When he awakens the next morning his limbs feel like lead. As far as long-term effects of extreme pain go he supposes it could be worse, but it still feels as though his arms might fall off by the time he’s emerged into the main room of the loft.

Theory is by the stovetop, pathetically attempting to reheat some leftover pancakes. They already look burnt, but she continues to cook. Is she that bad at this, or does she actually enjoy burnt food?

Nearby, Callie is sitting with the cat on the couch, scratching its ears. She looks up when she sees Nemesis, waving. “You look terrible again.”

“And whose bloody fault is that?” he asks, looking pointedly at Theory, who seems suspiciously focused on the pancakes.

Callie glances between the two of them. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” He sits by her, stretching his arms out and yawning. All of his bones, harrowed by the last night's events, crack in a horrible cascade. The cat jumps to its feet and begins to sniff Nemesis curiously.

“Oh, I think it likes you,” Callie says. “It doesn’t seem as scared of us as I thought it would be.”

“I reckon we’re the only people to ever feed it.” He scratches the cat’s head, and it purrs. “Plus, it’s not old enough to know better than to trust humans.”

He hears the rather unpleasant sound of Theory scraping burnt pancakes off of a pan and frowns. “You know, after last night, the least you could do is make me tea for once.”

“Don’t count on it,” she calls back to him, but a few moments later he can hear the familiar sound of water being poured into a kettle. He smiles to himself. The cat has taken up rubbing its head against his side.

“What happened last night?” Callie asks.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Theory says harshly.

Nemesis shrugs. “Sorry, if that’s the verdict I can’t tell you anything. She’s right, though, it doesn’t concern you, so no need to be worried.”

“I’m going to worry no matter what you say.” She sighs, gently petting the cat with one hand.

The kettle whistles loudly. Less than a full minute later, Theory is hovering by the side of the couch, holding out a mug of tea. “Don’t ask me for anything ever again.”

“Thank you. I shan’t.” Nemesis takes it. He can feel the heat radiating up to his face. “This is boiling.”

“Just trying to keep you on your toes.”

He glances at his compass. Just as he thought, by the way she turned away quickly - she’s lying. “Theory, be honest - do you drink boiling tea? Is that normal for you?”

“You mean you don’t?”

“I think you know the answer to that full well, actually.” He sighs. This would be amusing if it weren’t legitimately concerning. “Is this why you complain about the tea I make for you being cold all the time?”

“I complain about the tea you make being cold because it is cold.”

She’s not lying. He sighs. “I think you might be harder to burn than the average person.”

“Oh, well, of course. Sensitivity to temperature decreases inversely to strength of knack, just like almost everything else does.”

To demonstrate, she casually sticks her hand in the flame on the stove. Nemesis has to stop himself from actively gasping in horror, though Callie seems entirely unfazed. When Theory brings her hand out, though, it’s barely darker than before, like a light sunburn.

“Bloody stars...” he mutters. “That’s just normal for you, is it?”

“Pretty much.” She shrugs, running her hand over her burn. It vanishes, healing within the span of a second.

He frowns. “That’s right, you’re an artificer. Couldn’t you have done something about the amount of pain I’m in right now?”

“I could have, but you didn’t ask.”

“You’re in pain…?” Callie asks nervously.

“Don’t worry about it.” He stands, feeling his legs buckle underneath him again. “Pain’s just another obstacle. I’ll walk it off.”

“Oh, are we going somewhere?” She stands as well.

“Aye, we’re going to Burke’s. For multiple reasons.” He gestures to the cat. “Cat’s coming with. Shame about the continued lack of baskets. Would make this much easier.”

“The cat’s...coming with?” Callie looks nervous at the thought. “Nothing bad is happening, right?”

“Nah, nothing at all. We’re just paying a quick trip to the library.” He scoops the cat into his hands. The continued lack of anything which could be used as a carrier means that he’ll be holding onto it, making sure it doesn’t run off anywhere, not that it’s physically capable.

“Get me some scones,” Theory adds on. “And don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you’re back. I’ll be taking a pleasant midday walk today.”

Nemesis feigns an audible gasp. “Goodness, Theory, it’s like you’re a different person.”

“It’s nothing strange. I have a...meeting.” She gestures him towards the door. “Now, shoo. I need to burn things in peace.”

“You have fun with that,” he says, waving.

Just before he makes it across the door-step, Callie takes the still-boiling tea and locks eyes with Nemesis as she drinks it in a single smooth sip.

“Not that bad, really. Pleasantly toasty,” she says, grinning, as she joins him at the door.

“You are not a normal person,” he tells her.

“I can live with that,” is the reply, and she gives him an amused grin before stepping past him and out the door.

He holds the cat in his hands the entire way to Burke’s, careful not to let it wriggle out of his grasp. He must look like an absolute lunatic, walking through town with a cat in his hands, Callie immediately behind him, but he’s fine with that.

Burke’s looks much the same as it had the last visit. Nemesis knocks, and the door is answered, again, by Charles Dreadful. He looks much the same as well, with the same disheveled work clothes and tied-up hair, and the same strange bandages wrapped around his arms, like the world’s strangest pair of homemade opera gloves.

“What brings you here, Jones?” He looks warily at the cat in Nemesis’s arms. “Why have you brought me an animal?”

“Er, I was wondering…” He realizes, now, how ludicrous this request actually is. “...I suppose...you’re the only person I know that works with animals, even if they’re dead, normally...I found this sorry creature and I thought I might as well do my best to keep it alive, but I’m not precisely a doctor.”

“I’m not precisely a doctor either, Jones.” He runs a hand through his bangs and sighs. “...but I can’t exactly say no to a kitten, so you might as well come in.”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“Try adjectives, Jones. May I suggest ‘very much’? Perhaps ‘I am forever in your debt, kind Sir Dreadful’.”

“That’s pushing it.”

He enters, and Callie follows him. The inside seems a bit messier than last time. The corpses have been removed from the tables, and Baron screeches from atop a cabinet.

Nemesis frowns and gestures towards the bird. “He’s not going to hurt the cat, is he?”

“Shouldn’t. We’ve had other animals around and he’s never attacked them. Part of it might be that he doesn’t need to eat.” He laughs quietly. His laugh is remarkably soft and endearing. He’s similar to Elias in that regard, Nemesis thinks to himself.

“Well, bully for him.” He turns to the bird and salutes him. In return, Baron caws loudly, and the cat meows back.

Charles laughs again, light and airy, as he leads them into a side room, kicking aside a femur haphazardly left on the floor. Callie frowns at it as she follows him.

Unlike the laboratory, this place has a semblance of interior design. Nemesis can appreciate that in a room. Though its decoration is simplistic - gray walls and monochrome furniture - an attempt was at least visibly made. The large couch is flanked by two armchairs, a decently-sized bookshelf stuffed practically to the point of overflow with dense medical texts standing beside it. On the table are a few coasters, appearing to be legitimate cross-sections of various organs encased in a transparent resin, as well as a few journals - he recognizes several issues of The Semper Quarterly Review and the Catacumba Press Journal of Medicine, interspersed with what seem to be multiple newspapers.

Nemesis picks one up, frowning. “Bloody stars...politics.”

“Bloody stars is right.” Charles shudders. “I can’t believe the latest results.”

“Me neither. I can’t believe the Dungeons, Death, and Taxes Party picked up a seat. Who in their right mind votes for those guys?”

Charles scoffs. “Society puppets and men who enjoy watching the world burning.”

“Fools, the lot of them. At least vote for the Raving Loonies if you’re angling to be contrarian.” He sighs. “...not that the results matter, do they? It’s the societies and the Rex government that actually has power. Parliament’s just a front.”

“See,” Charles says, “I’d be less upset about that if they were just upfront about it. These pretenses are just keeping someone far more interesting from overthrowing them. I’d rather have instability than stable corruption. More exciting that way.”

Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think any potential overthrowers would actually make things outright better than they were before?”

“Goodness, no! Anyone with aspirations to power is inherently going to be a bad person, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll trust no man who’d willingly wear a crown.”

He nods. “I’m the same way. Those who seek power can’t be trusted with it.”

“Th-then what do you propose the solution is?” Callie asks finally. “I’m sorry, that’s a genuine question...I don’t know anything about politics.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m a doctor, not a politician.” Charles makes his way to a cabinet, through which he rifles for a moment before procuring a pair of strange-looking spectacles, with multiple loupes attached to each lens. He reaches his hands out for the cat, which Nemesis gives gingerly to him, and sits on the couch, glancing carefully at its leg through the lenses.

Unraveling the bandages with the skill of a man who has done this countless times, he carefully manipulates the joint. The cat meows loudly, and he mutters “Shush,” under his breath. Finally, he glances up at Nemesis with a dark look.

“Well, I’ve figured out what’s wrong,” he says gravely.

Nemesis sharply draws in his breath. “What is it?”

“A simple broken leg. I can fix this immediately.” He bursts into a peal of laughter. “Your face, mate. Priceless.”

