “as though I’m a failure. I am in unimaginable amounts of pain. I have just experienced things that make me question if maybe joining the Reverenti is a worthwhile endeavor. Because you inflicted that on me.”

“...what was it like for you, then? Describe it as best you can within the confines of Acerbian language - or Al-Mushrite or Luciellite, if either of those work better for you.”

He stumbles to his feet. All of his joints feel raw and misshapen, as though they’re about to give out under him and send him to his knees again. He wonders how he must look to her. Does he even resemble a human at this point? Is he just a shambling mound of flesh, hastily reanimated like one of Charles Dreadful’s birds?

She looks at him blankly. “Are you going to attack me?”

“No.” He runs his hands through his hair, and exhaustion overcomes him, and he falls to the floor again, barely feeling the impact. “No, I’m not. Because you’re my friend.”

“...you’re still on about that, are you?”

“Aye. I am.” He sighs. “You’re my friend. That means I’m willing to forgive you for something like this. But...you’ve got to understand. No matter how scared you are of having feelings, of having feelings for people ...you can’t hurt people.”

She stares intensely at him. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Perhaps not. I know I enjoy your company, though.” He groans, forcing himself back to his feet again. “And I know I’m willing to forgive you, just this once, if you apologize.”

She narrows her eyes. “...I’m sorry,” she says, finally, barely audible, and Nemesis feels a rush of happiness.

“I’ll be honest,” he admits, dragging himself to his bed and depositing himself haphazardly on it. “I would have forgiven you even if you hadn’t apologized. But I’m glad you did. Because that proves to me that you care enough do something that clearly harms your pride.”

She frowns. “...no one has ever wanted to be my friend before.”

“If you walk around causing people extreme pain just to see what happens, I can see why.” Before she can say anything, he continues. “But I think Evelyn Chase thinks you’re pretty neat, so I’d take advantage of that. Don’t let the opportunity pass you by.”

“I want to spend time with her, like she asked me to,” she admits. “It’s simply a new experience. I don’t often leave my bookstore. At this point, I might as well be part of it.”

“Never a better opportunity to get out, in that case.”

She sighs. Almost nervously, she continues. “Evelyn is such a dramatic, interesting, attention-grabbing person. She’s the sort of character I would read about in a book. I always used to dream of being someone like her.”

Nemesis thinks back to their last trip to the Theatre Obscura. That explains the dress, then, her calm manner in public. There’s more to her dreams than the walls of this bookstore.

He nods. “Then go out and be dramatic, interesting, and attention-grabbing. I’ll go to the library for you, get that book you wanted.”

She nods. “Thank you. For that.” The last part seems almost hurriedly added on. He can sympathize. It’s hard for someone that prideful to admit they need a friend.

“But right now, I’m going to sleep off the agony you’ve put me in.” He waves to her. “Begone.”

“If you insist .” She turns, closing the door behind her.

“Goodnight!” He calls to her. There’s no response, but that’s okay. They’ll take this one day at a time.