The Being wanders between the lofty pillars that were holding up the Cocteau's first-floor balcony. On the doors, there’s no latch, knob, or handle. The little lady strokes the wood until her fingers get caught on a thin indent. She picks at the indent until it peels away revealing a door knocker embedded inside the hidden compartment. The knocker is a brass hand holding a heavy silver sphere.

Lenore grasps the brass hand and boxes the knob against the wood three times.

The doors creak open. Lenore and the Being enter. When the door swings closed behind them Lenore relaxes. She confidently removes her mask. Her face slims and hair uncurls, bleeding back into its naturally bright burning colour. Her eyes sharpen, irises going amber and olive. Although the mask only covered her face it also influenced her clothing. Once removed, the fabric changes shape, the falsely gentle curves of Clara giving away to the natural hard edges of Lenore. It’s like taking off a belt after a long meal.

She calls into the darkness as she hangs the mask on her belt. “Hello everyone! I know it’s been a while but I’m afraid I don’t have time for pleasantries. I am here to see the Detective, might you tell me where they are?”

There’s no answer. Lenore turns to the Being, who is hovering hesitantly in the doorway.

“Don’t worry. This is a friend of mine,” She has to jump to untie the Beings cape. It falls to the ground with a heavy flop. The Being does a little flip in the air, relieved to be free of the weight, before sinking to a stop beside the little lady. “They’re trustworthy, I promise. We’re here for some help, not unlike many of you were once upon a time.”

She looks up at the Being, whispering to it, “Go on. Introduce yourself.”

The Being squints at the pitch-black room. There’s no one there. No matter how bright it shines, the Being is unable to light up any more than a foot of space. Not letting its wariness discourage it, the Being smiles into the gloom.

It calls out a friendly, Hi! It’s nice to meet you!

The Being’s mouth doesn’t move, and no sound is uttered.

“They say ‘Hello’.” Lenore translates.

No answer. Until a blunt round of thumps, like someone stomping up and down. A few shrill screeches, like someone scratching on a chalkboard. Louder and louder in such a way that it feels as if whatever is causing it is inching closer and closer. The Being tries again to light up the darkness but in its failure, the noise increases.

Um, Lenore? This place is kind of starting to creep me out. Who's making that noise? Why aren't they answering you?

The noise cuts itself off.

Lenore sighs, “While we understand the curiosity, it’s rather dark in here and we really must be going.”

Suddenly there is a burst of orange flames across the room. Then another, and another, and another. Each blast has the sound of a firecracker to accompany it. The snapping of burning wood and coals.

In rows high above their heads, dozens upon dozens of fireplaces are embedded into the brick and wood. They line the walls across and up the expansive foyer, stacked over each other from floor to ceiling. Most are much too high for anyone to light them. It seems no one needs to light them. The fireplaces burst into flame unaided. Soon they illuminated the entire foyer.

There is not a living soul in sight.

“Thank you. Now, could you give us some directions?” She implores to the empty room, “I swear no matter how many times I visit, I always get lost.”

Aside from the ridiculous quantity of them, there is something else a little odd about the fireplaces. Something a little odd about all the lavish-looking furniture adorning the entrance hall. Incorporated into every piece of furniture and furnishing, like the door knocker outside, is the well-crafted replicas of human appendages. Limbs, so to speak. They’re everywhere. They’re in everything.

The legs of the tables are crafted into the shape of human legs. The arms of the chairs look like polished human hands. Hands reach out from the walls in frozen existential horror. They hold the candlesticks, curtains, and shelves.

The fireplaces are most extraordinary. Made up of a jumble of arms and legs and heads with wide mouths. Feet with spread toes; hands with claw-like fingernails. Chests and breasts; torsos, hips, and groins. None of its real. It’s obviously fake. Not human flesh but wood, steel, glass, and stone. Diced up and stuck back together. Engulfed in fires that have no smoke.

