It’s a mere five days until the celebration for the opening of the Cabinet’s new exhibition, and there are, of course, preparations to be done. Nemesis can’t be bothered with them, though, when there’s a cipher to be decoded, and so he focuses, day in and day out, on his calculations and his guesses towards potential passphrases, in the hopes that something will give. It doesn’t, and by the third day Nemesis begins to despair of any solution.

Callie is mostly subdued. She keeps to herself, reading over Art’s blueprints to the point of what even Nemesis would consider obsession. It makes him feel all the more guilty that he’s been unable to help her find her brother, no matter how much he tells himself he’s had more pressing issues to deal with.

Theory appears to be attending to business as usual, but Nemesis knows better. He sees how she shuts herself in her room, and his suspicion is confirmed when he notices a far stronger smell of perfume than usual from that side of the loft. Out of the three of them, she’s the only one preparing for the party, as opposed to the investigation. Nemesis supposes that may as well be.

He meets with Percy twice. The first time, they happen to run into each other at the Bitter End, and talk over coffee (or, in Nemesis’s case, tea). The conversation quickly veers off-topic, and by the end they’ve discussed everything from the details of the Dick Remington canon to the weather. They agree to meet again the next day, and this time, their discussion stays on relevant subjects. They decide that Percy will serve as distraction for Nemesis during the exhibition, should he need one, and that Callie would probably be best left home due to her lack of orientation to such events, which Nemesis and Callie had agreed was probably the case beforehand as well. Someone needs to watch Monty, anyway.

Nemesis spends most nights by himself, thinking. Sometimes he walks at night, in hopes, though he’ll never say it aloud, of stumbling upon Salem Riddle. Unfortunately, they remain elusive. He supposes that if they want to speak to him, they’ll find him whether he likes it or not.

He has no choice but to continue in his current path in the unlikely hope that it will, eventually, take him where he needs to go, no matter how uncertain and winding it may be.

And then the day of the exhibition arrives. Callie is left behind to watch Monty and the bookstore, while Nemesis and Theory make their way to the Cabinet, lacking in the over-elaborate carriages and automobiles of the upper class, who make up the majority of attendance. Instead, they merely take the train. The image of Theory in her gown sitting on public transportation is amusing, though not amusing enough that he’ll risk pointing it out to her.

The gown itself is new, black with gold embroidery, ankle-length in the front and long enough to pool on the ground in the back, even with her rather high black stiletto heels, the straps of which wind up her legs like vines. The front isn’t quite as low-cut as last time, and it has elbow-length sleeves, which flare out and reach almost to the ground themselves. It’s an unimaginably expensive piece of clothing. Her hair is in an elaborate braided bun, and her glasses are gold-rimmed. She’s practically unrecognizable.

Nemesis has dressed himself in all black. It’s sufficient, he thinks.

They arrive at the station nearest the Cabinet and disembark. Nemesis is forced to help Theory along, to keep her from tripping on her dress or getting it dirty or, stars forbid, tripping over it and falling. He’s well aware that two adults of similar age holding hands in public will likely be perceived as a couple, but there’s no time to worry about that now.

Outside the station, the Chases are waiting for them. Percy looks distinctly sharper than normal, dressed in a tuxedo, complete with bowtie. Nemesis thinks he looks nice, but he’s a little bit outdone by his sister. This time Evie’s chosen to wear a dark blue dress which flares at the waist, less fancy than Theory’s but still noticeably expensive, and her hair is down, reaching to her waist when not braided. Her shoes are a slightly more practical pair of low-heeled boots. When she sees Theory and Nemesis, she smiles and waves, beckoning the two over.

The moment they reach her, she takes Theory’s hand from Nemesis, carefully nudging him aside. “You look amazing. I, wow-”

“You look, uh-” Theory’s face is redder than a dying star, and she buries it in her hands, overwhelmed. “...pretty-”

Percy glances at Nemesis. “So...were you aware this was a thing until just now, or…?”

“I had my suspicions.”

“So I’m the last person to know?” Percy groans. “Eves...why didn’t you tell me you were dating Theory Hayes?”

“It slipped my mind. Besides, I thought you might not care to hear the details of my life, with how focused you are on your case and how stressed you’ve seemed lately-”

“No, no, no!” He puts both of his hands on her shoulders, startling her - she barely manages to keep her grip on Theory. “I want to hear about your life! It would make me less stressed to know my sister is dating someone, you-you dork!”

“Well...okay,” Evie says, surprisingly nonchalant. “Theory and I are dating. You can celebrate if you want.”

“I am celebrating, internally, because I’m proud of you, but not externally because this is a train station and I don’t want to get arrested for disturbing the peace.”

“That’s fair.” She smiles lightly at him. “Come on, then. Let’s not be late. You two were cutting it close.”

“Train’s slow this time of day,” Nemesis says defensively. “Theers, you never really told me you were dating someone, either. And here I thought you wouldn’t’ve been interested in romance.”

She’s so red it’s almost concerning. When she speaks, her voice is far quieter than normal. “You never asked. I would have been perfectly willing to tell you. What, then, are you jealous?”

He laughs. “Jealous?” Of being in a relationship? Definitely, but he can play this off. “Chase isn’t my type, no offense. I have no interest in women.”

“Can’t imagine what that must be like.” She points to Percy. “Is he your type, then?”

Nemesis pauses to think. “You know, it’s not something I’ve ever considered, and I’m going to give this one a suspiciously noncommittal response.”

“No, I’m not his type,” Percy says, winking at Nemesis. “After all, I’m not dark and broody enough.”

“I wouldn’t really say that’s it. It’s just that-”

“-that you’re already interested in someone else, right?” He winks again.

“I-” Nemesis is sure he’s turned red now, too. “That’s beside the point. Let’s drop the subject.”

“That’s fine by me.” He grins. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe.”

“Are you two done?” Theory asks. “We really are going to be late at this rate, and no amount of the train being slow is going to excuse that.”

“Y-Yes, of course, sorry,” Nemesis agrees, grateful for the excuse to never speak about this again.

On their way out the door, he claps Theory on the shoulder. “No emotions, huh?”

Her face manages to get even redder, somehow. “Shut up.”

The Cabinet of Marvels isn’t quite as impressive as the Theatre Obscura, but that doesn’t stop it from towering over the crowds gathered outside as though it’s the largest building in all of Acerbis.

It’s built of white marble, a rare material in these parts, staggeringly expensive. The facade is decorated with long columns, tapering slightly towards the top, creating a striking appearance. At the center of the front wall, a massive clock, the interior mechanisms visible behind a quartz front, announces the time, ticking loudly down towards the opening.

“I hear Phineas Sterling made that himself,” Evie remarks, pointing to the clock. “He doesn’t do much exhibited work anymore, but when he does it’s pretty spectacular.”

“The clock’s new, then?” Theory asks. “I’ve never been here before. Had no reason to.”

“It’s new, yes. And, knowing Sterling’s work, it’ll probably do something spectacular and then self-destruct. He’s a clockworker, but he also has a flair for pyrotechnics.”

“That sounds like a rather unfortunate combination,” Nemesis remarks.

“Maybe, but he’s made it work.”

“He has, I suppose,” Nemesis agrees. Phineas Sterling...he’s the man who is after the secrets of the tome in Fitzroy’s study. He’s dangerous. They’ll need to be careful.

