2: The Great Detective Returns

3 Pluvo 712, 7:13 a.m. (II)

Jon opened his eyes and stared into the soft darkness of his curtained four-poster. He mentally inventoried the things around him, to remind himself of where he was.

Even after falling back so many times, the sudden change of somaesthesia was disorienting. He had been standing. Now he was lying down. He had been fatigued. Now he was rested. There had been alcohol in his blood. Now he was sober.

There was no transition between the two states. He had been pressing the barrel of the flintlock into the roof of his mouth. Cynd’s eyes had narrowed–incredulous, disgusted–and his lips had begun to snear. Jon’s finger had squeezed the trigger. For the thinnest slice of time he had felt a pressure in his head, like a sneeze going the wrong way. Then he was in his bed. Falling back was like waking from a dream, but a dream no less real than the world woken into. Waking from waking.

He was not tempted to stay in bed as he had been before. He had a reason to get up now, something to do. But he lay there thinking for a while. “Are you married, Mr. Alder?” Cynd had asked. To Jon’s surprise, this question loomed in his mind.

When Jon had been twenty-six, he had died. But instead of being reincarnated, or disembodied, or resurrected, or subsumed into the universe, he had found himself alive, four weeks back in his own past. At first he had tried to reconcile the world’s time with his personal time: he had fallen back four weeks, so his “true age” was four weeks older than the age of his body, he had reasoned. But then he fell back again, and again. As falling back became a regular part of his life, he had found keeping track of the added time difficult, and then pointless. He had stopped trying at about the same time he had left Katterine. His body had been twenty-seven then. It was thirty-five now.

From Katterine’s perspective he had walked out eight years ago. But for him it had been many years. How many? Sixty? Seventy? At least that.

He had not divorced Katterine, and he sent her money every month, one of the scheduled expenses that Anna saw to. But he had not seen her, had not written to her, had never told her where he was. Did she still think of herself as married? Did she still call herself “en Alder?”

For the thousandth time, Jon felt an urge to visit Katterine and their two children. But as quickly as the urge rose, he pressed it down. Seeing them would be pointless. They meant nothing to him. Or, rather, he could mean nothing to them. They could never understand him, never relate to what he was. His presence would be more alienating than his absence. It was much better to just send them money, and let Katterine make up stories about where it came from. She had liked telling stories.

Was Jon married? No, he decided. He was not married. He could not be.

Feeling that he had accomplished something by deciding this, Jon rolled out of bed. He did his stretches, then strode to the speaking tube.

“Bitali!” he called.

“Sir?” the tube answered, almost instantly.

“Clothes. Bring me three outfits that are tagged as both ‘modern’ and ‘traditional.’”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a long pause, during which Jon made use of the chamber pot.

“There are only two outfits with both tags, sir,” the tube said. “Twenty and twenty-one.”

“Fine. Bring those. Then offer Anna breakfast.”

Jon picked outfit twenty. It was a suit of modern style, with narrow, straight trousers, and a double-breasted tunic that buttoned on one side. No sash. The simplicity of the cut was contrasted by the complexity of the fabric, which was embroidered with scenes of colorful waterfowl. Jon did not like the suit, but it hybridized old and new styles, and he hoped that this would appeal to Cynd, a man who clearly appreciated old fashions, but might reject them as pretentious if worn by man Jon’s age.

But there was no hybrid style for hair. Jon stared at himself in the mirror for several minutes, trying to decide what hairstyle would compliment the suit.

How would the great detective wear his hair? The great detective would not care what hairstyle matched a suit, nor what hairstyles were popular. His supreme confidence would make him indifferent to any judgment other than his own. But Jon was not really confident, because Jon was not really the great detective. The great detective solved cases through uncanny erudition, observation, logic, and insight into human nature. Jon solved cases by falling back to erase his failures. 

Jon would fail, but then he would fall back, and his failures would be obviated. Did that make him successful? He would disappoint, but then he would fall back and the disappointment would be forgotten. Did that make him respected? He anticipated success, not because of his brilliance, but in spite of his mediocrity. Was that confidence?

Jon felt his thoughts begin to spiral. He shook himself to still them. Introspection was the road to madness. He must think about the case. He must think about the something to do.