And as Lenore finished her request, several of the arms move. They sluggishly reaching out and point towards one of the three spiralling staircases at the back of the foyer. Rather than one grand staircase, the Cocteau has three smaller flights of steps. They’re tightly packed in a coiled spiral, like a screw, leading to three different areas of the hotel.

The Being’s mouth hangs open in awe. Eventually, its mouth closes with a snap and it uttered a faint, Cool…

The little lady gives the arms a thankful nod. She motions for the Being to come with her as she makes her way to the staircase on the left, the black and red one with gold cracks in the spindles.

As they ascend, the Being turns around one last time. It twirls cheerfully and says, Thank you!

Yet again, nothing can be heard by anyone but Lenore. But they had watched. They had seen and studied. They will have to make sure that their newest guest feels welcome in their hotel.

But not too welcome.

~*~

Lenore decides that the Detective is a jackass.

She decides this on the thirteenth floor, while strenuously dragging herself up the never-ending spiral of stairs. They pass landing after landing. Lenore knows that the Detective is in their favorite room, which just so happens to be on the top floor. Because they are a jackass.

The Being floats behind her. It watches as the little lady’s struggle grows worse and worse. First, she had slouched then she lumbered and then she slogged. Now, she is pulling herself forward using the metal railing. Every step burns white-hot agony up her trembling legs.

We could take a break if you're tired... The Being suggests.

“No... I am... fine. We are... almost there… anyway.” Lenore pants.

Do you want some water? It offers.

She raises an eyebrow, “Do you have water?”

Uh, no..? The Being says sheepishly, I, well, it's the thought that counts…

“Indeed.” She heaves her body up a few more steps. “Look, I’m just winded, that’s all.”

Cause you're old?

“I am not old.” She hisses between her heaving gasps, “I am not a child but that doesn’t mean I’m old. Let’s just get up these last few flights and then--”

A gust of hot wind breezes by. It feels as if a giant mouth had huffed down on them. Sweat gathers at Lenore’s brow. The Being’s papers go dry, shrivelling at the corners.

“Oh no…” Lenore groans. “I’m not in the mood for games right now. We don’t have time to play with you!”

Games? The Being perks up, a curious smile blooming on its face, What kind of games?

“Don’t encourage them!”

The staircase vibrates underneath Lenore’s feet. More wind, hotter and faster. This time the wind blows up at them from below. The first puff lifts Lenore off her feet and sends the Being spinning like the propeller of a helicopter. The Being laughs in delight. Lenore scowls.

“No games! We are not playing with you! Do you hear me? No games!”

Lenore watches as a tiny black speck appears at the bottom of the stairs. It’s getting bigger. It’s eating its way up. It’s getting closer. The walls, far away and unconnected to the stairs, crack into splinters. The splinters mold together in groups. Pairs of wooden hands reach out, too far away to touch but still very visible. The hands move, creating this pattern of gestures that they repeat in quick succession.

Lenore groans again. Her sign language is rusty and the hands are stiff and slow. But, as much as she wishes she doesn’t, Lenore understands.

The hands sign, “Tag. We are it.”

“No!”

Oh, Tag? The Being squeals, That sounds fun! Can we play?

“Wait,” Lenore frowns, “You know sign language--?”

The hands charge. The blackness erupts like a volcano of darkness.

She and the Being race up the stairs, her earlier fatigue forgotten. The hot wind catches them first, nipping at Lenore's heels. The shadows and the hands aren’t far behind. This would have been terrifying if it weren’t so annoying. Everything seems to be chasing them. The walls. The ground. The ceiling. The stairs. Like a cat toying with a mouse. Like they’re clawing their way out of the mouth of a giant beast. Already caught. Still running. Still chasing. But there’s no danger. It’s just a game they don’t want to be playing. Or, more accurately, a game Lenore doesn’t want to be playing.

The Being is absolutely tickled pink.