The clock ticks one final time as the minute and hour hands snap into place, marking seven in the evening. A low rumbling begins, and as Nemesis looks towards the ground, he sees a pebble lightly bouncing up and down.

“I told you so,” Evie says, grinning. “Don’t look away or you’ll miss it!”

He looks back at the clock, and he hears a ticking noise, increasing rapidly in speed, as the hands begin to move again - faster and faster and faster, until they’re a blur of steel and gears moving faster than his eye can detect, like the blades of a massive fan.

And then the music starts, grandiose and pompous. He listens hard, but he can’t hear any piano, just brass and drums. Whatever Elias’s role is tonight, it’s not this. The cymbals crash as the clock seems to lift up into the air, propelled by jets of flame emerging from beneath it. Nemesis thinks it’s a wonder they don’t hit any of the people, or any of the banners hanging off the side of the building, but they somehow all keep from being incinerated.

“Ladies and gentlemen and those who don’t bother with all of that nonsense!” A voice rings out, magnified to extreme volume. “We are gathered here to celebrate the greatest artistic minds of the current era, in a showcase of their masterworks! Tonight’s banquet and reception serve as opening to what may be the Cabinet of Marvels’ single greatest exhibition in its storied history. So, without further ado - let the celebrations begin!”

Next to Nemesis, Percy flinches as the clock explodes in mid-air, sending fireworks in all directions. People are torn between cowering and staring in rapt awe as the multi-colored explosions form full images in the sky.

It seems to be illustrating scenes from the history of the city, the Institute, and the Cabinet. Julius the Great’s conquest of Acerbis, the discovery of Catacumba, the ascension of Persephone Cross as chancellor, Phineas Sterling’s first exhibition. And then the focus shifts, and the scenes displayed are those of monsters and of airships and of the daemons of the Border Wilds and the shows at the Theatre Obscura.

Nemesis wonders if that last one might be a message to Tobias Fitzroy. We know you killed our operative, Fitzroy. We’re going to make you pay. He hopes it is. Even though he disapproves of conspirators on all sides, he can’t help but root against Tobias Fitzroy at every possible opportunity.

And slowly, the fireworks fizzle out. The last of them explode, sending a rainbow of sparks over the night sky like a veil.

The bystanders ooh and aah, then burst into thunderous applause. Nemesis stands amidst them, gaze fixed on the sky. In the distance, a star twinkles. Were the stars always this bright? They can’t have been, can they?

The gathering falls into silence. Nemesis’s ears ring. And then, with a needlessly dramatic click, the doors swing open, creaking loudly. The crowds gathered begin to stream in. Nemesis tries to stay by the Chases and not get trampled, which ends up being easier said than done. It isn’t until the majority of the crowd has crammed themselves in that the four of them join the stragglers.

“Are they really just letting anyone in?” Theory asks. “I didn’t know there were this many important people in Omen.”

“There aren’t quite this many. They let people who aren’t quite as important in so that their attendance numbers look more impressive, at least for the receptions,” Evie replies.

“There are parties that are meant to be more exclusive, on purpose, where they invite a tiny amount of people and then circulate rumors about them to make everyone else feel jealous and out of the loop,” Percy adds. “This isn’t one of them. Tonight is more about numbers. They won’t let just anybody in, but they’ll let us in, and that’s what’s important.”

“So no one actually important is gonna be here?” Nemesis asks.

“Oh, no. Important people are still going to be here. There would be backlash if they weren’t seen at an event this big.” Percy grins. “They’ll just need to deal with the barely-filtered masses, and with us.”

The doors are massive, carved from dark oak, engraved elaborately and decorated with silver filigree. These doors alone would have cost as much as the building which houses Beaumort’s. Expert craftsmanship. Intimidating size.

In front of them stand two rather strong-looking men in suits, arms crossed. The one on the left is taller and more muscular-looking, with a large moustache. The one on the right is heavy-set, with a well-groomed moustache. The security detail.

Evie bows to them. “Evelyn Chase. I’m an actress employed at the Theatre Obscura.”

“Right, of course,” the one on the left says. “You were Anna in Edward and Lucia, aren’t you? You were really good.”

“That was me,” she confirms, smiling politely. “Oh! And this is my date.” She gestures to Theory, who blushes slightly despite herself and waves.

“Yes. Her date. That’s me.”

“What about these two, then?” The one on the right gestures to Nemesis and Percy. “They your other dates?”

“Goodness, no. I’m her brother,” Percy says. “T. Percival Chase. Reporter for the Electric Sun.”

“I suppose that’s fine,” the one on the right says, grumbling.

“Wow, I had no idea that you were related to the actress!” The one on the left sounds excited. Nemesis wonders if he’s truly suited for his line of work. “Small world, huh?”

The three pass by, and finally, the one on the left turns to Nemesis. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Nemesis Jones, private investigator.” Nemesis tips his cap. “It’s a pleasure.”

The one on the left frowns, and Nemesis gets the sense it may not, in fact, be a pleasure. “You’re that obnoxious guy that’s been messing with people’s private lives, are you? I didn’t think you would look like an overgrown street urchin.”

“I dunno, Carl,” the one on the right says to him. “I don’t think urchins have hair that nice. Or clothes that nice. Just because the guy talks like an urchin doesn’t mean he is one.”

“If you think I sound like an urchin, you should see actual urchins.” He sighs. “Am I allowed in or no?”

“No,” the one on the left - Carl - says.

“Yes,” the one on the right says simultaneously.

They turn to look at each other. “George, what are you thinking?” Carl says. “This guy’s a nobody.”

“Clearly he’s not a nobody if I’ve heard of him.” George frowns.

“And you’ve heard of me too, clearly, since you recognized that I’m an allegedly obnoxious guy who allegedly messes with people’s private lives,” Nemesis interjects.

“You’re really proving me right on the obnoxious part,” Carl says.

“And yet the fact of the matter remains that you know who I am.” Nemesis looks seriously at him. “Thus, I am a person of some importance, and you should let me in.”

“He makes an awful good point, Carl,” George says. “I mean, I know who he is. You know who he is. That means other people know who he is, and that means the Cabinet gets a boost in status when people mention offhandedly that they saw him here.”

Carl frowns, looking Nemesis over. “...you’re sure this is Nemesis Jones? He looks like a kid.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Wow, he is a kid.” George looks at Carl. “Do you know what this means? This means he’s a prodigy! That’s even more prestigious! Let him in!”

“Okay, fine, fine.” Carl rolls his eyes. “He can come in, but mostly because we’re holding up the line.”

Nemesis enters. The inside is a massive hall, made of a white marble decorated with gold filigree and massive columns. On the walls, climbing ivy leaves are painted in gold, joining together at the domed ceiling to form the image of a massive tree canopy, casting a shadow over everyone inside. There’s no other word for it - it’s beautiful.

Inside, the room is filled with circular tables, each with seven chairs to them. In the distance, a bar and a buffet are both visible, though they’re so far away that Nemesis can’t make out much about them. The attending people mill about. None of them are speaking particularly loudly, but the sheer number means that the room is inevitably polluted with their voices. Nemesis wishes he’d brought earplugs.

Percy, who’s been waiting by the entrance for him, laughs nervously. “For a moment there I thought they weren’t going to let you in, Nemesis. That was pretty intense.”

“It’s fine. Didn’t I tell you I was important?” He grins. “Come on, I want to look around. This place is massive. Have Theory and Evie already wandered off?”