“That’s not nice,” Nemesis mutters.

“Sorry, sorry. I tend to forget most people don’t have Dr. Burke’s sense of humor.” He runs his hand over the leg. The cat meows, clearly unnerved, but Charles scratches it behind the ear and it seems to relax. “This cat’s remarkably even-tempered, you know. For something that had its leg crushed, it’s doing pretty incredible. I’m glad you brought it to me.”

“It’s a really strange cat, aye. Good strange.” He reaches into his pocket. “I can pay you however much you’d like. Money is no object.”

“Save your money.” He holds the cat carefully. “I’m always more than happy to help a creature so clearly clinging desperately to life.”

“I see.” Nemesis reaches to pet the cat, and he can feel it purring. “So you think it’ll live?”

“I don’t think she’ll live, I know she will.” He grins lopsidedly, with no lack of fondness. “For someone like me, so surrounded by death, it’s easy to tell when someone really wants to live. This cat’s got an impressive zest for life. I admire that, honestly.”

“Someone like you admires the will to live?” Nemesis asks. “Not to be rude - and I’m sure you get this a lot - but I wouldn’t’ve expected that.”

“I do get that a lot,” he says. “You’re among the first to specify that the rudeness is unintentional, so I can’t be too angry. Do look away, though. What I’m about to do isn’t precisely the sort of thing most like to see.”

Callie obediently glances away, but Nemesis raises an eyebrow. “You know I’m a curious sort, right? And that saying that sort of thing is a surefire way to make me watch whatever’s about to happen in rapt fascination.”

He chuckles. “I half-expected that from you. Watch, then, but you’re not to say anything.”

“If you insist.”

At this point, Nemesis isn’t sure what to expect, but he isn’t exactly surprised when Charles reaches for his bandages, unraveling them with surgical precision. Underneath, a patchwork of lesions, healed to various degrees, run up and down the backs of his forearms. Underneath them are a strange pattern of black lines, almost brand-like, as if seared into his flesh. A manifestation, or self-inflicted? The scars certainly seem to be the latter.

From his pocket, Charles pulls a scalpel, and silently cuts into the back of his arm, almost at the elbow. He doesn’t so much as wince, silently pressing down further. The cut is deep - blood immediately gushes out, rushing down his arm in crimson rivulets, dripping onto the cat’s leg, staining the black fur. The cat tries to stand up, but he gently presses his arm down, pinning her harmlessly to the table.

Once a sufficient amount of blood has been spilled, Charles lowers the scalpel and holds the cat’s leg still. It screams, but he pays it no mind, face settled into a look of pure concentration. And before Nemesis’s eyes, the blood seems to almost come alive, shifting and bubbling in unsettling ways, before sinking into the leg. The cat screams once, then falls silent.

When Charles turns to Nemesis, he looks just a touch exhausted, as though he’s just climbed a long flight of stairs. “That should do it. It wasn’t all that bad.” And, to Callie: “You can uncover your eyes now, lass.”

She does just that, looking at the cat in amazement as she stands for the first time, curiously testing her legs by unsteadily trampling over all the journals and newspapers. “You actually managed to heal it that quickly…?”

He laughs softly. “Well, yes. Artifice does wonderful things.”

“Never seen an artificer do anything like that before,” Nemesis mutters. “I’ve healed from all my injuries the old fashioned way regardless, sure, but I don’t think anyone in Citrea Viridia could do anything like that if they wanted to.”

“It’s a rare skill. Beyond having the knack for artifice in general, one needs to have the knack for the medical things. And even beyond that, to pursue it at the cost of your own health is taxing. It takes either an especially magnanimous or especially devoted person to spill their own blood for the sake of healing.”

“And which are you?”

“A little of both, I reckon.”

Nemesis nods, and they briefly fall into silence.

Finally, Nemesis speaks. “Is Dr. Burke around?”

“He’s out at the library today. Why, did you come to see him?” He feigns offense. “Am I not enough for you, Nemesis Jones?”

“You’ve been quite wonderful so far. I merely wanted to ask him to, er...get me into that exact library, actually. That’s the main reason I came here.”

“You can’t just…” Charles glances between Callie and Nemesis. “...ah, right, neither of you are actually affiliated with the institute, are you? I keep forgetting.”

“Right, well…” Nemesis mutters. “It isn’t as if I wear it on my sleeve, you know. I like to keep my affiliations or lack thereof as quiet as possible. Better for business if people think there’s a chance I’m on their side.”

“You know, it’s a shame. You seem the sort of fellow I’d’ve liked to have as a classmate. Not completely insufferable.”

Nemesis laughs. “‘Not completely insufferable’? You flatter me. I, for my part, loathed my formal education. I’ve yet to meet a single group of people I hate more than students.”

“That’s fair, that’s entirely fair. I can fully understand why, when offered the choice, you decided on an apprenticeship instead.” He looks, Nemesis thinks, a little wistful. He remembers what Burke had said - that Charles had been his apprentice years back. “Besides, from what I’ve heard, your teacher is an amazing man.”

“He is,” Nemesis agrees, hoping the sadness in his voice isn’t apparent. “That’s not important now, though. What’s important is that we need to get a specific book from the library, and we can’t get in on our own.”

Charles nods. “Right. I’d be willing to help you, if you’ll give me a moment to get myself into something a little more…” He gestures to his disheveled work clothes and still-bleeding arm. “...presentable.”

“By all means,” Nemesis agrees.

Charles grabs his coat from by the door, snaps his fingers, and Baron flies over to sit on his still-bandaged arm. “Follow me, then. My dorm isn’t far from here.”

Callie scoops up the cat, which seems perfectly alright with being carried. It really is the best-tempered cat Nemesis has ever seen.

He gestures to the cat. “So we’re keeping her, right? We can’t not.”

“I don’t think it’s up to me.” The cat sniffs her nose, and she smiles. “But if you want to keep it, I’d really like that. I’ve never had a cat before.”

“Me neither. Maybe it’ll do me some good, having a small animal around to keep alive.”

Callie quirks an eyebrow. “And here I thought I fulfilled that role.”

Nemesis can’t help himself. He bursts into peals of uncontrollable laughter, and Charles pauses to look back in mild alarm.

Callie, too, looks alarmed. “Are you okay?”

“I am, I am,” he says through his laughter. “I just, bloody stars, I never hear you joke. It caught me off guard.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. It’s good, it’s nice to hear.”

“Oh.” She smiles nervously. “Good, then. I’ll try to tell more jokes?”

“Don’t force yourself. It’s just nice to see you in high spirits.”

“Well, I could say the same for you.”

“Eh?” He looks at her, confused. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“You seem so under the weather most of the time. I mean, you don’t seem miserable or anything, but a little bit melancholic.” She says it matter-of-factly, authoritative, in a way that leaves no room for debate. “I haven’t heard you laugh that genuinely in the time I’ve known you. For a while, you sort of reminded me of Art. Never fully happy, always with something under the surface eating at you. I’m glad I made you laugh.”

It’s a shockingly genuine conversation to have in the middle of the street, he thinks, but that’s not the sort of thought that would ever cross her mind. He almost admires her lack of inhibitions. For a moment, he thinks it might be better to stop trying to be anyone, to let himself behave as though all of society isn’t watching.

But, of course, society is watching. And to be inhibited is to be safe. Life at the price of repression. It’s only a fair trade.

They make it to Charles’s dorm, passing through an empty lobby to a rickety elevator. “My room’s on the thirteenth floor,” he says, pressing the button. “I could’ve gotten one on a lower floor, since not many people dorm in this part of town, but I like the view from up there.”

“I don’t like heights,” Nemesis admits.

“I’m indifferent to them,” Callie adds.

“Huh. Wouldn’t’ve taken you for the type.” Charles looks curiously at Nemesis. “Is there a reason you don’t like heights?”

“Aye, there is.”

“But you’re not going to tell me, I take it.”

“Not especially likely, no. Suffice it to say I’m less scared of heights and more scared of falling.”

The elevator lurches up with a horrible creak. Even Callie, normally unflappable, visibly tenses, holding the cat in her hands tighter, but Charles grins. “Don’t worry. This thing’s all bark and no bite. No matter how bad it sounds, I’ve been using this infernal contraption for years and it’s never once so much as had a hitch. The enchantments on this thing will keep it functional far longer than this building will even be standing.”

And just as Charles predicted, the elevator arrives harmlessly, doors sliding open with an uncanny smoothness. Callie doesn’t loosen her grip on the cat, and the two of them follow Charles to a door labeled ‘DREADFUL’. He unlocks the door, holding it open for them.

Inside, it’s small, cozy, and decorated in all black. Charles has more books than any student has a right to have, certainly too many to ever actively read. Nemesis picks one up at random and frowns - the title is in Llygredish, which he doesn’t know a word of.

“Touching others’ books?” Charles chuckles. “For shame, Jones, for shame.”