Woah, so close! The Being cheers as it narrowly evades the hands as they lunge at its fluttering papers, But not close enough!

The Being flies up the stairs, soaring faster and faster without a care in the world. Almost nothing could have ruined its fun. Nothing except,

“Fuck!”

The Being freezes. It turns around, eyes widening when it sees the little lady several stairs behind them. She’s clearly not having as good of a time as the Being is. Short gasping breaths with legs trembling like a newborn deer. Lenore’s not even on her feet anymore. She’s crawling up the stairs on her knees.

Lenore curses again. She can't keep up; she just doesn’t have it in her anymore. Oh, who cares if they catch her? This is nothing but a ridiculous waste of time. An annoying, stupid game. Just as she’s about to sink to the ground and give up, Lenore feels herself go flying up the stairs.

I got you!

Lenore feels this odd sensation around her legs. Like mist at the bottom of a waterfall or dense fog after a rainy day. She blinks her eyes open and is greeted with red, blue, and white. When the reality of the situation hits her, she almost laughs. She’s sitting on the Being’s back as it soars in circles up the spiralling staircase. The blackness and the hands lag behind them.

The Being giggles, Top floor is the safe zone!

Lenore smirks. She looks over her shoulder and calls out to their assailants, “Top floor is the safe zone! If we make it there before you catch us, the game is over!”

The blackness and the hands speed up. They’re gaining on them. Almost, almost, almost….

Lenore seems to blink and they’re on the top floor landing.

Lenore hums as she slides off the Being’s back, “I should have asked you to carry me from the start. We would’ve been up here is less than half the time.”

The Being twirls happily, We win, we win!

The little lady clicks her teeth with a smirk.

The hands flap up and down with tightly clenched fists. Great, now they’re throwing a tantrum.

Lenore crosses her arms and calls down the staircase, “Games over, everyone! We win. No rematches.”

The blackness becomes thicker and the hands shake harder. Like a bullet, the hands charge at them one last time but they don’t get far. Wind, warm but not hot, wafts around the top floor landing. Fluffy red and brown feathers, carried by the breeze, create a barrier between the hands and landing. Like the wood, the feathers braid into a pair of long hands. The wooden hands freeze and then go limp with shame. They back away as the feathery hands waggle a disapproving finger at them like an annoyed parent. The blackness fades away and the hands meld back into the walls. The game is over.

The Being tilts its head curiously at the feathers. Lenore sighs in relief.

“Thank you,” She says to the feathery barrier.

The feather hands perform a rather extravagant bow. The wind breezes down the stairs, taking the feathers with it.

“And thank you,” Lenore nods at the Being, “For helping me up the stairs. Now then, I believe my friend should be right down this hallway. Let’s go--” Unbeknownst to the little lady, not all of the wooden hands have given up their fun. She takes a step as a hand crawls out from the wall. Her shin knocks into the hand’s wrists. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. Regardless, the result is the same. She trips. Face first. The Being winces at the loud smack of her head colliding with the floor. It wipes around, glaring at the wall where the hand has disappeared into.

Hey! That wasn’t very nice! It zooms over to check on her. Are you okay!?

Lenore’s face stays pressed against the floor. Like a volcano about to erupt, she shakes. Her fingers dig into the carpet. A sound not unlike a screaming toad or shrieking goat bubbles like boiling acid out of the little lady’s throat.

She loses her temper.

~*~

The other floors have rich and majestic colours. Ruby, purple, black, and gold with heavy drapery and stained glass windows keeping out the outside light. Intricate designs like a cathedral with looming arches and large vertical windows. Forlorn, dramatic, and elegant.

The top floor is different. The Cocteau Castle’s final floor is rustic and pastoral. It has log walls with grainy textures, filled with simple warmth and charm. Cotton and burlap rugs. Earthy colours and a low cabin-like ceiling. Embedded in the wood are bits of stones and jewels, glittering like the walls of a glorious diamond mine. It’s a very homey floor. However, by the time they had reached this illustrious scene of bucolic splendour, Lenore isn’t really in the mood to enjoy it.