Jon let his hair hang loose about his shoulders, because that required the least effort, and he wanted to stop thinking about it. Perhaps that was confidnce.

Jon reached habitually for one of his single-shot pistols, but paused. He looked over the weapons in his wardrobe with a critical eye. Cynd was right. They were soulless, generically functional machines with no more personality than the shelf they rested on. He suddenly felt that shooting himself with them was undignified. Objects that were so important to his life should themselves be important. He resolved that he would visit the smith and discuss a custom weapon.

* * *

“Good morning, Anna,” Jon said as he strode into her office.

“Good morning, Mr. Alder. How was your vacation?”

“Diverting. How is your son?”

“Simon is fine.”

Jon nodded, concluding the ritual. He sat in the single chair that stood before Anna’s desk and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desktop.

“Anna,” he said, “I know you usually go home after our briefings, but I want you to stay during my appointment today. I may need you to do something unusual.”

Anna looked up from her ledgers. She met his eyes. An emotion he could not place passed over her face, then was gone, her professionalism reasserted. “What?” she asked.

“I may need you to pretend to be my wife.”

Anna looked down. “Why?” she asked.

“Lowdous de Cynd has a very high regard for the institution of marriage, and I think it may appeal to him if I tell him that I am married. If I tell him that, I may need you to play the part of my wife. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’ll be easy. My wife will also be my secretary, so you’ll be playing a character very similar to yourself. You’re you, but your name is Anna en Alder. We were married about four years ago, the same time you became my secretary in real life. You live in this house with me. We share a bed. We want children, but we don’t have any yet. We’re both very happy because we love the work we do together.”

“Is this only for the appointment with Lowdous today? Just then?”

“Yes. This will be a charade for his eyes only.”

“I can pretend if the details aren’t important.”

“Good! Cancel the other appointments. I will only see Lowdous de Cynd today.”

“Cancel them? But you don’t know who… I didn’t… I don’t think the others will appreciate having their appointments canceled. They’ve traveled here from Argintarbo and Tritictarbo. One is a duchess. The other is from the Treasury–”

“Cancel!” Jon said with an enthusiastic wave of his arms. “Inform them that I have decided not to take their cases. Include whatever apologies are usual.”

“If that is what you want, sir.”

“Lowdous arrives at four o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Good! Send those cancellations immediately, then fetch all your research on Lowdous de Cynd and Cynd Ceramics. I want to go over everything we know before he arrives.”

Jon stood up and turned to leave.

“I have an errand,” he said. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour. Be ready when I get back”

“Could I have two hours, sir?” Anna asked. “I need to get someone to look after Simon, if I’m going to be working this afternoon.”

Jon froze with his hand on the door jamb, suddenly and intensely annoyed. He was feeling focussed this morning, engaged. An hour with nothing to do could disrupt his momentum, spoil his mood.

He thought about denying Anna’s request. He thought about telling her to hire a full-time nanny so that she would not have to waste time on her useless son. Then she could focus her attention where it belonged: on him, his needs, his whims. She owed him. He had pulled her out of the gutter. He had kept her secrets. He deserved her attention; her brat did not.

He thought about reminding her that he could send her to the executioner with a telegram.

But Anna sent all his telegrams for him. He wasn’t even sure how to send one himself. He imagined dictating Anna’s death note to her, her taking it down with sharp, confident pencil strokes, reading it back to him. “Is that all correct, sir?” The image made him laugh, and the laughter quelled his irritation.

“Fine,” he said. “But Anna, Have you thought about hiring a full-time nanny? I’ll pay for it.”

“You pay me enough to hire five nannies, sir. But, as I said before, I don’t want one.”

“Before?”

“Before your vacation. You made the same suggestion just before you left. I haven’t changed my mind.”

Now Jon was annoyed with himself. He tried, but it was so hard to remember what he had said to people. To Anna, he had only been on vacation for five weeks. Whatever he had said to her before leaving was still fresh in her mind. But Jon had fallen back to the start of his stay in Palmurba dozens of times, returned there by drowning, falling, immolation, stabbing, most often by his own hand. More than a year had passed for him. To Jon, “before your vacation” was a memory hazing with distance.