“Didn’t know you spoke Llygredish.”

“Didn’t know you didn’t.” He grins. “My mother taught me. It’s convenient, because I can speak it out in public with Dr. Burke knowing full well nobody’s going to be able to overhear. You never learned? For shame, Jones.”

“Didn’t have a chance. Learned M’amand in school instead, for whatever reason. Not like that’s any more useful.”

“Didn’t realize you even went to school.” Charles laughs. “It’s only logical, though, that you would want to learn the language your family spoke. It might seem entirely arbitrary and constructed, but it feels nice to keep their traditions alive, doesn’t it?”

“I…reckon you’re right,” he agrees, even though he hadn’t so much as ever heard a word of M’amand before he took that class.

“Right. Stay here,” he gestures to the room, “While I finally get myself looking presentable. You should leave the cat here, taking it to the library’s a bad idea.”

Charles ducks out of the room, and Callie and Nemesis are left to examine their surroundings. The cat is placed on the floor, and eagerly begins sniffing everything in her vicinity.

“Do you think it’s really okay to leave her here?” Callie asks nervously.

“Better than taking her to the library.” He sighs, watching as the cat explores the space behind one of the bookstores, swiping with her paw. “I’ve really become attached to a small cat, haven’t I? I’ll have to learn to take care of cats. They don’t teach that in school.”

“I can’t imagine why they would. Art never told me anything about animals, either. He thought they were a hassle.”

Nemesis nods. A thoroughly un-relatable opinion, but it lines up with what little he’s been told of the man so far. Art strikes him as the sort to be openly annoyed with anything and everything. “See, my teacher actually had a pet catfish, of all things. Really old catfish he’d gotten off an acquaintance before she left on an expedition to the Border Wilds, never to return. We called him Professor Challenger. He died around a year ago of natural causes, which implies he was pretty bloody old, because those bastards can live half a century.”

“A cat...fish.” Callie nods, visibly bewildered. “What was that like? I mean, how can something be a cat and a fish?”

“It’s not, it’s a fish that looks like a cat. Around this big,” he motions with his hands, “massive whiskers, roots about in gravel all day. Pretty calm. It’s a fish, don’t know what else to say about it.”

“I don’t think I completely follow. You’ll have to find me an illustration of one or something.”

Nemesis sighs. “I will do, when I get the chance.” It’s not as though he’s unwilling to explain things to her, but sometimes he forgets just how vexing it is to try. Her base knowledge is so sparse, and the things she does know are so unpredictable, that explaining anything to her is an exercise in frustration. An exercise he’s willing to undergo, of course, but an exercise nonetheless. How does one explain the concept of a catfish, anyway?

“So skills used when caring for a catfish aren’t transferable to cats?”

“Stars, I wish. Nah, they couldn’t be more different.”

She nods. “So we’ll both have to learn. And Theory will as well.”

“Can’t imagine she’ll be thrilled about that,” Nemesis chuckles. “I imagine she’ll make me pay rent for the cat, as well.”

“You pay Theory Hayes rent? Can’t imagine how you convinced her to let you be in a position to even do that.” Charles has emerged from his room, dressed to the nines with incredible speed. He’s dressed in all black, a stylish suit and overcoat, silver jewelry in the shape of ravens’ skulls accentuating his appearance, hair neatly combed and worn loose, just brushing his shoulders. It’s a lot closer to how he dressed at the theatre than how he does at Burke’s.

“Awful fancy-looking for a student,” Nemesis observes.

“If one is in possession of an inheritance, one may as well use it to buy fancy clothing.” Charles raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose I do,” Nemesis admits. “You’ve an inheritance? I know you talk poshly, but I had no idea you were actually rich. What are you doing living in this dorm, then?”

“I’m not...rich rich. I’ve got money to throw around, more than the average student, but it’s not like I’m making enough to sustain that lifestyle for more than a couple months.” He grins. “And it’s not like my mother can die again and leave me more money. I’m trying to save what I have, for when I actually need it.”

“That’s a shockingly reasonable approach,” Nemesis agrees. “Did your mother die recently, or…?”

“Goodness, no. She’s been dead since I was thirteen. I’ve been living off my inheritance ever since.” He frowns. “Of course, most of my inheritance is the family manor, but I can’t bear to sell it. I keep thinking I’ll go back someday, once I’m done with my schooling.”

“Family manor. That’s in Llygredyg, is it?”

“Up in Duskmoor, yeah. That’s where I met Dr. Burke, too. He teaches summer classes at the university there. Nostalgic for his hometown, he said, but I never got the sense that was the whole truth of it.”

“Duskmoor, eh?” It’s a remarkably rural area of Llygredyg, primarily marshy, in the very north - one of the few areas in the region covered by the Umbra. Baile Taibhse, the largest city in the region, is home to Llygredyg’s largest medical school. Surely, that’s why Burke had been there. “I suppose, when I think about it, I can’t imagine you being from anywhere else. Your accent doesn’t sound like it, though.”

“Nah, it doesn’t, does it?” Charles grins. “Wasn’t fashionable, at school, to sound like a local. I adapted.”

Nemesis nods. “My teacher did the same thing, he told me. Then...shall we be on our way?”

“I suppose we shall. Leave the cat here...er, she’s not got a name, has she?”

Nemesis glances around the room, gaze finally settling on a bottle of wine on a shelf. Even from across the room, he can read the large word on the label. “...her name’s Amontillado.”

Charles frowns. “You’re naming the cat after a type of wine?”

“Names don’t have to be meaningful. It’s as good a name as any. We can call her Monty.”

“Names aren’t obliged to be meaningful,” Charles agrees, “but how would you feel if you were named after an object? If your name was just a noun, and not even a proper one at that-”

“I regret to inform you,” Nemesis says earnestly, “that my name is Nemesis.”

“Ach...touche.”

“I think Monty’s cute, for what it matters,” Callie adds.

“Then Monty it is,” Charles agrees, defeated. “And dear Monty shall stay here for the time being, and not destroy my apartment, correct?”

Monty meows.

Monty left behind, the three make their way to the library. It’s massive, sprawling throughout the entire Institute District, sheer size making it difficult to ever leave its view. Because of its shape, the paths they are forced to take through the streets are exceptionally complex, but Charles seems to know them by heart.

The entrance to Catacumba looms above the street. The dark, curved monolith tapers to a beautiful facade, tall and dark, with spires stretching beyond human vision. Carved designs, surrounded by texts in various old languages. In the center, between two gargoyles, it reads:

EADEM CATACUMBA PER SCIENTIAM DEI INVENIES SEMITA

It’s Charles who turns the knob on the ornate double-doors. Inside is a place Nemesis has heard plenty about but never visited personally - the entranceway, an unlit and completely featureless chamber of smooth obsidian.

Charles approaches the second door - well, ‘door’ is a bit of a stretch, really. There are no knobs, nor any cracks in the wall to be spoken of, nor anything at all to indicate that this is in fact the entrance, save for the excessively ornate carvings on it. Callie, seemingly observing this, glances at Nemesis as though waiting for an answer.

“To keep us common people out,” he explains, voice laced with contempt, though he supposes perhaps he’s being needlessly opaque with his wording. Indeed, Callie doesn’t seem to understand, and is about to ask a follow-up question when Charles clears his throat.

“It’s a perfectly useless measure, considering that one must sign in by the desk, anyway. If anything, it’s a show of power. Meant to inspire fear and insecurity in those who’ve not cultivated their knack - which is to say, the vast majority of those outside the Institute itself.”

Callie’s attention shifts to him. “Do people outside the institute not cultivate their knack? Why not?”

“It’s difficult with no direction. Those who try without a trained instructor tend to end up getting themselves horribly killed when something goes wrong.” He places a hand lightly on the featureless section of wall right in front of him. “There’s criminals and other groups, who pass down the knowledge within their membership, but otherwise the Institute is the only real way.”

“Horribly killed?” Callie asks. Nemesis can see the terror on her face at the thought. He’s shocked Art hasn’t covered this with her but, then again, perhaps he thought the concept was beneath him.

“Oh, yes,” Charles explains. “It happens all the time. Having absolute control over anything you can touch isn’t as easy as it sounds. It takes direction, focus, will, and precision. There’s plenty of stories of children with no control over their knack blowing holes in the ground or turning people’s flesh inside-out. Sometimes people who aren’t children, too, if they try to do something out of their abilities. An untrained artificer is an active risk to themself and everyone and everything around them. That’s why they teach you how to repress it in school, and, later, the Institute might teach you to actually use it.”

Unsurprisingly, this does nothing to comfort Callie. “Then is everything you do dangerous?”

“On some level, it is, but after spending most of my life studying the way to do it right, the risk is negligible. Of course, there always remains a sliver of a chance that I’ll accidentally detach my own arms and launch them in a random direction at terminal velocity,” he grins, “but that’s simply a possibility we have to reckon with, for the sake of practicing our art.”