Walking through the timber door, Lenore calmly announces, “Someone punched a rather large hole in the wall outside. You may want to look into that.” She carefully tucks her bloodied knuckles behind her back.

The Being drifts inside. What a messy room. The furniture looks like they had been thrown inside and left in whatever position they had landed in. There are so many chairs and most of them are knocked onto their sides or upside down. Piles of pebbles and wood chips conceal the floorboards.

It’s almost as dirty as Lenore’s room. The Being was just about to point this out when a voice speaks.

“Good day, my good miss. Would you like a bandage for your hand?” The voice is airy, with a lightness like a whisper you may hear when you know no one is around. As soon as the voice stops speaking, it is hard to remember what it sounded like.

“It is your own bloody fault for making me walk all the way up here. At least the Theatre has an elevator.” Lenore grumbles, “I am afraid this is not a social visit.”

“Oh?” It sounds like someone is walking towards them from the furthest corner of the room. The Being frowns. The room is empty. Where is the voice coming from?

The voice continues, “What might you need me for then? I’m always willing to lend you a hand.”

The Being floats further into the room, searching for the source of this voice.

Lenore follows the Being inside. She pats them gently on the back, “I have a new guest whom I think you should meet.”

There is no reply for a moment. The voice has finally noticed the other person in the room and its gaze is unblinking.

“Oh,” A wispy sigh, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn't see you there; how rude of me. Please forgive me...”

Oh, it’s okay, The Being is quick to smile at where it thinks the voice might be coming from, It’s nice to meet you! Lenore said you would help me with something..?

“Let me have a look at you.” On the other side of the room, far from where the Being thought they would be, a figure manifests. The Being doesn’t see them at first. The black silhouette stands behind them, in front of the door that Lenore and the Being had just entered through.

Lenore casually turns to the silhouette like she had known it was there all along. The Being whips around and, upon seeing the silhouette, they flinch away.

“Kid,” The little lady says, “Meet The Deadman’s Detective.”

The Detective bows and mumbles a muted, “I’m at your service.”

~*~

“I’m sorry about the trouble earlier. I’ll be sure to speak to them about the incident; it shouldn’t happen again,” The Detective gingerly bandages Lenore’s knuckles as they speak, “I know they caused you a great deal of frustration, but punching the walls may not have been the best idea. Perhaps next time a light swat against the wood would be better.”

The three of them had moved into the living room across the hall. It’s a much cleaner living space. The couches are lumpy and old but Lenore is too sore to care.

Lenore rolls her eyes, “That wouldn’t be as satisfying. Today has been tiring.”

The Detective releases her hands, clasping their own in their lap. The Detective studies Lenore. The bags under her eyes are dark and striking against her pale skin.

“When was the last time you slept?”

She grimaces, “Please don’t start with this again-”

“It is important to take care of yourself. Running yourself ragged accomplishes nothing.” The Detective whispers, “I’m just concerned for you.”

The Little woman grins maliciously, “Welcome to the club.”

The Detective chuckles, an amused yet pained sound. “I believe I founded the club.”

The Being hovers awkwardly on the couch beside Lenore, trying to make sense of this ‘Deadman’s Detective’.

The Detective is a creature made of black silk and dry mist. There’s a fuzzy edge to their form. More like a mirage than a physical presence. They’re shaped like a human, that much is clear. Two arms, two hands, two legs, and two feet. Abdomen, chest, neck, and head. Every inch of them is made of shiny textiles that vaguely remind the Being of snake scales or insect wings. Even their eyes are hidden under a long noir veil. Their posture is rigid but their presence exuded a humble shyness.

The Detective turns their attention to the Being. They waved at the Being who, at being caught staring, quickly looks away.

“Oh, I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you.” The Detective apologizes. Their voice is oddly monotone.