“Yeah, they did pretty much immediately. Said something about going to the bar.” Percy shrugs. “We’ll track them down later. You’re good at tracking people down.”

“Don’t over-rely on that ability,” Nemesis mutters. “It’s not infallible.”

“What was that? I couldn’t really hear you there for a moment.”

“Nothing, nothing.” He waves off the concerned look on Percy’s face. “Come on. Let’s find something interesting.”

“How about…” Percy scans the room, before pointing towards a group of people gathered nearby. “...these guys again?”

Lusitania Renwick, Morgana Fitzroy, and Walter Morrow stand in the middle of a gathering of what look like fans. The three of them are remarkably well-dressed, Walter in a forest-green tuxedo, Morgana in a floor-length deep purple gown and black shawl, and Lusitania in a white dress with gold trim and a short train. Morgana has an arm around Walter, and they seem to be having a pleasant conversation with the people gathered around them.

Lusitania is doing the same, with a hair less enthusiasm. Shuai, Nemesis notices, is conspicuously absent. Has she fallen ill with little warning, or is she so jealous of Morgana and Walter that she can’t bring herself to attend an event with them? Is it something else entirely? The one thing he knows is that he isn’t reading too far into this, because there’s no way someone as rich and glamorous as Shuai would pass up the opportunity to be seen at such an event without a very, very good reason.

“Would they maybe get suspicious if they saw me here?” He asks Percy. “I don’t really have the same excuse to be here as I do the Obscura, and I’m not that important. I’m actually pretty sure Morgana is already suspicious of me, but I’m really curious as to why Ms. Zhou appears absent. Surely she wouldn’t pass up an event like this without a good reason.”

“I think you might be right, actually.” He frowns, thinking for a moment. “You could let me talk to them and see what’s up? I can’t lie-detect them, but I can at least tell you what they said. Then we’ll at least have a plausible reason, even if it isn’t true.”

“That’s a good idea,” Nemesis agrees. “That’s an excellent idea. We’ll meet back at the b-” he pauses. He’s intending to suggest the bar, but he remembers Percy’s discomfort at the Obscura. “...the buffet, if that works for you?”

“That works,” Percy says. “You do whatever it is you do in the meantime. I fully expect you to catch multiple murderers in the time I’m away.”

“That’s not going to happen.” He waves to Percy as he makes his way into the crowd, away from him. “Well, good luck, mate.”

Percy chuckles nervously. “Thanks. I think I’ll need it.”

Once he’s away from Percy, he finds himself relaxing just slightly, a tension he didn’t even realize he had dissipating. It isn’t that he dislikes Percy or his company, but it feels like years since he’s investigated completely alone. He finds it refreshing to not have anyone breathing over his shoulder, asking him to explain things, and to be able to think about things by himself, without discussing them with someone else. The second perspective will be useful later, but in the moment, it’s overwhelming.

This was how it used to be, of course. Mr. Jones would give him time to think things over and collect his thoughts before asking him for any conclusions. Percy, good investigation partner though he may be, doesn’t give him the same space.

What brief relief he has is immediately overtaken by the activity in the room. There must be a thousand people crammed into this hall. Though there’s room to spare, it’s difficult to navigate without being forced to shove people aside, and difficult to stand still without being on the receiving end of the aforementioned shoving. Each quiet voice adds up to complete chaotic cacophony, assaulting Nemesis’s hearing and making his head throb. He can already tell he’ll develop a migraine before the evening is over.

He stumbles through the crowd without any clear intended direction, looking for someone, anyone, who looks like they might be worth something. And he finds them rather quickly - in the near distance, Ginny Merritt and Horatio Guildenstern are both dressed far more formal than the last time he saw them, chatting to a tall Beian woman wearing an academic’s robes about something or other. The tassels on it indicate her station, and Nemesis realizes to his mild surprise that she’s Aurelia Wu, the dean of the Catacumba branch of the Institute. Of course, it makes sense that they would be speaking to her.

Nemesis’s immediate thought is that he should listen in, but as he tries to make his way there, he feels a hand close around his arm. His instincts kick in, and he’s about to turn around and break this individual’s nose, only to be confronted with the timely realization that he is in public, surrounded by some of Omen’s most powerful and snobbish gentlepeople. If he starts a street-fight here, he’s done. Nemesis Jones will have to cease to exist, and that’s if he survives, and if he isn’t in prison.

So instead of driving his fist into this person’s face with the force necessary to shatter bone, which he does suppose in retrospect would be a little rude of him. That thought doubles in intensity when he sees the face attached to the hand. Mustafa Dagher’s pleasant smile has faded off of his face, replaced with alarm. Nemesis wonders why for a moment. Then he realizes he’s taken a defensive stance, fist held aloft, ready to strike.

That would do it, yes.

He laughs nervously, lowering his hand. “Sorry, mate. Reflexes. Please don’t call the constables.”

“I...won’t.” Dagher still looks a tiny bit alarmed, but he releases Nemesis’s hand. “Sorry. That might have been a bit rude of me. I just got excited seeing you again, Nemesis Jones.”

Now that his panic has subsided, Nemesis can get a proper look at Dagher. He looks extremely handsome, hair tied back neatly but just disheveled enough to maintain that careless look, purple tuxedo tailored perfectly, that one earring still dangling from his ear.

And then Nemesis feels a stab of panic again, because he’s pretty sure he never gave Mustafa Dagher his name. Mustafa immediately picks up on this, and smiles charismatically. He appears completely harmless and good-natured, which makes Nemesis unbelievably suspicious.

“Sorry for alarming you. I know I never got your name, but you have a very distinctive appearance, you know. Very eccentric. Being eccentric is very in right now.” He leans in closer towards Nemesis, whispering in his ear. “And I know you’re not affiliated with the Institute, and that you weren’t meant to be in the library. Between you and me, I’m very lax with rules. You’re lucky I was on duty that day.”

“Let me guess,” Nemesis whispers back. “You’re going to hold this over me now? Blackmailing me into doing things for you in exchange for not getting me arrested?”

“No.” He leans back away, smiling. “Actually, I couldn’t care less. I don’t need a private investigator for anything, and I don’t think someone who doesn’t study artifice could help me with any of my schoolwork.”

Nemesis sighs. “Then what’s the point of this?”

“I mean, there’s not a big important point. You’re overestimating how much intrigue I’m involved in. I’m actually just here because my grades aren’t good enough for the universities back home, and I’d rather be the smartest person in a less prestigious university than the person with the worst grades at Eulim.”

“I suppose I understand that enough.” Nemesis desperately wishes he could have been looking at his compass, but it would be far too suspicious to simply take out a pocketwatch and ask him to repeat himself. Nemesis considers himself skilled in the art of discretion, but there would be no way to play it off.

“Well, I’m glad you do, because a lot of people expect me to justify myself.” Momentarily, Dagher’s smile fades off his face. “The reason is that it’s so much easier to get funding for your research and such when you’re the top of your class. And the real reason is that I like to feel smart.”

“I can relate to that, I suppose. This is, er, awfully personal information to share at a public gathering, though?”

Dagher laughs. “Maybe so, but everyone’s talking around us. No one will overhear. This is actually one of the securest places to have a conversation I can think of. Everyone’s so busy talking that nobody’s listening.”

“Not sure I agree.” Nemesis shrugs. “Right, then. Nice seeing you again, Dagher.”

“I told you, no need to be all distant about it. Call me Mustafa.”