She frowns. “And the only way to lessen this possibility is to find someone who can teach you, or go to school for it? Where does that leave people who can’t do either?”

“Well, Chancellor Cross’s theory of it is that they simply didn’t have the mental fortitude and natural skill to keep themselves in one piece. How...unfortunate.”

“What about those who can’t afford it?”

“Should’ve tried not being poor, is the leading school of thought. Best not to spend too long thinking about it, unless one enjoys being angry.” He glances at Nemesis. “...actually, even if one does enjoy being angry. We’ve other priorities now.”

“You needn’t tell me twice,” replies Nemesis, who absolutely despises being angry. “Just...blow a hole in the door, or whatever it is you’re meant to do.”

“See, that’s how they figure out who is and isn’t an insider. That’d be the straightforward approach. The truth is that there are mechanisms buried under the door, and the only way to access them is through artifice. So one merely has to…”

He seems to focus intensely for a brief moment, before stepping back as a violet light weaves itself, like molten metal in a complex mold, through cracks Nemesis hadn’t been able to see a moment before. The light threatens to consume the room, and the last thing he sees before covering his eyes is Callie doing the same.

Finally, the light fades. Red and blue flares dance across Nemesis’s vision as he opens his eyes. Callie and Charles both seem fine, if disoriented.

“Bloody hate that,” Charles grumbles. “Gives me migraines. Don’t know why they think it’s necessary.”

The previously featureless space has opened up to reveal a large, rectangular opening in the wall. It’s through this that the three enter the library proper. Immediately, it’s cavernous, seeming far larger on the inside than it could feasibly have been on the outside. He can’t even see the ceiling, just an infinite blackness which seems to get blacker and blacker the longer he stares at it. An infinite night sky devoid of stars.

Beneath it is the far more sensible landscape of bookshelves upon bookshelves upon bookshelves, stretching out at odd and inconsistent angles into the void. He can’t see where they begin or end, nor make out any details of the seemingly never-ending tenebrose halls. Though the room is lit faintly with blue-tinted torches, and at a strange angle against the wall sits a long cherry-wood desk.

The librarian at the desk is a brown-skinned man, university-aged, with well-kept shoulder-length black hair and a single peridot earring dangling from his left ear. His workspace is disheveled, and he seems half-asleep, though he sits up when he sees Charles out of the corner of his vision.

“Dreadful!” He exclaims, voice high and with tangible Al-Mushrite accent. “...and company. Welcome.”

“These are some acquaintances of mine, Dagher,” Charles says. “We’ll just need…” He glances at Nemesis, realizing that he doesn’t, in fact, know what Nemesis came here for.

“Er, yes.” Nemesis searches his pockets for the paper where Theory wrote down the title of the book she needed and hands it to Dagher, who looks at it curiously.

“Can’t imagine what someone outside of the Institute would need with something like this,” he concludes, after a minute or so of scrutinizing. “If Dreadful’s willing to vouch for you, I’m willing to do my job. I definitely think I’ve got a book that can help with your translation. Really comprehensive guide to pre-Al-Mushrite etymologies. Problem is, there’s only one copy we know of, and it’s thoroughly checked out. Same person got it who got our copy of your book, actually.”

“It...it is?” He tries to conceal his shock. “So who was it that checked out the other copy?”

He wags his finger. “Now, now. I can’t tell you. Library policy. What I can tell you is you’re a lucky guy to have stumbled onto it. Everyone wanted a copy of that book, but we only one person managed to actually get their hands on one - and they were lucky enough to get the other book to help with translation as well. I’ll tell you the same thing I told the others - you can try your luck with Catacumba if you need something similar.”

“We may as well,” Charles says, audibly sighing.

“Right, then.” He reaches underneath the desk, pulling out an object the size of a fist and handing it to Charles. “Feel free to take one of the spare torches from the rack.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nemesis says, going to do precisely that. The torches are sleek creations, with thin and elegant steel handles.

“No need for the formalities. Just call me Mustafa,” he insists, smiling. “Best of luck. May Catacumba favor you today.”

“...what does any of that mean?” Callie asks, the moment they’re out of earshot. “Is that guy the librarian?”

“He’s a librarian. Just a student who works here part-time for extra credit,” Charles says. “He’s a nice guy, and his specialty is spectro-cartography. Stuff like this.”

He holds up the object in his hand - a faintly glowing spool of alabaster thread. A line of it spreads out behind them, all the way back to the desk.

“...what in the stars?” Nemesis finds himself asking.

“Catacumba is the living amalgam of all human knowledge. Inexplicably, things end up here, no matter what. Sometimes, it’ll show you what you need, but you’ll wander its halls forever. The spectro-cartographers tried to map it, but it’s literally endless. The closest we can do is tap into its frequencies using things like this - Dr. Ariadne’s Guiding Filaments - that direct us towards the place from where we came.”

“Catacumba is alive?” Callie asks.

“That’s the leading theory. At least, that’s how we rationalize it. Don’t worry - normally it’ll show people what they need. I don’t think it’s malevolent.”

“But it won’t show them the exit…?” She frowns. “Are you sure this isn’t dangerous?”

“Oh, it is.” He chuckles. “No risk, no reward.”

“I don’t like that…” she admits, grabbing Nemesis’s arm. He allows it. Surely, in her position, he would be scared too. Standing amidst Catacumba’s towering bookshelves feels like standing in the gaping maw of a beast older than time.

“Don’t worry,” Charles reassures them. “These filaments are great. They’ll show you the way out, basically no matter what. They don’t even require any input. Even Nemesis would be able to use them.”

“How considerate of them,” Nemesis says dryly. “So this place is alive, and we’ll find what we need if it wants us to?”

“Assumedly. So let’s hope it’s on our side. Keep an eye on the time, though,” Charles instructs him. “You’ll lose track of it quick down here. It feels like it progresses at whatever rate Catacumba likes. I’ve been down here for weeks at a time before without noticing.”

Nemesis obediently looks at his watch. They’ve only been in the library for a couple of minutes, though if Charles is to be believed that fact is subject to rapid and unpredictable change. The three press onwards.

It only takes a short time for the light of the torch to feel unsuitable, so Nemesis hands it over to Callie and employs his own flashlight, and Charles enchants the buttons of his coat to radiate a small aura of purple-tinged light as well.

As they make their way in further, the bookshelves seem to change, progressively morphing until they look destroyed, burnt, ancient books tumbling out onto the floor, pages barely clinging to the binding. Nemesis draws his hand across one of the shelves, and it comes back covered in ash.

“Rather old-looking,” Charles observes. “A good sign, considering the age of the volume we’re looking for.”

“I don’t like it here,” Callie admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I really don’t like it here. It feels so old and knowing. I feel like I’m going to offend it somehow.”

“I doubt it,” Nemesis reassures her, but he, too, feels as though he just might vanish entirely into the inky blackness. He looks down at his feet, just to make sure that they’re still attached to him.

His timing is impeccable, it seems, because just within stepping-on range is a leather object the size of his hand. He bends over to pick it up, frowning. “What’s this, then?”

“I don’t know,” Charles asks. “What is it?”

“Wallet, looks like.” Nemesis frowns. Is this another of the library’s decisions? Was he meant to find this?

It makes him feel like a criminal, but he simply can’t help himself from opening it. The wallet is made of worn navy blue leather, and seems to be from a brand which is reputable but not quite the highest end, an amount cheaper than Nemesis would normally buy himself.

Goodness, thinking that makes him feel rich. He hates that.

Inside is something to the effect of two hundred crowns. It’s a lot to simply keep in one’s wallet. His hands twitch, making to pocket the cash, but he forces himself to relax. He’s rich, far too rich to benefit from such a paltry amount of change. Better to be magnanimous, track down the owner, and return it.

After all, there are things in this wallet far more valuable than money. He notices what look like rolled-up identification papers and an Institute badge. This wallet belongs to someone important.

Charles peers over his shoulder. “Not that I’m about to encourage snooping in other people’s wallets, but whose badge is that?”

Nemesis turns it over, squinting and focusing in order to read the faintly embossed text in the dim light of the library. “Genevieve...Merritt, I think it says. Haven’t the foggiest who that is, never heard the name before.”

“Good stars, Ginny Merritt?” Charles’s eyes widen. “That’s not good. She’s Chancellors Cross’s clerk, and if she’s in town, that means the Chancellor is too.”

“And that’s…” Nemesis wagers a guess. “...bad news, then?”

“Oh, the worst. She’s in charge of the Institute. Anything goes off-kilter, she’s the one who sorts it out, but she’d not be here without a reason. That means...something is happening.”

Nemesis frowns. “Well, she’s an authority, so I reckon it’s better if she doesn’t know I exist. Better safe than sorry...but I’d like to return this to its proper owner, despite that.”

“If you insist,” Charles concedes, continuing on into the library. Callie and Nemesis follow him quickly. After all, he’s the one with the Filaments, and they don’t want to be too far from the precious light he’s emitting.