No, I was the one staring! I’m sorry! The Being shakes its head until it’s dizzy.

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind it if you stare. People tend to stare at me. I have one of those faces, I suppose.” The Detective looks at the little lady “Do they have a name?”

“Oh, their name is--” She blinks. She didn’t know its name.

The Detective cocks their head to the side, “Did you ask for their name?”

Lenore gives a dismissive, and admittedly abashed, sigh, “I asked what they could remember. They never mentioned a name” She feels the unamused stare the Detective is giving her behind their veil. She scowls, “... Don’t give me that look, it’s been a long day.”

In hindsight, maybe she should have been the one asking questions.

“What have you been calling them then?”

“Well, they were always around after I found them. You only really need names for the absent....” It’s difficult to tell what the Detective is thinking but Lenore has a feeling that they aren’t all too impressed. “I’ve been calling them ‘Kid’ whenever I need to get their attention. I told the Raccoons that their name was Wigmund.”

“I think it would be best if we asked them.” The Detective sighs.

The Being shrugs. I don’t know. I don't remember having a name.

“Well, Lenore suggested Wigmund--” The Being makes a face. The Detective chuckles, “Which you evidently do not approve of. Wigmund, Lenore?”

“I had a pet rat with the same name when I was little.” She grudgingly admits.

You named me after a rat..?

“... It was a very nice rat.”

“What shall your name be then? For now, at least.” The Detective says.

The Being thinks it over. It shrugs once again.

“Miss Laymon has been looking after you, correct?” They don’t wait for a response, “Perhaps a name similar to hers would be suitable. You're practically family at this point.”

Lenore straightens up and sputters, “Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly--”

The Detective cuts her off. “Lenore Laymon… Hmm, one moment, if you please.”

The Detective leaves the room and comes back with a big black book. It’s as wide as the table and as thick a truck tire. When the Detective sits down beside the Being with the book resting on their lap, the Being cringes, half expecting the weight of it to crush their spindly legs. Somehow, The Detective carries the book like it’s no heavier than a feather. When they open the book and start sifting through the pages, the Being sees that it is full of names starting with the letter J. Jackie, Jacob, Jaden, Janko. After some sifting, they got to the letter L.

“Perhaps your name could be an alliteration too.” The Detective says, “That begs the question, do you have a preference on gender, little one?”

The Being smiles shyly, slightly uncomfortable under all the scrutiny.

I’d like a boy name, please.

Lenore repeats their answer to the Detective.

“Splendid. Now let’s see…” They scan the pages, “There’s Lawson, Leandre, Leigh, Lenard, Liam…” For every name they utter, they glance up to see the Being’s reaction. He doesn’t look turned off by any of the names but he also doesn’t seem to find any of them too compelling.

“Look for yourself and tell me if any of them meet your fancy.” The Detective pushes the book over so that the Being could get a better look, “Most names have an underlying meaning. Is there anything you may want your name to mean?”

They flip through a few pages together. There is Livius which means ‘envious’ and there is Llew which roughly translates to ‘Lion’. The Being keeps looking. He wants a name that means something he likes. Something happy and fun. But he also wants something that sounds grown-up and smart. ‘Lenore’ is a smart, grown-up name.

Finally, at the bottom of the L section, he finds it. At first, he passes over the name. It is long and a little ugly in his opinion. But he finds himself glancing back at it. He reads the description. The Being taps the name with the tip of his papers.

The Detective reads it aloud, “Lochlan, pronounced LOCK-lin. It means ‘Land of the lakes’. You like this one, child?”

The Being hesitates. He glances at Lenore, wanting to see her reaction.

Lenore raises an eyebrow, “I would have thought you’d pick something a little more… cutesy.”

The Being shrugs, I’d really like to visit a lake someday. I don’t know why but I like the name. And it’s mature sounding, like your name.