He nods. “Right, Mustafa, then. Thank you for not getting me arrested.”

“No problem.” His eyes widen, and he waves over Nemesis’s shoulder. “Oh, hey! Lucian!”

“Lucian? You don’t mean Lucian Vigenere, do you? He’s not behind me, is he? Please tell me the baron of Semper’s not behind me?”

“I regret to inform you that I am.” The voice is significantly higher and quieter than Nemesis would have expected. He sounds tired, really.

He turns around. The speaker is indeed Lucian Vigenere, looking remarkably underwhelming. He wouldn’t have recognized him in the crowd even if he’d been looking. Up close, he looks even less intimidating. He’s around Nemesis’s height, bone-thin, extremely pale and washed-out looking, as though he hasn’t seen the sun in years. Perhaps he could be handsome despite that, but his clothing, a simple three-piece and overcoat, lend him no impressiveness, and the cane he carries is strikingly plain, black-painted wood with no embellishments whatsoever. Up close, his glasses look too large for his face, giving him the appearance of disproportionately massive eyes.

“Who is this, Mustafa?” He asks. “A colleague?”

Nemesis glances back and forth between the two of them. “I’m just an acquaintance. You two, er, know each other?”

“We’re classmates,” Mustafa says. “This is Nemesis Jones, a private investigator. Nemesis, I think you know Lucian.”

“I...know of the baron, yes.” So he’s friends with the baron. It’s not implausible. Mustafa Dagher seems like the sort of person who is difficult not to befriend. Nemesis bows to Vigenere, sweeping off his hat. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Vigenere.” He feels painfully aware of his accent, his mannerisms, his clothing. Normally, it’s not a big deal, and it makes him more distinctive if anything - but this is a baron he’s speaking to. He feels weighed down by fear. “I...admittedly hadn’t expected to see you here, though. You’ve just been sworn into office, aren’t you swamped with work?”

“Of course I am. By your standards, anyway.” Vigenere frowns. “I’m extremely competent at my job. Worry more about yourself than me. Don’t you have cases to investigate?” His tone is biting and sharp. It’s shocking to hear words that harsh coming from someone so unreasonably unimpressive-looking.

“That’s confidential,” Nemesis says, winking at him. Keeping up appearances, even when one is being condescended to, is of vital importance. “Good to hear it’s going well, then. I generally prefer my barons to be competent.”

Vigenere looks piercingly at Nemesis, looking him over with a barely-camouflaged look of disdain. There’s a bit of anger building beneath the surface, but Nemesis forces himself to look relaxed and at ease. The image of a slightly overconfident private investigator is far safer to project than that of someone who actually knows what he’s doing.

“As do I,” he finally agrees. Nemesis notes, with some satisfaction, that he seems to be choosing his words very carefully. Has he been thrown off his rhythm?

“I’ve yet to meet someone who doesn’t like their barons to be competent,” Mustafa says with a light laugh. Either he hasn’t picked up on the tension here, or he’s choosing to ignore it. Nemesis reasons that he must be used to Vigenere creating this sort of situation. Lucian Vigenere seems a perhaps frustrating person to be friends with.

“Well, I suppose it would have a special relevance to Lord Vigenere,” Nemesis says. “But my apologies. It must get so dull talking about nothing but your family and work every time you meet someone new, right? We can move on to other topics of conversation.” Or, perhaps, he can simply find his way away from these two. There’s likely little to learn here, and Vigenere radiates unpleasantness.

“Actually, I think you might hate the topic I’m about to propose. I figure you get asked about it fairly often. Perhaps not as often as I’m asked about my job, but quite often.” Vigenere adjusts his glasses. He’s wearing pristine white gloves. “You are investigating the...incident which occurred at the Theatre Obscura, yes?”

Nemesis’s heart skips a beat. How would Lucian Vigenere know about that? “Why do you ask?” he says, attempting to at least put on a veneer of coyness.

“The police department here reports to me.” He sighs. “And don’t let that scare you, because I’m not here to chastise you. In fact, I’m here to thank you. Our own police department is notoriously incompetent when it comes to solving crimes like this. I figured it was about time we hired a consulting detective.”

“A consulting detective?” Nemesis pauses, not wanting to tack ‘like Dick Remington’ onto the end. That’s not the sort of thing that would be liable to buy him esteem.

“Yes, a consulting detective. If you’ve ever read Dick Remington, it’s that sort of arrangement.” Vigenere looks at him seriously. Nemesis can’t help but fixate on the constellations of freckles scattered over his face. “Not just for this case, but in general. You’ve made a name for yourself, and your skills have been demonstrated. At this point, I’m willing to take a chance on you.”

Mustafa gasps quietly. Of course he does. It’s a shocking proposal. Nemesis frowns. “The police are really that incompetent, then?”

“Just about.” Lucian frowns. “I have no idea why, but when they get within a few inches of most murders and major thefts they completely shut down. Did you know they ruled the victim’s death in your case to be of natural causes?”

“I’m aware, yes.” Nemesis wonders what angle he could possibly be going for with this. Does he truly not realize the police are purposely obstructive? Is he not the one ordering them to be? He can’t tell truth from lies without his compass, and taking that out now would be rude.

“So what I want is for you to work with the police to actually solve things. I’ll give you access to the resources the department has and pay you a detective’s salary.” He looks at Nemesis pointedly, but perhaps there’s a tinge of desperation to it. Or is that just Nemesis reading too far into it? He still can’t tell if he’s being played or not. “How about it?”

“Awful public place for a business proposal, first off,” Nemesis says, immediately following it up with a light laugh so that Vigenere doesn’t take it as a serious criticism. Angering him at this stage could be a fatal mistake. “Second off, I don’t want to work with the police in any capacity. So I’m going to propose an alternate deal: I don’t interact with the constables more than I absolutely have to. You get priority when requesting my help, and I get your help should I ever need it. If I need information that the police have, I’ll get it through you. And I’ll stay out of the constables’ way to the best of my abilities.”

“You really don’t trust the police, do you?” Lucian sighs. “Very well. I agree to your terms. I’ll have a contract written up, and we’ll be in contact. For the time being, continue as you have been. I rarely extend offers like this to civilians, especially ones I don’t know.”

“Hm. I suppose you’ll want my mailing address?” Nemesis pulls out a business card, holding it Vigenere-wards.

Vigenere takes it gingerly. “...yes, thank you. I greatly appreciate your cooperation, Nemesis Jones.”

Mustafa, who has been quietly observing their negotiations, finally frowns. “Nemesis, I think I understand what you said about having intensely personal conversations in public.”

“This is just my life now,” he responds dryly. “I’ve lost the ability to be worked up about it.”

“Right, well…” Vigenere adjusts his glasses again. “Thank you for your time, as I said. Now, onto other matters…” His head snaps towards the side, gaze fixing itself on Mustafa. “What brings you here? I thought you were taking extra shifts at the library.”

“Dean Wu recommended I come,” Mustafa says, completely calm despite the degree to which he’s being interrogated. “She said there would be things I could learn from. I wasn’t going to argue with her about it.”

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” Lucian replies.

“Er…” Nemesis cuts in. “Am I still required here, or am I...dismissed?”

Lucian waves a hand. “You’re dismissed.”