Longer and longer, the tunnels stretch on. The burnt wood slowly rebuilds itself into towering marble shelves, upon which rows and rows of scrolls are shelved in neat lines, like the honeycomb structure of a beehive, orderly and pristine. And it’s in these pristine sections that they encounter their first company.

The more immediately noticeable of them is a man. In one word, he could be described as large - tall (if Nemesis had to guess, taller than even Burke), a little bit wider than average, dressed in a well-tailored slate blue waistcoat over a pinstriped shirt and with a monocle perched above his round nose. His hair is a shocking gray, and he has a short, well-groomed beard and moustache in this same color. Between the expensive look of his clothes and his size, he’s more than a little imposing.

His companion’s head barely reaches his chest. She’s a young woman, looking only a little older than Charles, with loose curls of unnaturally bright orange reaching to around her shoulders, pinned back neatly. Her clothing is simple, a pinstriped button-up and blue sweater over a brown skirt reaching just below the knees, and of a notably lower quality than the man’s. She’s not poor, but she’s not rich, either.

The two, alerted by the light, immediately notice the newcomers. They focus their eyes - blue, for the man, and gray, for the woman - on the three of them. Though the woman seems curious, the man seems as though he might hate them. Nemesis knows it’s a little soon to come to this conclusion, but he feels as if perhaps this man hates everyone.

It’s the man who speaks first. “Those lights are hideously bright, boy. Do you want to anger Catacumba?”

“No, sir. Sorry.” Charles seems awfully scared as he extinguishes the light of his buttons, and Nemesis switches off his flashlight for good measure.

The man, seemingly satisfied, nods gruffly. This seems to be all he has to say.

Charles is the one who next speaks up. “...might I inquire as to...if either of you might have...misplaced a wallet...somewhere in these indefinite halls?”

The man scoffs. “Misplaced a wallet? Goodness, no. What sort do you take us for?” His accent is extremely stuffy and posh, Nemesis notices. He’s met precious few people with that sort of accent - he can count the number on one hand with fingers to spare, and he’s never encountered any of them more than briefly. The chancellors of universities in Llygredyg, primarily.

The Rexish dialect of Acerbic is perhaps the rarest of all the many. The Queen’s Acerbic, they call it. It’s spoken exclusively by those who are born or make their way through merit into the academic elite of the government or the Institute. A symbol of extreme status, it develops over years of associating with the highest echelons of society and shunning those who aren’t.

Something off-kilter, certainly. A minimum of two people associated closely with Rex are here, in this library. At least one of them is directly in front of Nemesis, perhaps moments away from questioning what he’s doing here. It’s said powerful artificers can see the knack coming off people in waves. That must be just an urban legend, because if it isn’t, this man knows Nemesis is an impostor.

He feels the breath freeze in his throat. His limbs feel heavy and sluggish, an automaton of lead buried in slowly hardening resin. His heart threatens to burst, eyes locked open. He may be alive, but there’s the distinct sensation of rigor mortis.

“Breathe, lad. Come on, just breathe. Fear draws enemies like sharks to water. Fear proves that you don’t belong. Confidence means you do, whether or not you should.”

The memory washes over him like rain over a parched desert. A fond reminder that he’s not just doing this for himself.

He breathes.

And he remembers where he is, what’s happening. The girl is looking through her pockets - he can see realization dawn on her face as she turns to Charles.

“I might’ve, uh, actually lost mine,” she admits sheepishly, looking away from the man, whose face carries a look of deep disappointment. Her accent, he notices with relief, is a rural Acerbian one, far from anything that could be associated with the Queen.

“Well,” Nemesis offers, “We found one earlier, which is why we asked.” He holds it out to her, and her eyes widen.

“Wow, that really is my wallet! I wonder when I could have dropped this…” Genevieve Merritt pockets it, frowning. “Thank you for finding it for me.”

“It was in the burnt section a ways back,” Nemesis offers.

“Burnt section?” She frowns more, glancing at her companion, who shakes his head. “We haven’t seen anything burnt.”

“Just Catacumba up to its ways again, I reckon,” Charles says. “Good thing it decided to be merciful and let us stumble upon it.”

The man nods. “Well, thank you for the assistance. What might your name be?”

“Charles Dreadful,” he immediately provides. “Aleister Burke’s teacher’s assistant.”

“And…” he gestures towards Nemesis and Callie. “...these two?”

“I’m Jones. She’s Burns,” he says plainly. “We’re both relatively new. Dreadful is helping us find a book, since it’s our first time here.” Not technically a lie, but close to it. The deception is hideous, repulsive, and he feels a disgusting sensation in his chest. The deception is hideous but it’s necessary. Nothing more useless than a dead private investigator.

The man’s expression becomes almost sympathetic. “I see. Right, you sound out-of-town. Very kind of Dreadful here to help you, then. I’ll put in a word with the dean.”

“That’s not necessary,” Charles mutters sheepishly, though Nemesis can tell it’s more out of an obligational humility than genuine aversion to the thought. To him, the idea of refusing seems quite rude, but then again, he doesn’t have that same upbringing. Perhaps he’s just an egotist, and the idea of downplaying his own accomplishments is painful to so much as consider.

“Nonsense,” the man says, and leaves it at that.

Ginny looks curiously at Nemesis. “I love your hair, by the way. Where do you get it done?”

“Er-”

He’s saved from having to admit that he cuts his own hair in the bathroom sink by the man, who shakes his head. “Don’t waste this poor boy’s time, Genevieve.”

“Sorry, sir.” She frowns, glancing at Nemesis. “Thank you, though. I hope you find the book you’re looking for.”

“You as well,” Nemesis says back. “May Catacumba favor you,” he adds, hoping he remembered Mustafa Dagher’s words correctly.

Clearly, he did, because Ginny nods in response. The three of them make their way off. Just before they make it out of earshot, he can hear the two begin to speak.

“That was irresponsible,” the man says. “Chancellor Cross will be disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Guildenstern…” comes the dejected response.

The moment they’re fully out of earshot, Charles redoes the enchantment on his buttons. The light is welcome in the dark corridors.

“Did you hear that, Jones?”

“Hear what?”

“The name she said.”

“Lord Guildenstern?” Callie asks.

“Lord Guildenstern,” Charles confirms. “Lord Horatio Guildenstern. Vice-Chancellor of the Institute. If him and Merritt are both here, that’s bad news by any metric. Something’s happening.”

“Bloody stars,” Nemesis mutters. “Next we’ll run into the chancellor herself.”

“Don’t say that or it’ll actually happen,” Charles reprimands him.

But it isn’t the chancellor they encounter. Instead, the hallway opens up, into a wide and short tunnel lined with ancient-looking bricks. Callie whimpers, alarmed, as she nearly trips over-

“Bloody stars,” Nemesis exclaims again. “Bones?”

“Looks like,” Charles mutters, tense. “This looks like some sort of proper catacombs. No idea how that got here.”

“I have no idea how anything got here,” Callie mutters.

And then, faintly, they hear it - an even, calm humming. Charles’s eyes widen in shock.

“Recognize it?” Nemesis asks.

To his surprise, Charles nods. “That’s...one of Professor Burke’s favorite songs. He always hums it when he’s working. Do you think…?”

“Worth a try, I reckon,” Nemesis says, pressing onwards.

Charles and Callie follow shortly behind him, and sure enough, within the next minute he comes upon a large room of bookshelves, arranged haphazardly, and at the end of one stands Aleister Burke, arms full of tomes, flipping carefully through another one held in his hand.

When he sees the three, he looks pleasantly surprised. Not caught off-guard. Almost as if he’d had a feeling they’d be here. “Why, Charles...what brings you here?”

“Jones requested my help finding a book,” Charles answers simply.

Burke frowns, glancing at Nemesis. “You brought him here? That doesn’t seem safe, he doesn’t even have the knack, what if-”

“We already stumbled upon the vice-chancellor,” Nemesis says, “so I think all possible incoming disaster has been met head-on and mitigated. Er...knock on wood.”

“You ran into the what?” There it is - the familiar look of astonishment. “He’s here? In Omen? In the library? Why?”

“Didn’t exactly stop to ask him. He was looking for something, I reckon, just like everyone else here is. He was with, er...that Merritt girl, too.”

Burke pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, that isn’t good. If all three of them is there that means something is happening, and if I’m not privy to it that means it’s probably either society business, or…” he shudders. “...something political.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Charles says. “Wonder if it’s got to do with the murder at the Obscura? Fitzroy’s well-connected and important to the ecosystem around here, so maybe they’re interested in someone dying under mysterious circumstances near him.”

“No, that shouldn’t be it. He’s connected but not to the Institute, and even if they wanted to look into it, all three of them would be overkill. One would have more than sufficed. Something else is at foot here.”

Charles sighs. “That’s not at all comforting. Do you think we need to be worried about it?”

“Potentially.” Burke looks directly at Nemesis. “Perhaps Nemesis moreso than either of us. Private investigators tend to get more work when strange things happen.”