More difficult than remembering what he had said was remembering to whom he had said it. This was his second time having this briefing with Anna. He would have it at least once more. He would remember each of these briefings, but she would remember only the last one, the one he chose to make real. That final, real Anna would not remember that he had suggested a nanny this morning. But he would. He would have to keep straight in his mind which Anna he had said it to: the real Anna, who would remember, or this potential Anna, who would be erased.

“Oh. Well, I still think it’s a good idea,” Jon said. “You’re well-off. You make more money than…” Jon had no idea how much he paid her, or how much she would consider well-off. “…than most people. Women of your means usually have nannies, don’t they?”

“I don’t want a nanny, sir.”

“Right. Fine. Well, I’ll see you in two hours.”

“Sir?” Anna said, standing up.

“What?”

Anna stood very still, her expression intensely blank. Her lips twitched in several false starts.

“How long do you expect to require my services, sir?” she asked, finally. “We’ve never discussed the duration of my employment.”

“Do you want to quit?”

“We both know I can’t quit, sir. I’m just wondering. Do you have a duration in mind?”

“Yes,” Jon lied. “I have given that some thought. Actually, I’ve been thinking about retiring next year. We’ve got millions of gil in the bank. We’ve got a Dutchess from the Palace knocking on our door. How much more is there to accomplish?”

“You said to cancel the appointment with the Duchess.”

“All the same. I’m feeling like we may have peaked.”

“Next year? And then you’ll let me go?”

“I’ll have no reason to keep you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Anna said. “I’ll send those cancellations.”

* * *

When Jon had decided to create the character of the great detective, he had drawn up a list of criteria for his address. It must be a place where he was not casually accessible to his clients. Those who wanted to see him would have to seek him out, otherwise he could not be mysterious. That ruled out any major city.

It must be a place from which he could quickly travel to the sites of his cases, which meant within a day’s travel of a train station. Despite growing relentlessly for forty years, there were still vast areas of the Continent that the rail network did not reach. These were ruled out.

It must be a place where he could build whatever house he wished. That meant enough population to hire many builders, and ready access to materials, but no obstructive infrastructure or zoning.

It must be a place with craftsmen who could discreetly make whatever clothes or tools he needed. This was the most constraining requirement, because craftsmen were rare near the railroads, and extinct in the cities. Goods that had been locally handmade fifty years ago were now mass-produced in distant factories. There was little demand for bespoke work, and those who wished to try were crippled by Prohibition.

Nordarosso was one of a very few places in the Empire that satisfied each criterion. It was seven hours’ carriage ride from the nearest train station. That station was equidistant between Norbus, the North’s principal port, and Argintarbo, the Imperial Capital. It had a population of just over one thousand. It had a smith and a tailor. The lack of a sewage system was regrettable, but once electric and telegraph lines had been run to it, it served Jon’s purposes well.

Jon thought of Nordarosso as his town, not in the sense of belonging, but in the sense of ownership. It was significant to him because he had influenced it. He was its most famous resident. He owned its largest house. He was responsible for it being electrified. It was his town, like the shoes on his feet were his shoes. They were good shoes, but he felt no sense of identification or loyalty toward them. They functioned. They served.

The smith’s house was the last building on the southern edge of town. It was built of mossy fieldstone, with a roof of blue and brown clay tiles. Like most houses in Nordarosso, it was two stories tall, with a walled yard behind it. The smithy sprawled out from the house’s west side, as if a second house had reclined next to the first.

Black smoke seeped from a tall chimney in the rear of the smithy. The breeze was from the west. The smoke drifted west, against it.

Jon paused to read the sign above the smithy’s front door before going in: “Korvo de Lirio – Metalworker.” Jon had commissioned tools and weapons from Korvo several times, and had always been satisfied with the work, but he remembered little about Korvo himself, or his business.

The door opened into a small reception area that was divided from the smithy’s work area by a long counter. The reception side was clean and tidy. Glass cases displayed items for sale. The smithy side looked to Jon like a disorganized jumble of sooty tables and greasy tool racks. The back half was packed with furnaces and anvils of varying size. Coal boxes lined the east wall. One of the furnaces was lit.

“Hello, sir!” said a small boy standing on the smithy side of the counter. “I am Cycil de Sturn! I am the receptionist!”