“That’s what I thought.” He drifts away from the two of them, watching them continue to talk. He still can’t imagine how Dagher has managed to get onto Vigenere’s good side. Both of them are, to Nemesis, incomprehensible. If only he could have used his compass. They could have been lying about anything they said, and he would have remained none the wiser. Without the compass, he feels powerless and adrift.

How did Mr. Jones manage before the compass? How does anyone manage without a compass? How does any person go about their life not knowing when they’re being lied to? Nemesis theorizes to himself that this may be the root of all evil in the world. If everyone knew when they were being lied to, betrayal would no longer be a possibility. People would be forced to cooperate. Actions would have consequences.

He finds his hand curling around the compass in his pocket. He desperately wishes he could have it out without making himself conspicuous. It feels as though it’s the last barrier between him and complete annihilation. Mr. Jones would know what to do, he thinks, but Mr. Jones isn’t here. Mr. Jones won’t ever be here again, unless he gets his act together.

He finally makes his way to the back of the hall, leaning against the wall and hoping he won’t disturb the intricate images on it. He needs to calm down. He’s useless when he’s this agitated. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. His head is swimming a little bit less. The noise feels like it’s lessened.

He pulls out his compass. It’s a comfort simply to have it in his hand, feel its weight and see its familiar form. He opens it, and the familiar click feels like home.

The many needles are spinning absently, all lit up. None of them have even chosen to focus on Nemesis. Unfortunately, it seems even if he could find a convenient opportunity to use it without coming off as rude it just might be utterly useless. He’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse.

“Oh, pardon!” He hears a high-pitched voice, with that glamorous downtown Omen accent. “Forgive me for the inconvenience, but might you know the time? All these decorations, but I simply can’t seem to find a clock.” A woman with black coily hair and dark brown skin, dressed in an elegant purple gown and a purple felt suit jacket, glances rudely over Nemesis’ shoulder at the compass just as he manages to snap it shut. “Oh, sorry, sorry!”

“That’s not a problem.” He pulls back the sleeve of his coat to show her his wristwatch. He supposes the gesture could be taken as an obnoxious display of wealth, but he’s a little bit beyond the point of caring. Her clothing is an obnoxious display of wealth. He figures they’re even.

She smiles wide. “Oh, I get it. It isn’t a watch.”

“...” Nemesis pokes the screen of his watch. “No, this is definitely a watch. At least, I should hope so, considering the amount of money I spent on it. I dunno what about this doesn’t look like a watch.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” She hmphs. “No one carries two watches for no good reason, and that one’s a watch...so the other one must be something else!”

“I-” His breath catches in his throat. Of course, she’s right. He walked directly into that one. “-the other one is...personally significant to me. It doesn’t tell the time. No gears.”

Technically, none of those are lies, but the woman doesn’t look entirely convinced. She’s a striking figure, easily over six feet in height and towering over Nemesis. He does so hate it when people are taller than him, especially by that much. Half-moon spectacles rest on the end of her somewhat large nose. Her eyes are large and brown. Her face, in general, is very round, giving her an endearing appearance.

None of that is what’s alarming about her. What’s alarming is that Nemesis recognizes her. He saw her at the Theatre Obscura, sitting behind Lucian Vigenere in the box intended for guests of honor. Whoever she is, she’s important.

She laughs. It would be a pleasant sound if not for the circumstances. “Sorry, sorry, darling. I feel as though I might have alarmed you.”

“Don’t call me darling.” His response is instinctive, and he has to resist clamping his hand over his mouth immediately after. “Er-sorry. Not trying to be rude, I-”

“You’re just having a spot of bad anxiety, right? That’s fine. Happens to the best of us.” She looks at him kindly. “You don’t look very old. Are you sixteen? Seventeen? Do you have parents around?”

“I’m nineteen,” he answers, perhaps a bit more forceful than he’d like to be. “And I’m fine.”

“You seem out of place,” she observes calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with that, you know. Everyone is out of place sometimes. For instance, I feel very out of place at the book clubs I attend. A mixture of impostor syndrome and everyone around me putting me on such a horrific pedestal. You seem much the opposite.” She stares him in the eyes, looking over the top of her glasses. “It seems like people here don’t think very much of you, and you don’t think very much of yourself, either.”

He stares back at her. This conversation makes him feel horribly uncertain, but one thing remains clear - he’s not going to be the one to blink first. “Do you like to make invasive comments about people at parties? Is that what makes you happy? I’ll not comment on what you said about me, but you should know that people who others don’t think very much of tend to not think much of themselves. It’s almost as if what people say matters.”

“Oh, you’re quite right about that, of course. Goodness knows I used to have such low self-esteem...but that was for a reason, and my circumstances have changed. I now have no reason to have such an unrealistically negative outlook.” She smiles wide. “Being positive is wonderful, and I highly recommend it. No one likes a negative person. If someone says they like a negative person, they’re probably lying. Oh, but I don’t mean to make you feel bad! That isn’t my goal at all. I merely…” The smile ebbs a little, but her stare remains even and unyielding. “...I merely thought you seemed familiar, somehow, but now I can’t imagine how that would have been. Have you been in the news, perhaps?”

“I doubt it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Your monologue very neatly dodged by my first question. Does providing unsolicited psychoanalysis at parties fulfil you?”

She shrugs. “It might.”

“You’re not Dick Remington, you know. You can’t assume your initial assumptions about a person are correct or warranted.”

“Oh, but I am Dick Remington, in a manner of speaking.”

He blinks. Immediately, a rush of frustrated rage threatens to consume him. It’s all he can do to keep himself from driving his fist into the nearest wall or breaking out into tears. He lost.

Familiar words float in the periphery of his mind. “Unacceptable. After all we’ve done for you, losing is unacceptable. All this kindness, and you spit in our face. How disappointing.” His knuckles burn. The sensation is familiar. He wishes it was real, and not a figment of his imagination. He wishes the accompanying blood was there, staining the sleeves of his shirt.

Instead, all he can do is weakly look at the woman, overtly aware of his own patheticness. Though she’s not letting on, that smile still plastered on her face. Is she truly so malevolent, or is his mind painting that condescension over her face? Does it truly even matter?

He feels sick.

“Care to...explain?” he asks. He hopes desperately the shaking in his voice isn’t apparent.

“Well, I wrote the books. So, in a way, I am Dick Remington. All of his thoughts, actions, and feelings, they come from me.”

Nemesis’s eyes widen. “Oh, bloody stars,” he mutters aloud, before he can stop himself. This woman is one of his heroes, and he hadn’t even realized. He feels a deep stab of shame, like a stake being driven through his heart. Of course she’s sharp. She has to be, to write mystery novels. “You’re really Ephemera Sutcliffe?”

“The one and only!” She beams.

“I...feel so rude now. I’m a huge fan of yours.”

“Well, don’t let that change how you behave.” She crosses her arms sternly. “Celebrities are just people! Don’t treat me any differently than how you would anyone else! If you think I’m obnoxious, you’d better be upfront about it.”

“I thought you just told me I should be positive.” He frowns. “I just don’t think you have very good social skills. You could stand to be less blunt sometimes.” She’s like Callie in that regard, he thinks. Analyzing people and immediately telling them. She’s not as good at it as Callie, though. “You’re an excellent author despite that.”

Sutcliffe shrugs. “None of what you said is news to me. I’m glad you could be open and upfront with me.”

“Right, er, sorry-” He feels like the most laughable and unpleasant person in this room, which has many people in it. “N-now that that’s squared away, could I...maybe have your autograph?”