“And why would that worry me?” He asks. “More money, right?”

“More money. More opportunities for things to go wrong, too. I’d be careful were I you, Nemesis.” He sighs. “So you’re here to find a book, are you? I assume it’s for a case, if you’re searching here.”

“Actually, Theory wanted it. But it’s not...not for a case?” He sighs. “I don’t understand fully, but it’s for translating another volume she’s gotten her hands on.”

Burke frowns. “She needs a book to translate another book? Would you be able to tell me which?”

Nemesis shows him Theory’s note, and his eyes widen a little. “...ah. Aye, that’s something a little harder to find. Any luck so far?”

Nemesis shakes his head. “Not in the least. You can’t help, then?”

“I wish I could.”

“Dagher mentioned that someone’s found a copy already,” Charles adds. “So they’re out there, and we’ve simply been out of luck. Perhaps there’s only one copy to be found.”

“Do you think we could find out who checked out the first copy?”

“Wouldn’t it have been Fitzroy?” Callie asks.

“I don’t think so. After all, if he had both books, I think he would have kept them together. I doubt he’s fluent in pre-Al-Mushrite.”

“I don’t think anyone is,” Burke agrees. “So you need this book to translate a book you stole from Fitzroy? From pre-Al-Mushrite?”

Nemesis nods.

“It’s unlikely you’ll find another copy of something that old. And they don’t reveal who’s checked out what, unless it’s an emergency or someone important is asking. More important than me.”

“I see. We’ll keep looking then, I suppose. No harm in it.”

“You should,” Burke agrees. “I don’t think I need to tell you to never give up looking for answers, because I’m sure Arthur has countless times already. And yet, I’m doing it regardless. Never stop searching for the truth, Nemesis.”

“That’s, er...kind of you.”

“And I wouldn’t get too dejected, were I you.” He smiles. “After all, here I was, searching for some remarkably dry treatises on the preservation of the Animus written decades ago by a spectacularly self-important researcher, and what do I stumble upon? A letter from my husband, written to me, almost forty years ago. Not what I came here for, and yet it’s probably what I needed. Catacumba will provide.”

“I didn’t know you had a husband,” Callie remarks.

“I certainly did,” he says, and his smile is visibly strained. “The past is in the past, however. I’m merely thrilled to be able to read his writing again.”

“Did he leave you?” Callie asks. Of course, she wouldn’t know that she’s being rude right now. Nemesis will have to have that conversation with her when they get home.

Instead, he elects to do something far ruder. “Of course not. His husband died.”

Burke’s grimace grows. “Very...astute, Nemesis. But that is not the mystery you are trying to solve right now.”

“That your polite way of telling me to fuck off?”

“Not quite.” Burke sighs. “Actually, I’d like to see you at the office later. I have...someone to direct you to. I think you’ll find her helpful.”

“Thank you,” Nemesis says. “And I hope you find what you were here for to begin with.”

“I doubt it,” Burke says ruefully. “May you find what you seek, though. I’ll see you at my office.”

The three leave him behind, pressing on further into the library. The hallways twist and turn, almost dizzying, changing at an alarming rate. They enter a section which seems to be the roots of a massive tree, easier taller than the building supposedly is. Further on, an ancient-looking hall, the walls and shelves rotting before Nemesis’s very eyes. Finally, a room with books haphazardly tossed on the floor. Nemesis struggles to wade through them. It feels as though one could drown in them, if they weren’t careful.

He’s about to step out into a new section - shadowy long rows of bookshelves - when he hears the sound of frantic book-tossing. He turns around to see Callie rifling through the stacks, before finally pulling out a small, messy, damaged-looking book, hand-bound with a needle and thread from sheets of letter-paper. She slowly leafs through it, then stands up.

“Let’s go,” she says. “I’ll explain later, but I need you to check this out for me, Mr. Dreadful.”

“If you say so,” Charles agrees, yanking his ankle out of the pile of books it’s sunk into.

They continue on, and the library darkens beyond what Nemesis thought was possible. It’s as if they’re walking through the night itself, dark and humid, and anything could be in that darkness. Anything at all. Lurking just behind him, just out of reach of his flashlight and Callie’s torch and the weak light coming from Charles.

Moving through the darkness feels almost like moving through silk - there’s something there, something light and soft. It feels as though all structure has been removed from the surroundings. It’s unsteady. He has to take care to make sure each of his footsteps lands on the floor, careful. It’s like swimming in air. Time passes at an uncertain and inconsistent pace.

And the silence, the silence is the worst part, nothing to be heard but the sounds of their feet on the floor, regular and quiet. None of them say anything. Out of reverence for Catacumba? Out of fear? Out of some unspoken competitive urge, where the first one to crack and admit they’re scared loses?

The silence is the worst part. In the silence, one can hear things. In the silence, Nemesis can hear his heart beating, irregular. He can hear a distant rustling of pages. He can hear knives in the dark, aimed at his back, surely, because where else would they be aimed? He can hear the growls of an ancient beast, hungry and waiting. All of this is real and all of it is the inventions of a frantic, deprived mind. He thinks, for a moment, he can feel the steel on his throat, feel the breath on his face.

Silence. None of them give in. And more darkness. If Catacumba truly is alive, then it itself is the beast, ready to strike where none of them can see it. An ancient predator, beyond human imagination.

The blood is rushing through his ears. He can hear it. His eyes no longer seem to process the light.

And then, as gradually as they entered the darkness, they leave it. They emerge into rows of bookcases, and Charles frowns.

“It’s never done this before,” he says, “but it looks like we’re back near the exit again.”

“Are you sure we’re actually back at the exit? Maybe we’re just somewhere that looks a lot like the exit.” Callie sounds distinctly unsettled, definitely shaken by the darkness. So it wasn’t all in Nemesis’s head. He wasn’t the only one who was scared.

“We’re wherever Catacumba wants us to be, I reckon,” Nemesis says. He’s aware it’s not a particularly comforting answer. “No choice but to press on and hope it’s also somewhere we want to be, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” Charles agrees. “Shame you’re knackless. You’ve got just the right outlook to be an artificer.”

Nemesis scoffs. “You mean a willingness to accept that I’m powerless compared to what surrounds me and there’s nothing I can do about it? Because I don’t actually have that, normally.”

“I suppose that’s considered a positive, generally.” He frowns. “What I actually meant was your adaptability. You roll with the punches. The forces of the universe can’t intimidate you or make you give up.”

“Oh, come on, it’s a bloody library, Dreadful. Forces of the universe...please.” He makes his way farther down the hallway. Progressively lighter and lighter, bookshelves sloping downwards, getting shorter, inch by inch. Changing, slowly, from a dark oak to a lighter mahogany. He thinks to himself that Charles just may be right. This seems like the entrance.

Callie follows closely behind him. Charles does as well, despite clearly disapproving of Nemesis’s attitude. The three find their through the bookshelves, until, finally, the torch-lit passages lead them to a clearing.

On one side, the bookshelf continues, seeming to stretch on into infinity. On the other, there’s a gap, and where that gap is, there’s a set of double-doors. Large, cherry, elegantly carved, with a massive set of silver handles. On them, a neat plaque reads:

RECORDS

Nemesis looks curiously at it. “Ah, stars. Catacumba, you sly dog, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s a records room,” Charles observes quietly. “Please tell me you’re not going to go in there. That’s a crime, Jones.”

“Well,” Nemesis proclaims, “It appears that Catacumba itself wants me to commit crimes! How fortunate for me, and my infinite criminal desires.”

“This is a crime?!” Callie asks, sounding alarmed, but Nemesis’s hand is already on the doorknob. He’s prepared to dramatically fling it open, only to find -

Well, of course, it would be locked.

“Right. Okay.” Charles smiles. “It’s locked. We can’t go in there. Such a shame, but we’ll simply have to try elsewhere.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Nemesis is already down on one knee, reaching for the spot of his coat’s lining, near the center of the bottom left side, where he knows his lockpicks are concealed. A careful pull on the thread, and his stitching unravels. Charles watches in rapt horror as he turns his attention to the lock.

It’s a simple pin tumbler lock, he can tell. He inserts the tension wrench, gently holding it to the side with one hand. For such an important lock, it’s not very difficult to pick. It only takes him around half a minute before he feels a satisfying click.

“...stars,” Charles says, breathless. “You’ve just picked one of the Institute’s locks. Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in if anyone finds out?!”

Nemesis smirks. “Good thing no one will find out...unless you tell, of course. But then you’d be implicating yourself, wouldn’t you? You’re the one who brought me here, despite me not being connected to the Institute.”

Charles frowns. “I’m not about to turn you in. I’m just...concerned for your safety.”

“Worry not, Dreadful. I’m not about to get myself caught. We’ll be in and out quickly, don’t worry. They won’t even know we were here.”

And with that, he opens the door, this time with all the dramatic weight he’d like.