“You are, are you?” said Jon. He looked down his nose at the boy. “Is Korvo here?”

“Grandpa lives here.”

“Yes, of course he lives here. Can I talk to him?”

“I’m sure he’ll talk to you. He’s nice.”

“Go find Korvo de Lirio and tell him that Johannes de Alder is here to see him!” Jon growled.

The boy’s eyes widened. He scurried through a door that connected the smithy to the house. A moment later a woman of about thirty emerged from the same door. She was stout and apple-cheeked. Light curly hair spilled over her broad shoulders.

“Please excuse my son, Mr. Alder,” the woman said, smiling with pride rather than embarrassment. “We’re all busy in the house, so he’s been keeping watch out here. I am Gretel en Sturn, Korvo’s daughter. What can I do for you?”

“You can get me Korvo,” Jon said.

“Dad’s busy. If you need him, then you’ll have to wait. But I can answer your questions. I’m not a smith, but I did grow up here,” Gretel said, gesturing at the soot and grease.

“My questions are very specific,” Jon said. “Does Korvo know who is here to see him?”

“No,” Gretel said, smiling in a way that made it clear she would do nothing to change that situation. “If you want to see Dad, you’ll have to wait. I don’t know for how long.”

Jon blinked at her. “I…” he began, but faltered. He had been going to say “I am not used to having my time wasted,” but the words became heavy in his throat.

Jon’s time could not be wasted. His time was infinite, and therefore worthless. This thought made him feel inferior to Gretel, as if her ephemerality were somehow an advantage she had over him. He groped for words that would put him in control of the conversation.

“Who is pushing that smoke against the wind?” Jon asked, gesturing toward the lit furnace.

“I am!” Gretel said. She smiled proudly.

Jon had hoped that this question would put Gretel on the defensive. Instead she seemed pleased that he had noticed.

“I’ve got a knack for moving air around,” she continued. “Dad says I could have been a ship’s wind-worker if I’d been born a hundred years ago. Dad says lots of captains married women who could work the wind.”

“But aren’t you afraid someone might see?”

“Afraid who might see?”

“A Prohibition officer.”

“Are there any Prohibition officers in Nordarosso?”

“Not that I know of…”

“Well, then!” Gretel said. She wrinkled her face in concentration, and the air around them suddenly stirred, as if someone had come through a door on a windy day. She grinned.

“But someone could report you,” Jon insisted.

“Are you going to report me?”

“No…”

“So why should I worry? Besides, everyone knows smiths use magic. If the Prohibition Bureau comes to town, this is the first place they’ll look, and they’ll find a lot more evidence than just some smoke blowing the wrong way. But they’ll never come here. They don’t care about enforcing Prohibition out here in the country.”

“They haven’t enforced it in the country,” Jon said, “but that doesn’t mean they won’t. I just returned from Palmurba, and Prohibition is strongly enforced there, even though there aren’t any cities.”

“It isn’t enforced here, though,” Gretel said, shrugging. “Dad says it won’t be. He says Prohibition is all about controlling industry, so there’s no reason to enforce it in places like Nordarosso where no one wants to build a port or a factory.”

“That’s not what Prohibition is for. Prohibition is for public safety.”

“Oh? Do you feel unsafe here?”

“No,” Jon said. Then, seizing opportunity: “Do you?”

Gretel’s smile dimmed.

“Before Prohibition,” Jon continued, “there were accidents with magic all the time. Innocent people were killed and maimed along with the incompetent magicians. And criminals used magic to murder and vandalize, and they got away with it, because there was no way to prove who had done it.” John’s voice lowered as he said the last words, making them a prognostication.

As quickly as the cheerful smile had left Gretel’s face, a defiant smile came to it. “Do you think Korvo is stupid or wicked?” she asked.

“No.”

“So then forbidding him to use magic doesn’t make anyone safer, does it?”

“Maybe not, but most people aren’t Korvo.”

“Who’s to judge that?”

“The Prohibition Bureau. That’s what it’s for. It gives people who are competent and law-abiding permission to use magic, and denies it to fools and criminals.”

“That’s what they say, but have you ever heard of anyone who doesn’t work for one of the big corporations getting a license?”