“Of course, dear. Do you have anything in particular you’d like signed?”

“Yes, actually. I knew I’d have a reason to carry this with me one day-” he quickly searches through his bag, thanking his lucky stars he brought it with him despite it being so large and tacky, and pulls out an old hardcover volume. The cover proclaims, in silver embossed lettering: “Dick Remington and the Adventure of the Intercontinental 7137”.

“Oh, wow,” Sutcliffe says, taking it gingerly in her white-gloved hands. “This is a first edition. These are really rare these days. You really are an avid reader.”

“Actually, it was a gift from someone who hates mystery novels. Apparently, someone had gifted it to him, back in the day.”

“Ah, I see. I can’t imagine having such bad taste, but at least it went to someone who would properly appreciate it.” She takes out a fountain pen, uncapping it with a click which Nemesis can tell has been made artificially louder for effect. It’s the small things like that, not the world-altering ones, which make him acutely aware of his knacklessness. “Who should I make this out to, then?”

He suppresses his jealousy. “Nemesis Jones, if you will.”

“Oh!” She pauses for a moment. “That’s quite a name. Very unique.”

“Thank you.”

She signs the inside cover of the book with a flourish. “No, thank you. I would be nowhere without my fans.”

“Oh my gosh!” A young girl’s voice rings out. “You’re Ephemera Sutcliffe!”

Nemesis, somewhat upset by the fact that whoever this is has managed to identify his hero where he failed, looks over at the source of the voice. It’s a girl, dressed in a houndstooth skirt-suit and sensible low-heeled boots which reach to her knees. Her skin is brown, her hair braided, and her eyes wide and inquisitive. She looks about sixteen, by his best estimate. Around Callie’s age. Maybe a little younger.

“I am,” she agrees. “Would you like an autograph too, dear?”

“Yes!” The girl searches her pockets, and frowns. “I don’t have anything for you to sign, though…”

“Well,” Nemesis says, cursing his own natural altruism, “consider this your lucky day, then. I’ve an extra copy of ‘The Adventure of the Screaming Star’. It’s not valuable, since it just came out, but it sure is a Dick Remington book. Perfectly autographable, though tragically paperback.”

He fishes it out of his bag and hands it off to the girl. Despite being less than a month old, the book is worn and slightly dog-eared. She turns it over in her hands. “I haven’t gotten my copy yet. I didn’t realize the cover was so nice-looking. You’re sure you won’t miss this, sir?”

“I reckon I will, since I’m only around halfway done with it. But you need it more than I do right now.” He smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring and not condescending. “I can just buy a new one, even if they’re a little hard to get at the moment.”

“Okay, if you insist.” She doesn’t argue more, turning to Sutcliffe and handing her the book. “My name is Hattie.”

“Hattie. Cute name.” Sutcliffe signs it, pen loudly scratching away at the paper. “Short for Harriet?”

“Yes!” She takes the book, looking at it, seemingly awed. “Thank you so much, Ms. Sutcliffe! And thank you so much, Mr.-”

“Jones.” He tips his cap. “Nemesis Jones.”

Her eyes widen. “No way! Really? You’re really Nemesis Jones?”

“In the flesh. Why? You’ve heard of me?”

“Of course!” She’s bouncing up on the balls of her feet with excitement. “Any detective enthusiast knows about Nemesis Jones! You’re a real life Dick Remington! I-I want to be just like you!”

He finds himself freezing. Of all the ploys to get him to let his guard down he’s seen - and he’s seen many - this is by far the most ridiculous. The idea that anyone would want to be like him churns his stomach. His mind wrestles with itself.

It’s a lie. It’s just a lie. She’s trying to stab you in the back. No one would ever want to be like you.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t realize how repulsive you are. She doesn’t want to be like you, she wants to be like Nemesis Jones.

Don’t lose it, Nemesis. Don’t lose it, you idiot. Don’t make a fool of yourself again. If he saw you now, he’d be so disappointed. He’d be repulsed. What is wrong with you?

He struggles not to sneer at her, not to cause a commotion in this crowded place. Instead, he stares, unable to formulate a response.

Her face twists into a look of concern. Likely feigned concern. He can’t imagine she doesn’t know what she’s doing. He lets out an indignant noise before turning away.

“Are you alright, dear?” Sutcliffe asks. Her concern, as well, is likely feigned.

“Never been better.” It takes him a moment, but he inhales sharply, feeling his heartbeat settle. “Right. Apologies, but I don’t think I’m the best of role models.”

“That’s what my father says,” Hattie agrees. “But I disagree. I think detectives are so wonderful, solving these mysteries for nothing in return but their own thrill of the chase. I’ve always wanted to be clever, and there’s nothing more clever than a detective. Solving mysteries for a living. I can’t imagine anything better.”

Nemesis shakes his head. For the time, he’ll approach this as though she’s being honest, even though he can’t imagine she is. They get the children involved young, in Omen. It’s easy to go from school to organized crime in a matter of days. Agents are everywhere - teachers, parents, friends. Of course, if this is the case, she’ll have his pity. She won’t have his trust.

“Spoken like a true schoolgirl.”

She looks taken aback. He supposes he could have stood to be a little less rude. “What’s that meant to…”

“What I mean is you can’t use Dick Remington as your gospel for what a - okay, to begin with, I’m a private investigator and not a detective, and a consulting detective is a far cry from an actual detective - but to be clear, it’s not really as glamorous as people write it to be, because the realities of the job wouldn’t make for especially good literature.”

“He’s right, you know.” Sutcliffe nods sagely, as though she were the one to say these things to begin with. “He seems disoriented beyond what would be typical for someone in his situation, I’ll grant that, but his statements are completely factual. Being a private investigator is difficult work, and the majority of cases are never actually solved. Dick Remington is an anomaly even in my own canon.”

“And I’m an anomaly in the real world,” Nemesis adds. “But yes, it’s quite thankless work. Half the requests are just to tail someone’s wife and make sure she’s not being unfaithful. The other half are from some manner of criminal. Once I was threatened at gunpoint to solve a case, and they didn’t so much as thank me afterwards. No manners, really.”

Hattie’s eyes widen. “That sounds scary.”

“It was.” He pauses. Is he, perhaps, being too discouraging? “That’s not to say you can’t want to be a private investigator. It’s not entirely thankless, and if it’s your passion, it’s worth pursuing. But be realistic in your outlook. Life isn’t going to be like a novel.”

She frowns. “I...suppose you’re right. I just...it’s my dream.”

“Like I said. Still worth pursuing, if that’s what you want for yourself.”

“It is. It’s what I want for myself more than anything.” She looks at him - up at him, because she’s significantly shorter, short for her age, even. “How did you become a private investigator? That’s not something you can go to school for. At least, that’s not something I’ve been shown how to go to school for.”

“You can’t really go to school for it. I mean, at least not that I know of. I’m sure there are classes you have to take before getting certified, if you’re going about it the normal way.”

“When you say the normal way, that implies there’s also an abnormal way.” Hattie seems only more fascinated. “And you did it the abnormal way, right?”

“I went through an apprenticeship. If that’s abnormal, sure. I did it the abnormal way.” He mentally thanks his lucky stars that she didn’t ask about certification. Bringing it up was a mistake, because Nemesis doesn’t know the first thing about actually being certified as a private investigator. After all, he paid good money for his forged license.