Papers, tossed about haphazardly. Rows upon rows of filing cabinets, all gray and dreary and unpleasant. The room is massive, just as much as the library. Just thinking about alphabetizing that amount of material makes Nemesis’s head hurt.

Surely the record he’s looking for is in here somewhere. Somewhere, in a perhaps literally infinite room. It will likely take him, he realizes, literal years to find it. More than likely, he never will. He’ll die here in this records room, hand clinging to the handle of one last cabinet.

Well, he decides, that’s no reason to give up before trying. What would he say if Nemesis simply gave up here? He rolls up his sleeves and gets to searching, beginning with the rows themselves. They’re labeled by date, beginning from the year zero. Even for a year which predates the Institute, Catacumba has records. Nemesis curiously opens a cabinet. The files are labeled in a language he’s never seen before.

No point in looking at that, then. He doesn’t even bother to close the drawer, moving on through the records. There’s a row of shelves for each year, counting up one by one at a pace which feels tedious and unnecessary.

There’s no point in looking at any year except for the current one. If Mustafa Dagher remembered that someone had taken out that specific book, it was likely fairly recent. Nemesis takes a brisk pace as he prepares to walk down the seven-hundred-odd rows of shelves.

“You know,” he says, sounding a little more chipper than he feels, “this is actually rather pleasant. Just a nice stroll through an ancient, possibly sentient records room. I feel calm already.”

“I feel as if I’ve already been arrested,” Charles mumbles, lagging a few strides behind Nemesis. “This is a bad idea, Jones. A really bad bleeding idea.”

“You were welcome to wait outside, you know.”

“And let you get bloody killed? No thank you.”

Callie is visibly struggling to keep up with Nemesis, practically running. He feels a momentary rush of pity for her and her far shorter legs, but just when he’s about to say something snide, he hears the sound of the door opening.

Immediately, he grabs Callie and rushes into the nearest shelf. He has no way of knowing if Charles made it as well. All he can do is press his back to the shelf, feeling his heart beating fast and hard. Can she hear it, too? He can’t imagine she can’t. And yet he can’t hear anything from her. Is he the scared one, between the two of them? Is he weak?

He hears voices, behind them. To his alarm, he recognizes Horatio Guildenstern. “It’s here, you said? I must say, this room is utterly massive. However do you keep it organized?”

“The answer is...heh, we don’t?” That’s Mustafa Dagher. Even when speaking to the vice-chancellor, he sounds easygoing and relaxed. “I mean, it’s all Catacumba, even here. By the way, these are organized chronologically, one row to a year, so it’s going to take us an eternity to get there.”

“Aww. My legs already hurt just thinking about it.” That’s Ginny Merritt.

“I can carry you if it’s that bad,” Dagher offers. Nemesis can hear the chuckle in his voice.

“No you can’t,” Guildenstern cuts in immediately.

“No I can’t,” he agrees.

Nemesis inches over to the edge of the shelf, careful not to make any noise. It’s quite long, but not impossibly so, and it feels as though he makes it to the end a good bit sooner than he should have based on how long it looked. Is his perception of space warped horribly, or is Catacumba helping him? No time to mull that over. Later, he’ll consider just how superstitious he is.

He peers back into the previous row. Charles is there, staring at him.

He gestures Callie towards him, placing a finger over his lips. “Hide behind the ends of the bookshelves here. I’ll be back in a moment,” he whispers.

“What are you-” Charles starts, but Nemesis has already gently nudged Callie towards him and left.

He runs along the shelves, silent. It’s a skill he’s picked up over the years, moving without being noticed, and moving fast. One wouldn’t expect it, generally, from someone of his visual flashiness, but he knows how to be quiet, unnoticed, out of sight and out of mind. It’s why he favors shoes without the metal heels which are so fashionable. Worse for kicking with, and they don’t make that intimidating clacking noise which people love, but which would be a dead giveaway. Charles’s shoes are like that. That’s an issue.

It’s not even that fashionable anymore. If everyone in the room is clacking, the individual noise becomes obscured. What’s even the point anymore? Better to take the utility.

The row he hid in was for the year 341. That means he has a little under 400 rows to clear before the Institute trio, who he can hear talking faintly a fair bit back. He can hear his blood rushing through his ears.

Rows upon rows. It’s difficult to pay any sort of attention to the numbers when he’s running this fast. 553. 554. Has he passed 200 rows already? It doesn’t feel like it - 559. 560. 653. 563? Can’t be, can it? 570 - oh, stars.

It feels far too fast, but in a flurry of careful footsteps and numbers that rush by far too fast, he arrives at row 713. It’s long, but he gets to work looking through the drawers. It’s recent, and the book title is in Al-Mushrite - that narrows it down quite a bit, but that still leaves him with far too much material to sort through. Even if he had years, he doesn’t think he could read everything in this row alone.

He hears the voices, closer by far than they should be. Is Catacumba helping them, too? Is this some sort of cruel joke? His searching becomes more frantic, only slowed by the fact that he must still be quiet, impossibly quiet. They can’t hear anything.

Finally, he sees it, at the very back of a cabinet labeled with the date of around a week ago. He grabs the folder labeled with the book’s name in its entirety, not bothering to read it before shutting the cabinet gingerly and rushing back.

It couldn’t have been any sooner. It’s only about fifty rows away when he pauses, hidden by the ends of the shelves, and listens as the three walk past him. After that, he rushes back to Charles and Callie, who both look bewildered.

“How do we get out of here?” Callie asks, barely audible. “They’ll hear if we open the door.”

“I have an idea, I think,” Charles says. “You’ll probably need to carry me back to the office, though. Also, you’re never allowed to ask me for anything ever again.”

“...alright,” Nemesis agrees, and Charles rolls up his sleeves.

He drops to one knee, and Nemesis can see a faint glow from beneath his bandages, in a pattern quite similar to what he remembers the brands looking like. So they are a manifestation, after all. On the floor, a swirling, roiling mass of shadows appears, expanding to around a meter in diameter.

He gestures to Nemesis and Callie. “You two first.”

“But-” Callie objects, but Nemesis grabs her by the arm and pulls both of them in.

Darkness. Predictably, darkness envelops them. A liquidy, cool darkness, and in it he seems formless, unable to feel any of his limbs. It’s as if he and the darkness are one, merged into one shapeless mass.

Time stops. He’s not sure how long for, but it feels like forever, floating in his surroundings. Becoming his surroundings. Unable to feel, or see, or touch. He feels as if he’s being dispersed in the waves of darkness, like sugar dissolving in warm water. It’s almost relaxing, and, for a moment, he feels as though he might be content to stay here forever.

Then the alarm washes over him. If he stays here forever, he’s broken his promise. And if Callie is there with him, he can’t sense her.

Alarm flashes through him. Where is she? She must be somewhere in the darkness. Is that just wishful thinking? Has she been consumed?

He doesn’t have arms, but he finds himself reaching out, desperately searching for her. And somehow, he feels her, immaterial and fluid, and he tries to pull her towards him, keep her from falling apart more than she already has.

He feels an arm on his shoulder, and the darkness vanishes.

He’s standing by the desk at the entrance to the library. One of his arms is firmly on Callie’s shoulders, fingers digging into her arm in a way he can only imagine is painful. Charles is collapsed onto his shoulder, breathing heavily, gripping his arm equally painfully.

It takes Nemesis a moment to remember how to use his limbs, taking a shaky step forward. His leg lands at the wrong angle and his knee gives out on him - he barely manages to steady himself on the desk.

Charles sighs. “...sorry. I’d’ve warned you, but...no time, I figured.”

“What in the stars?” Nemesis mutters.

“I’ll explain, just…” Carefully, Charles holds out his arm, dropping the Filament onto the desk. Leaving it behind. It can’t be an acceptable thing to take with him. Nemesis supposes that would be like stealing from Catacumba - and not the acceptable thing to steal, information. “Let’s go. Please.”

Nemesis nods, attempting to relearn to walk as he makes his way towards the door. Charles is draped over his shoulder. Callie doesn’t follow them, staring blankly ahead of her, as though her brain has been shut off.

“...we have to take her with us,” Charles says insistently, as though Nemesis isn’t aware of that.

He sighs. There’s really only one way to get her out of here, and he’s not sure if he’s physically capable of it in his current state. Bracing himself as best he can, he lifts her arm over his shoulder, buckling under the weight. She’s far heavier than he expected. Even in his normal state, he’s not sure he’d be able to carry her easily. Like this, it’s downright impossible.

He feels Charles let go of his shoulder, stumble to his other side, and the weight lessens. The two look straight into each other’s eyes. Charles looks haggard, exhausted and disheveled, hair damp with sweat. Whatever he did back there, it took a lot out of him. Charles is still a student, barely out of his teenage years. Nemesis finds himself deeply worried.

Despite the alarming appearance, though, Charles’s eyes are filled with determination. “We’ve got to get her out of here, Jones. Come on. Don’t just stand there like an idiot.”