Jon frowned. He wanted to say that anyone could get a license, but in truth he had no idea. He had never known anyone who had tried to get one.

When he said nothing, Gretel continued: “Dad can’t get a license to use magic because he decides for himself what he wants to do with it, day by day. The Bureau doesn’t like that. The Bureau only gives licenses to make things that the Bureau wants made.”

“If that’s true, then why does the Bureau give licenses to manufacture weapons? Guns used to be expensive back when they were handmade. Most people couldn’t afford one. But now with factories churning them out, everyone can afford two. If Prohibition is some sort of conspiracy for Imperial control, then why would the Empire arm potential rebels?”

“I don’t know,” Gretel said. “But Dad can’t get a license, and the Bureau doesn’t come out to check if he has one.”

“Has Korvo actually tried to get a license?”

Gretel shrugged.

“Have you ever had an accident with magic?” Jon asked.

“Of course I have. Everyone has accidents.”

“Everyone who uses magic has accidents, but you think it’s safe to let just anyone play with it?”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Gretel said. She put her hands on the counter and leaned forward. “I think that Mom is sick. She needs fresh air, and smoke blowing in her window just might be the difference between her getting better and her going in her grave. I think that anyone who says I should let Mom breathe smoke for safety is a fool.”

Jon found that he had no reply to that. They stood in silence for a minute, a silence in which Gretel seemed comfortable.

Jon raised a hand to his belt, where his watch was fastened. His fingers read the time. “So…” he said. “Do you suppose Korvo will be free soon?”

“I don’t know,” Gretel said, “but I can answer your questions.” She smiled.

Jon left the smithy a few minutes later, feeling angry. He was angry that Gretel had kept him from seeing Korvo, but that was obligatory anger. His hot, spontaneous anger was at what she had said about Prohibition.

Like most people of his generation, Jon had never questioned the necessity or legitimacy of Prohibition, not because he consciously approved of it, but because he regarded it as part of the matrix of civilized life, like money, or language. Magic was too dangerous to be used except by licensed professionals; that was simply true. But Gretel en Sturn questioned Prohibition, and her objections seemed not only valid but obvious.

Jon was not offended by her claims. He was open to the possibility that Prohibition was pointless, or even sinister. But he did not like being contradicted. He wanted Gretel to be wrong because he wanted to be right. He was angry that a young mother who daydreamed about old ships should have deeper insights than himself. He should be more clever than her. He should be right.

Jon looked back. He stared at the smithy’s chimney, its smoke still blowing against the breeze, away from the house. He concentrated, forming an intention in his mind. The smooth stream of smoke became turbulent. Then the breeze caught it, and it began blowing eastward, with the wind, toward the house. He formed a second, more specific intention. The smoke began flowing directly into one of the house’s open windows.

Jon smirked. “Too bad Prohibition isn’t enforced in Nordarosso,” he muttered.

* * *

Lowdous de Cynd entered the foyer flanked by his two servants, a man and a woman who both looked to be about forty. Jon had not looked closely at them before, but now he perceived that there were guards. They were both dressed in suits of a gray fabric that Jon recognized as synthetic, carbon and silicon coaxed by magic into long fibers, then woven into cloth. It was not comfortable, but a few layers of it could stop a bullet. Their tunics were loose enough to conceal pistols, and subtle bulges at the waists suggested that they did. The servants’ utilitarian suits complimented Cynd’s luxurious robes: physically powerful servants for a financially powerful master.

Bitali closed the doors behind them, leaving himself outside.

“Welcome to my home, Mr. Cynd,” Jon said, bowing.

“Thank you, Mr. Alder,” Cynd replied, returning the bow. As he bowed, the handle of his flintlock protruded from his sash, plainly visible. Did the old man intend for it to be seen? He must.

“Would your servants like any refreshment?” Jon asked.

“I’m sure they would,” Cynd said. He did not look at them.

“If they’ll wait here, my butler will come in once he has seen to your carriage.”

“Your butler parks carriages? Is he your only servant?”

“Yes, unless you include my secretary. He is a uniquely capable man. I believe that quality of staff is more important than quantity.”

“Frugality?”

“Discretion.”

Cynd nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of this policy. So far so good, Jon thought

One of the guards, the man, leaned forward and whispered in Cynd’s ear.