The Detective says, “We could call you ‘Loch’ for short. Or maybe ‘Lockie’. Lochlan Laymon. Loch Laymon. I think it has a nice ring to it, don’t you?”

The Being silently repeats the name in his head. Loch Laymon, Loch Laymon, Loch Laymon. Loch and Lenore Laymon. He likes how the name sounds. He likes how the name sounds beside Lenore’s name, and he likes being around the little lady. She was fun and serious and even kind of nice when she wasn’t grouchy, but...

If you don’t like it, I could pick something else. He trails off.

Lenore softens.

“If you like the name it is yours.” She smiles tiredly, “It suits you.”

Tentatively, he smiles back.

Meanwhile, the Detective studies the both of them, their expression hidden. Privately, behind their veil, they smile. They clap their hands, catching their guest’s attention.

They say, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Loch Laymon.”

The Being, Loch, grins.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to have a word with Lenore.”

On the coffee table, there is a tall vase with a pair of camellia flowers. The Detective leans forward, speaking to the flowers in a light friendly tone, “Belva? Astra? Would you two be so kind as to keep the boy company for a while? Show him around. Play some games with him.”

The two camellia flowers are intertwined, their roots in an ardent embrace. The two blooms, one pink with white and the other white with pink, come together to form a quaint heart-shaped arrangement. The flowers tenderly unwrap from each other, slinking out of the vase. Their roots, still tied together, need neither water nor soil. Along the ends of their stems and the tips of their petals are little lines of red and black.

Loch’s eyes flicker between Detective and the flowers. The flowers gaze up at him. They tilt their blossoms as if confused.

It had barely been a half-day since Loch had found himself in that tiny room, lost from any purpose or residual memory. How strange the world had seemed, and still seems, with every new discovery. A child-sized lady with magic powers. A gigantic underground theatre with pearly lights and deep shadows. Busy streets with scratchy sounds and unhappy people. Creepy children playing dress-up in monster's clothing. And now, flowers that have souls and a phantom-like Detective cloaked dusky black. It makes sense.

Loch flies up and swirls excitedly around the plants, Hi, I’m Loch Laymon! It’s nice to meet you!

The flowers turn away from Loch. They tilt their blossoms at the Detective.

The Detective says, “I’m afraid they cannot understand you nor you them. I’ll teach you how to communicate with others, besides Lenore, soon.”

They scoop the flowers in their palms and gently place them on the floor. As soon as their roots touch the wood, they slither like serpents towards Loch.

“Do bring him back in one piece, if you please.”

The flowers bob their blossoms at the Detective. They weave around in this odd boneless dance, like a pair of ribbons twirling in the wind. The Detective nods and shoos them away. The flowers curl their roots around Loch’s waist and they tug him towards the door. Their stems are much longer than they first appeared, like a python’s tail.

Wait! Loch exclaims to the Detective, You can hear me! I thought Lenore was the only one!

The Detective looks to Lenore.

The little lady sighs, “The Detective can’t hear you.”

Yes, they can! They’ve been answering me all this time, they’d have to be able to hear me to do that!

“Oh,” The Detective says, “I’m afraid you may be overestimating my abilities. I cannot hear you, little one. All I’m doing is interpreting your expression using the contexts from what we were talking about. Even then I did have to ask for a few translations.” They nod to Lenore. “You seemed startled then looked away when I saw you were looking at me, avoiding my eye like you were ashamed, meaning you likely were sorry for staring at me. You slumped and looked a little dejected when we asked if you had a name, meaning you likely did not have one and you smiled when you heard your new name, meaning you likely approved of it. I could go on.”

Oh. Loch laments.

The Detective tries to console the boy, “Do not fret. As I’ve said, I will teach you how to communicate with others in a different way soon enough. Until then...”

Taking the Detectives gentle hint, the flowers and Loch leave the little lady and the Detective to their lonesome.

“Be careful while you’re gone!” Lenore calls out. “I shall call for you when we’re finished!”