“I’m not,” he replies, though his heart isn’t particularly in it. He was standing there like an idiot, that’s inarguable. All he can do now is stop doing that, get up, move.

And so he does. He and Charles make their way out of the Catacumba libraries. The elaborate entrance opens into a simple door - thank goodness. If Charles was forced to use more artifice to get them out of here, they just might be trapped in the library forever. Instead, they leave, flanked by the two walls of the entranceway, and exit out into the street.

“Bloody stars,” Nemesis says, as soon as they’re out of earshot of the library. Of course, the building is still visible, looming over them even with only a fraction of its true mass visible. Nemesis feels its presence vividly in the quiet, gloomy side-streets. He doesn’t imagine he’ll ever forget its presence, after today.

By this point, he’s regained enough sensation in his legs that he can, at the very least, support his own weight fairly comfortably. He shifts so that he’s carrying Callie more properly, letting Charles unsteadily lean on him as they continue their walk.

“Might I ask,” he finally says, shocked at how quiet his own voice is. At some point in the ordeal, it seems he’s lost his ability to regulate the volume of his own speech, or perhaps his vocal chords have simply forgotten how to function. No matter how he tries, anything he attempts to say comes out as a hoarse whisper. “What was that? What did you do? Why do I feel like a shoddily-constructed marionette?”

“Interesting metaphor,” Charles says. “Haven’t heard that one before. Usually I hear people say they feel...like they lack internal structure.”

“Aye, that too. But what was that?”

“It was...probably a bad idea, but it was the only thing I could think of. You aren’t...the only one who does stupid things on impulse, Nemesis Jones.” His voice is slow and labored. “Umbraporting...travel through darknesses. It’s something highly experimental that Dr. Burke worked on. It’s not...safe, or reliable. It tends to almost disperse a person’s...essence within the darkness, and temporary disembodiment leaves lasting effects on people. Thankfully, it’s not killed anyone yet, but it’s caused...amnesia, long-term discombobulation, and general unsettlement. It’s a last resort. One I probably shouldn’t have used.”

“No point in thinking about that at this point. Just...do you think Callie’s going to be okay?”

Just as he says that, Callie stirs, just barely.

“With time, probably. What I’m more worried about…” Charles sighs, “Is that I gave them my real name, and certainly they’ll start to suspect something when they notice records are missing.”

“There’s no reason they should,” Nemesis reassures him. “After all, that records room was massive. It’d be like noticing one specific hair missing from your head. It won’t happen.”

“I hope so, but I don’t think this is a particularly good subject to be optimistic about.”

“Maybe so,” Nemesis agrees.

They make their way back to Burke’s, finally. Nemesis has no free hands to open the door with, so instead he knocks by kicking it weakly. Thankfully, it doesn’t take Burke long to open the door, immediately looking horrified at the state they’re in.

“Get inside, goodness, what happened to you?” he asks. “You look like you’ve all just run a marathon.”

They enter. Charles immediately makes his way to one of the couches in the lounge and allows himself to fall onto it unceremoniously. Nemesis carefully places Callie onto an armchair, and takes another chair for himself.

Burke remains standing, looking between the three of them with visible concern. “Nemesis, since you seem to be the most conscious between the three of you, I’ll leave it to you to explain what happened.”

“I’m not your student,” he mutters.

“You aren’t,” he agrees. “But my student appears to be just barely clinging to consciousness, so I’d like to ask you to help me. Would you like some tea, while you do?”

Despite his words, Nemesis thinks Burke is acting rather like a teacher. “Nah, absolutely don’t feel like getting poisoned today.”

“Suit yourself.” Burke shrugs. “I can’t stop you from thinking I’m some sort of mad poisoner, I suppose. Would it make you more or less suspicious if I told you Arthur would vouch for me if he was present?”

“More suspicious. Feels like you’re trying to leverage him against me. I don’t even know what your relationship with him was. You could barely know him at all. You could’ve betrayed him. I’ve no way of knowing, with him not around.”

Burke sighs heavily. Nemesis feels this was probably the answer he expected. “Arthur was a student of mine, back when he was studying medicine. We were colleagues in the early era of the Correspondents’ League. Our relationship was always cordial and professional. I was certainly never close to him, like I was to some of my other students.”

Nemesis glances at Charles, in all his formal clothing, passed out in the lounge. It had been almost like he’d been relieved to be able to finally let go of his consciousness and rest. He’d felt safe enough to do that here, in Burke’s office. “...like Charles?”

“Like Charles, yes. But I’ve taught thousands of students, in my time. I don’t remember the vast majority of their names at this point.”

“That just means you’re old,” Nemesis mutters. It prompts a light chuckle from Burke. “Thousands of students, really? Is there a pattern to which ones you remember and which ones you don’t?”

“There is.” What little amusement there was drops off of Burke’s face, replaced by an almost guilty stare. “It may sound horrible, but I don’t tend to remember students who try their best, complete assignments diligently, and score high on all their exams. The students who go out of their way to impress me never keep my attention. It’s troubled students who stick in my mind. The cleverer sort, who behave more erratically. Sadder. People like you, in fact.”

Nemesis frowns. “You’re not like any teacher I’ve known, then.”

“I am. Those people are the ones that stick in everyone’s heads. It’s just not generally as positive an impression as it is for me.” He smiles ruefully. “People do not especially tend to go into teaching for their empathy.”

“No, they don’t,” Nemesis agrees. “I suppose Charles is lucky you seem to be the exception, then?”

“I hope so.”

The two fall into silence for a moment. Nemesis sighs. “...your husband. He’s the man in the picture on the wall, isn’t he?”

Burke nods. “I’m not sure why you care so much. Yes, that’s him. Henry. My first and only love.”

“I care so much because you’ve been asking me about Mr. Jones. Only fair I bring up someone close to you, too.” Somehow, there’s no satisfaction from it. For once, revenge feels far from sweet. “He’s why you got interested in necromancy, is he?”

Burke chuckles lightly. It’s the last response Nemesis expected. “Common misconception. While I’d love to bring him back, he was still alive when I began my forays into the field. We were married for almost ten years when it happened.”

“My condolences.” And Nemesis is honest, because he realizes how heavy the subject truly is. Even with Arthur Jones’s mere absence, he’s been fraying at the seams. If he were to lose Elias, he isn’t sure how he would function.

Except that he is losing Elias, and if there’s something he can do to prevent it, it’s yet to present itself. He feels tears welling up in his eyes, abrupt and difficult to hold back. It’s a good thing he has so much practice keeping his emotions in. The last thing he wants to do is cry in front of Burke.

“Thank you,” Burke says, voice soft. “I would say the same to you, but I have faith that you’ll find him. And I might have something that’s of interest to you on the topic, too.”

Immediately, Nemesis sits up, attention drawn despite himself. It’s been so long since he’s had any credible leads that even the exhaustion can’t hold him back.

Burke smiles. “I thought that might get your attention. Essentially, I’m not the only one of Arthur’s old Correspondents contacts who still lives in Omen. I’ve been in touch with some of them, and one of them has responded. She was rather cryptic, but she said she’d have something you would find interesting.”

Nemesis frowns. “How much did you tell her about me? And what does she have?”

“Not much. I simply referred to you as his apprentice.” Burke sighs. “She was cryptic, like I said. Wouldn’t tell me. Said she would show you, though.”

“That’s awfully suspicious, you know,” Nemesis says, knowing that it won’t stop him. Even if this is a trap, it’s worth trying for the sliver of a chance that there might be something, anything, that leads him closer to his goal. “Why am I meant to trust that? Sounds like an ambush, if anything.”

“It does a little bit, I suppose. I can’t stop you from assuming that, but I trust the individual in question fully. She’s one of my most talented students, even if she never was interested in necromancy.”

“Right, then. I’ll play along for the time being.” Nemesis nods, sighing.

Burke hands him a folded piece of paper. “Thank you, lad. I want him to be safe too.”

Nemesis pockets the paper, nodding. “R-Right. Of course. He will be.”

“I believe you,” Burke says, and smiles in a way that’s unnervingly warm.

It’s then that Charles sits up, groggy, rubbing the back of his head. “Jones,” he says, breathlessly.

“Dreadful.”

“I...stars.” Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need to process. Jones, do you need your cat back?”

“Y...Yes, I’d like that.”

“Bloody good, then.” Charles gets up, wincing. “I’m going to get his cat out of my room, sir, and then I’m going to return to bed-rest, because I don’t think I’ll be functional for a bit. Apologies.”

“Oh, er...what happened?” The look of concern on Burke’s face is heartbreaking. Nemesis wishes he had it in him to feel guilty for dragging Charles into this.

“I’ll tell you later, sir.” He stumbles towards the door. “Well? Follow me, Jones. I won’t wait all day. Physically can’t. Think I’ll pass out if I try.”

“Right, I’m coming.” He stands up as well, lifting Callie. This time, he’s not too unsteady to manage.