“An apprenticeship...I didn’t even consider that. I suppose I’m too old for those now...Father always wanted me to go to school instead.” She sighs. “That’s such a shame.”

“I’m sure you could still get someone to teach you,” Nemesis says, though he’s beginning to tire of this conversation. To give good-natured advice to someone surely plotting to use him for her own nefarious purposes is exhausting.

“Would you be willing to do it?” She asks.

“Absolutely not.”

She looks upset, and he sighs. On the off-chance (though he doesn’t truly think there’s much of a chance at all) that she’s being forthright and honest, he may as well do his best to not make a teenager cry. “I’m nineteen, barely finished my own apprenticeship. I don’t have the skills required to teach you anything, unfortunately, and my temperament is all wrong for it.”

“Your temperament?” Sutcliffe asks.

“I’m not a very patient person.”

“Well, I’m sorry for testing your patience.” Hattie does look a little offended, if he squints. Oh, well. She’ll get over it. “Thank you so much for the book, and the autograph.”

“No problem.” He waves to her as she leaves.

Once she’s blended back into the crowd, Sutcliffe gives him a serious look. “You nearly lost your mind for a moment there. Do you have a secret phobia of teenage girls?”

“No. I employ a teenage girl. Something she said simply threw me off. It’s fine.”

“Well, it simply makes me curious as to-”

“Pardon the interruption.”

Nemesis and Sutcliffe look up simultaneously at the newcomer. He’s taller than Nemesis but a fair bit shorter than Sutcliffe. His hair is an almost-black dark brown, swept to the side and pinned into a ponytail, strands of it hanging out to give him a more unkempt appearance. His skin is pale, and his eyes are a vibrant green. He’s dressed handsomely, all black and white, immaculately cut tailcoat made of materials which Nemesis reckons cost more than most people make in a month, a green carnation pinned to his lapel. He leans lazily against a crystal-topped cane, and his face is affixed with a carefree grin.

“You’re not too busy, are you, Effie?” he asks. His voice is low, even, and charismatic.

“I don’t think so. Am I?” she asks Nemesis.

“Not at all,” he replies. “Apologies if I’ve been taking up too much of your time.”

“Oh, you’re so polite!” She laughs. “Nothing of the sort, dear. You’ve been nothing but delightful. And it’s always wonderful to meet a fan.”

Nemesis swears he’s told her to stop calling him ‘dear’ already.

The man looks him over. “Goodness, your hair. Ah-oh, apologies, did I say that out loud?” Instead of the more measured accent most of Omen’s Llygredish residents use, he speaks in the northern dialect, giving his voice a wild edge.

“What about my hair?” He twirls a strand of it around his finger, observing the silver color. It’s getting longer again. He remembers watching the strands turn from brown to silver, knowing that it would remain that way for the rest of his life.

“It’s quite striking. You’re far too young for that to be its natural color, so it must be for fashion. I must say, it’s nice to see the youth doing such daring things with their appearance. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it works, it’s very striking. You’re striking in general. I swear I’ve seen your face before, actually, but a little bit...different. I can’t quite place it.” He frowns. “What was your name again?”

“I never gave it,” Nemesis says. “But, er...thank you? My name is Nemesis Jones.”

“Ah.” His eyes widen, just a little - or maybe Nemesis is imagining it. “I see. Nemesis, that’s a curious name. Rexite, isn’t it? But very archaic. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named that before.”

“Well, first time for everything. It’s not meant to be a name, generally. The person who named me just had a somewhat strange sense of humor. The idea of such a strange and out-of-use name paired with a surname as commonplace as ‘Jones’. And yourself?”

“A strange sense of humor indeed.” The man looks just barely perturbed. “Well, my name is Dorian Dreadful. I’m an old friend of Effie’s and a regular contributor to these galleries.”

Nemesis freezes, momentarily caught off guard. Dreadful isn’t precisely a common name. Would it be rude to ask if he knew Charles? Would he be offended if Nemesis assumed they were related? He decides it’d be better to simply ask Charles later.

Sutcliffe nods. “I didn’t realize you were going to be back in town, Dorian.”

“Well, certain events pulled me back. Ever since buying my first house in Omen, I’ve found it difficult to leave for long. Too much happens here.”

“So you’re an artist?” Nemesis asks.

“No, no. I’m an organizer.” He waves a hand. “I’ve dabbled in painting before, but generally, I’m more liable to be the model than the painter. I do love modeling. Some of my likenesses decorate these very galleries.”

“That’s impressive,” Nemesis says, thinking to himself that it’s not actually nearly as impressive as being a painter.

“Oh, it is, but of course the artists are the ones we’re really here to celebrate.” He smiles. “Of course, I’m a member of the Board of Trustees, so I’ve been able to watch this exhibition be built from the ground up. That these promising students will be able to display their art is wonderful, and seeing it in progress…”

“Ah, you’re a member of the board? That’s amazing.” He’s laying on the flattery pretty thick, he thinks, but this man seems like the type to enjoy it. “So you know the artists involved?” Of course, it all needs to come back to Elizabeth Calloway. That’s why he’s here.

“Yes. They’re wonderful, the lot of them. Hugo Callahan’s paintings are spectacular, Kitty Blair’s sculptures are phenomenal, and Lizzie Calloway does some amazing things with gears and scrap metal.” At the end, he looks a little bit more solemn. He doesn’t know Elizabeth Calloway is dead, unless he was involved in her murder. He simply thinks she’s been missing for almost two weeks, so close to her big day.

Nemesis realizes with a pang that Elizabeth Calloway will never see her art exhibited at such a major event. She died before her life could even really begin.

“Of course, Sophronia and Gilbert won’t be quiet about how talented their respective sponsorees are,” Dreadful continues. “Callahan’s been Gilbert’s pet project for ages. He found his horse to bet on, I suppose. Callahan has been lucrative. And I think Sophronia genuinely cares for Blair, thinks she has potential. I’m interested in seeing where both of those two go.”

“So Gilbert Banks sponsors Hugo Callahan and Sophronia Ripley sponsors Kitty Blair? Apologies, I didn’t read up on this beforehand, no time.” Gilbert Banks, Nemesis remembers, is a member of the Board of Trustees, who finances projects with the money he makes from his main venture - the Aurum Lex department stores. Sophronia Ripley, on the other hand, is an artist who made her way to the Board after working with the Cabinet for years, known back in the day for her spectacular engineering work. “Did anyone sponsor Elizabeth Calloway?”

“No,” Dreadful says. “And it’s a shame, because I think that she’s just as talented as the other two. Her sculptures are beyond impressive.”

“They are quite something,” Nemesis agrees.

“Oh, you’ve seen them?”

“...at one of the smaller exhibitions, yes,” Nemesis says, remembering Calloway had mentioned something like that.

“Excellent! Don’t repeat this to anyone,” Dreadful whispers, “but I don’t think what’s on display tonight is her best work. Just her most marketable. How stifling of true art…!”

“How unfortunate,” Nemesis agrees, struggling not to tack ‘she’s dead, you know’ onto the end.

“Well, I think you’ll enjoy it regardless. Even a great artist’s worst work is still the work of a great artist.” He laughs, as though this was meant to be funny.

Before Nemesis can make up any sort of response, there’s the ringing of a voice amplifier. “Attention!” Says the voice from earlier. “All guests, please find your way to your seats. Shortly, we will be hearing some words from our Board of Trustees, and then this event can get properly underway.”