Okay! Bye!

The door shuts The Detective rises from their chair and walks into the kitchen. They bring back a kettle of hot water and a teacup.

“I am sorry I don’t have a wider selection of teas, Lenore. As you know, such pleasantries are a lot harder to come by nowadays. Even finding suitable water is a challenge.” They bring the tea set back on a platter, setting it on the coffee table. “The Cocteau doesn’t bring in a lot of money so it has forced me to draw from my savings. I am unable to leave for work elsewhere as you know.”

“It’s fine.” Lenore pours her tea and sets it aside to steep, “Though if you actually let people stay, you could probably generate some level of income.”

“I have plenty of people staying here.” They argue with no real malice.

“Living people, my friend. People with money.” She clarifies, a hint of teasing in her tone. Lenore digs into her bag and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. Flipping to the right page, she makes a few notes.

“Ah, ‘living’.” They shudder slightly at the thought, “That would likely disturb all my other guests. Even newcomers like themselves make them a little nervous at first.”

Lenore hums a non-committal reply.

“Speaking of, however,” The Detective’s voice drops, tone suddenly very serious, “Does he know?”

Finally, they are past the pleasantries. Lenore cradles her tea and gets as comfortable as she can, tucking her legs underneath herself and curling into couch cushions.

“I have not mentioned it.” She admits.

The Detective says nothing.

“I know, I know,” She sighs, “You know I am not the most tactful person. I’ve already made him cry once; I think I’ve caused him enough distress.”

“Well, you may have a point there,” The Detective says, leaning back against the chair and still looking uncomfortably stiff even when slumped over. Wringing their hands, they mumble, “We can come back to that. What do you know about the boy? The circumstances that led him to this point?”

“Last night I was working on my latest project and I received what I thought were the last few ingredients. A mixture of my blood and what I thought were remnants from the cage. Looking back on it now, I believe the last ingredient was actually the boy’s blood.”

“... I see. Foul play?” The Detective whispers.

“That may be the case.” Lenore says, “This city is rarely pleasant to children, especially the sweet ones.”

“So, he is a child then. He did give me the impression.”

“I don’t know for certain--”

“Nothing is certain at the beginning of a case.”

“True, true,” Lenore concedes, taking a sip of her tea. “Even from our first meeting when I tracked him down in the Aurora he was scatterbrained and talkative. He asked questions, which anyone would in such a position, but his approach to them was more...” She trails off, searching for the right words.

“Blunt?” the Detective guesses.

“Yes.”

“He called you short, didn’t he?”

“...The terms he used were ‘mouse’ and ‘dwarf’.” Lenore gives the Detective a nasty glare and they wisely don’t comment further. Lenore continues, “Anyway, aside from his attitude, he also didn’t seem to have any concept of the outside world. He thought the sky was red.”

“So we can likely place him under the age of fifteen then. That brings to mind some other theories.”

“Care to share them?”

The Detective is silent for a moment, gathering their thoughts before they speak. They say, “Although most children nowadays have never seen the outside world, that does not necessarily mean they are completely oblivious to it...”

They look out the window where they can see the southern side of the city. Closer to the border wall, the buildings are bigger. Sturdy and better maintained than the ones in the centre of the city.

The Detective continues, “The Raccoons, for instance, comprise of the poorest children, often orphans or the otherwise unwanted. They are a clever group. Even if they have never lived outside the cage, they are usually aware that the state of our sky is unnatural. That may not be the case for someone from a higher class.” They point out the window at the fancy houses and the extravagant stores. “They are comfortable with the corrupted nature of Quin city, they make their money from it. If this place is such a paradise, why tell their impressionable young children anything that might make them doubt the luxury they live in? Why would they inform them of the pain and suffering of the people born without silver spoons in their mouths? Why tell them that they aren’t seen as people in this city? That they are nothing more than prisoners? They may be better educated, but they are still kept carefully ignorant.”