“Oh, goodness!” Sutcliffe explains. “That was so very much faster than I expected that. I’d best be getting to my seat!”

She rushes off, and Dreadful chuckles affectionately. “I should be getting back to my people as well, in that case. It was lovely meeting you, Mr…” here, he pauses. “...Jones,” he finishes, finally, as though the name has some sort of significance to him which Nemesis isn’t privy to.

“Lovely meeting you as well.” Nemesis bows, and Dreadful leaves, his cane clicking loudly against the tiled floor.

Nemesis finds his way to the buffet, where he’d sworn to meet Percy. On his way there, he comes to the conclusion that he’s sure the name Jones does, in fact, have a significance. He’s not about to whip it out in public, but he’s positive that the letter he got from Lavinia Graves mentioned someone named Dorian.

Does that mean his cover is blown? For once, he doesn’t think he has much to worry about. Sure, they’re both Llygredish private investigators named Jones, but that’s where the similarities begin and end. They don’t visually resemble each other, and they’re not actually related. On top of that, the name’s incredibly common. Hopefully, Dorian Dreadful will forget Nemesis existed within the hour. Somehow, though, he doubts it.

He’ll have to ask Graves or Burke about it, once he’s done here.

Right now, there’s no point in sneaking off to try and find the book. The halls are filled with important people. He’ll wait until they’re distracted by the exhibits themselves. For the time being, he locates Percy, who is waving frantically to him, and slides into the chair next to him.

“Thought you’d never make it back,” Percy says. “You really got into the socializing, huh?”

“Not at all,” Nemesis says. “I met Ephemera Sutcliffe, though, so that’s something. Nothing relevant to the case at all, though, I’m afraid to say.”

“Shame, that. I didn’t really find anything either. Apparently Zhou Shuai isn’t here because she’s sick, which could really mean just about anything. What a boring excuse.”

“That’s so anticlimactic. Suppose she actually is ill,” Nemesis offers. “Though, to be perfectly upfront, I doubt that.”

“Me too,” Percy agrees.

The two fall silent, and Nemesis takes the time to observe his surroundings. Evie is sitting next to Percy, and Theory beside her. The two of them are talking eagerly. Something about old Zemlyan plays. The rest of the table is mercifully empty, for the time being. Percy pulls on Nemesis’s sleeve and points to a table several feet away. At it, the Theatre Obscura’s notable actors sit, including Tobias Fitzroy himself. Next to that table, Nemesis spots Kostya Voronov, speaking to a person with black hair and glasses who he supposes must be Hal.

Percy gestures again, and Nemesis follows his hand to look at a slightly farther-away table. Horatio Guildenstern and Genevieve Merritt share their table with Mustafa Dagher and Lucian Vigenere, as well as the Beian woman from earlier, who Nemesis would hazard a guess is the dean, Aurelia Wu.

He also spots Ephemera Sutcliffe at a very distant table. No matter how hard he looks, he can’t find Hattie, but the crowd is massive. She’s likely there somewhere.

To his shock, Liu Jing seems to have crept up on the table, pulling out a chair on Nemesis’s other side. They’re dressed in blue robes, hair neatly tied up. “Hey. You don’t mind if I sit here.” It isn’t a question, but Nemesis nods an affirmation anyway as they sit.

“There a reason you aren’t sitting with the Obscura lot?” Nemesis asks.

“Because I don’t like them. You seem marginally less obnoxious.”

“Low bar, Liu, low bar.”

“You might be right, but…” They sigh. “Well, also, I can’t stand to look at Renwick right now at all. I just hate her face so much, you know? It’s a really bad face.”

“I...guess?”

Before this conversation can go any further, Nemesis hears another chair being pulled out. Geoffrey Calloway takes a seat, smiling politely at Nemesis and Percy.

“I had a feeling you two would be here. Did something happen to your friend?”

“Callie?” Nemesis answers. “No, nothing happened. She just doesn’t like large gatherings.”

Calloway chuckles. “Can’t blame her. And neither of you have found anything yet tonight, I assume?”

“Nothing,” Percy confirms. “How is your wife doing?”

Calloway’s expression ever-so-barely darkens. “Same as ever, I suppose.”

Percy is spared the awkwardness of having to continue the conversation by a stranger claiming the seventh and final chair at the table. The stranger in question has shocking white hair in a messy chin-length cut, dressed in a cheap-looking suit and an olive-green overcoat, pale, with gold square glasses and gray eyes.

“Oh, hello,” Percy says, ever the polite one.

“Hey.” Their voice is startlingly monotonous, accented Zemlyan. “Don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”

“Not at all.” Percy smiles welcomingly.

“Cool.” They point to Nemesis. “Nice hair.”

“Oh.” He smiles. “Well, thank you.”

“Is it natural? Just curious.”

“Well, I wasn’t born with it, but it’s natural now.”

“I see…” They nod. “I was born with mine. I was just wondering if you were part Zemlyan or something, because I’ve never seen someone who isn’t be born with hair that color. But it’s from stress, then, or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, it must be nice to have hair that stands out like that.” They smile. “My name is Nikita Morozov, by the way. I’m at the Institute.”

“Nemesis Jones,” Nemesis replies. “Private investigator.”

The rest of the table introduce themselves, and the conversation continues, quiet but polite. Geoffrey Calloway is remarkably somber, like a man reminded of his daughter’s tragic, untimely death. Nikita Morozov is seemingly indifferent, but not impolite. Percy, as always, is animated. Theory and Evie speak mostly to each other, while Jing, curiously, withdraws from the conversation altogether, aside from occasional glances at Nemesis. Something is up with them, he can tell, but he’s at a loss to what.

And then, the lights lower. A spotlight lights up a podium which has been set up on a makeshift stage near the back of the hall, and the audience applauds loudly. The Board of Trustees makes their way onto the stage, and Nemesis has to hold back an audible gasp.

He recognizes Dorian Dreadful, of course. The alarming part is that he recognizes everyone else on this stage as well. He recognizes them because they had shared his very section of the balcony during the performance at the Obscura. The brown-haired woman, the man with the small glasses, the girl with the braid, the sullen-looking boy, and the dark-haired man are all standing on the stage.

So he’d coincidentally been sitting in the same balcony as them? No, that can’t be. There’s no way that was a coincidence. Whatever Salem Riddle is planning…

But he can’t worry about that now. He has something far more immediate to worry about.

Sophronia Ripley is the woman with the brown bun, he assumes, which makes the girl with the braid Kitty Blair. She’s got her hair in a more elaborate braided bun this time, and is wearing a long jade green dress with a slit up to the knee. Ripley, beside her, looks proud, wearing an immaculately-tailored three-piece suit with a white cape over one shoulder. Gilbert Banks is the dark-haired man. Despite the fact that Nemesis knows for a fact he’s extremely rich, his suit is a simple two-piece, black with a matching tie, completely boring. He looks, if Nemesis had to say, uncomfortable on stage. The boy standing beside him doesn’t look any better. He’s not even dressed up at all, still in a paint-stained white shirt and black waistcoat.

And the man at the podium must be none other than Phineas Sterling. His striking red hair is tied back, he’s dressed in a black suit with gold trim, and his spectacles sit almost comically on the end of his nose, perfectly spherical.

“Ladies, gentlemen, gentlepersons, and citizens, welcome to the grand opening of the Cabinet of Marvels’s thirteenth annual spring showcase!”