The little lady finishes her tea and set the cup down, “I suppose that explains how he could read. He even knows sign language. So you agree that he is a child?”

“Seemingly yes.”

“One from a fairly rich upbringing?”

“Yes.”

“... On our way here he asked me about myself and I told him a little about my past.” She feels the Detective's concerned gaze. “I didn’t give specifics, but he knows that I was involved with the cage. Nothing else.”

“And his reaction?”

“Nearly nothing. Even before I told him about the sky, I gave him my name and nothing! He’d never heard of me!”

This time the silence that follows is one of faint surprise. Shock even.

The Detective mumbles, “... That is odd.”

Lenore rises from her seat and begins pacing back and forth in front of the window.

“Everyone in the city knows about me. Even the rich like to gossip about me when they’re not kissing the Romilly’s asses. There isn’t anyone in this shithole of a city that doesn’t know my name.” She gestures wildly with her arms.

“True,” The Detective says. This was shaping up to be an interesting puzzle. “Though we cannot rule out the possibility that this is just a part of his memory he has yet to remember.”

“But...” She hesitates like she wants to say something else. The words don’t come forth.

Gently, the Detective stands and lays a hand on her shoulder. They felt the slight tremors in her body, the wild look in her eyes not just from excitement but also an unhinged drowsiness. The bags under her eyes had gotten all the worse.

“You’ve given me more than enough information and when Loch returns I will question him further but for now--”

“Wait,” She rolls the Detective’s slack grip off her shoulder, “There are a few more things you need to know.”

She rubs her eyes; they are red and sore. Leaning against the windowsill she says, “The boy who brought me the ingredients that I think contained some of Loch’s remains was a Raccoon. Apparently his last name is Hayes.”

“Okay--”

“Also,” She interrupts again, pulling from her pocket the crumpled and bloodstained scrap of a letter, “This came to the Theatre last night. Delivered by an Official.”

As if the Detective needed more reasons to worry about the little lady. They pluck the letter out of her quivering fingers and read it through a few times. The Detective slumps down against the windowsill beside Lenore.

“...You should rest.” They sigh.

She glares at them with blurry eyes. “Nonsense. We have to find out what happened--”

“And we will,” They speak quietly, even gentler than usual, if that is possible. “Lenore, when was the last time you slept?” The question is firmer, one Lenore won’t be able to wave off.

She drags her fingers through her hair, carefully avoiding the Detective's gaze, choosing instead to gaze out the window at the crisp midsummer sky. “... The new project took a little longer than I expected. I’ve been busy...”

“Lenore. Please.”

“... Three days, no more.” She confesses.

“I know,” They take a shallow breath, “Sleeping isn’t your favourite activity, it not being ‘productive’ as you like to say but it is still something people need to do sometimes. Insomnia has devastating long-term effects. Memory loss, susceptibility to illness, poor balance, heart problems...”

She scoffs, “I know, I know--”

A high ringing noise interrupts the little lady mid-sentence. It pierces the rustic air with the clearness of a church bell's chime.

“Excuse me.” The Detective whispers. The walk to the rotary phone on the side table and they answer it cautiously. It was incredibly rare for the Cocteau to receive any phone calls.

“Hello?” The Detective listens for a second; back turned from the little lady. She sees their shoulders rise with tension. “... Are you all right?”

“Detective...?” Lenore digs her fingers into the windowsill. There are very few people who know the Cocteau Castle’s number.

“... Yes, she’s right here.” The Detective motions for Lenore to come take the phone. Cautiously, she makes her way over, her brow scrunched with confusion.

“It’s your lover, miss.” The Detective leaves the room to give them some privacy.

She presses the receiver to her ear, “Odell?”

Through the receiver, Lenore hears a laugh. The sound, muffled by static, is breathy and filled with a mixture of relief, hysteria, and unbridled fury.

“Where the fuck have you been...?” Odell sneers.