“Hanns wants to know where in the house we will be meeting,” Cynd said. “So he can keep me in earshot.”

“Of course. We’ll be right in here,” Jon said, gesturing toward the parlor door. “The dining room is through that door,” he said, gesturing toward another. “They can wait there, or here in the foyer if you prefer. My butler will serve them in either place.”

Cynd looked back at the guards, who nodded understanding.

“Very good,” Jon said. “This way, Mr. Cynd.”

Jon allowed himself a slight smile. This second iteration of the meeting was already going much better than the first. It typically took Jon three attempts before he was able to awe a client, but he felt that his first attempt with Cynd had been almost wasted. He hoped to make up lost ground this time.

Jon guided Cynd into the parlor and closed the door behind them. He indicated that Cynd should sit in one of the two armchairs, then took the one opposite.

“Change is an illusion,” Jon said.

“What?”

“Guards in armor. They have new kinds of armor to meet new kinds of weapons, but the roles are the same as they were a thousand years ago. The human condition hasn’t changed.” Jon gestured toward the sideways hourglass. “The sand does not flow.”

“Ah,” Cynd said. “Indeed.” The old man frowned, seeming confused rather than impressed.

“But you didn’t come here to hear me philosophize,” Jon said quickly. “Please, tell me about your wife.”

“Yes. Well, as you know from our correspondence, my wife, Beattrace, is missing. She disappeared from our home on the twentieth of Rikolto. That was six weeks ago yesterday”

“You say ‘disappeared.’ What do you mean, specifically?”

“She went to bed on the evening of the nineteenth, and in the morning she didn’t come to breakfast. I checked her bedroom, and she wasn’t there.”

“Was the room in order?”

“The bed wasn’t made, but that’s normal since no servants had been in. There was no sign of a struggle, or that the room had been searched, or broken into. There was nothing unusual except that Beatrace was gone.”

“The bed: were the sheets turned over, as if she had gotten up during the night, or were they smooth?”

“Turned over.”

“How can you be certain that she didn’t simply get up and leave?”

“Because she would have been seen. Every entrance to my house and grounds is guarded, and a guard patrols inside the house as well. I also have magical wards that detect unexpected persons on the grounds.”

“Would any of that have stopped her from leaving?”

“No. The guards would have let her pass. But she would have been noticed, and I would have been informed.”

“I see,” Jon said. He cupped his chin in his hand and looked at the floor, pretending to think. “Pardon an indelicate question,” he said, “but I must ask: had you fought with your wife that evening?”

“No.”

“Do you ever fight with your wife?”

“No. We get along very well.”

“But you don’t sleep in the same bed with her?”

“No.”

“You don’t sleep in her bed, but you were in her room that night?”

“Yes.”

Jon listened carefully to these responses, seeking that hint of embarrassment that he had noticed before. It was there. Cynd did not like to say that he and Beatrace slept in different beds. But why should that embarrass him? As far as Jon knew, it was unusual for rich spouses not to have separate beds.

“So you know that she went to bed as usual?” Jon said, letting the subject shift.

“Yes,” Cynd said. “I am absolutely certain.”

“You’ve already been to the Police, I am sure, and you surely consulted lesser investigators before coming to me. Your servants and guards have been interrogated. Your grounds have been thoroughly searched. All of this yielded no trace of her.”

Jon stood up and took a few paces away from the chairs, thinking. He was not thinking about anything Cynd had said in this iteration of their conversation, most of that he had known from before. He was thinking about a theory that had occurred to him that morning, and planning how he could safely test it.

“Pardon another indelicate question,” Jon said, turning back to Cynd. “Was any of your property missing either after or shortly before your wife’s disappearance?”

“Did she steal from me, you mean?”

John shrugged apologetically.

“No, nothing was missing. And she has access to all of my personal accounts and vaults. If she’d wanted to rob me, she could have done it without even having to lie about what she was doing.”

“All of your personal accounts? You gave her access to everything?”

“Yes.”

“Then you trust her completely?”

“I’m not one of those lecherous old fools who marries a woman for her waistline. I wouldn’t have married Beatrace if I didn’t trust her, completely.”

“Rightly so. But she earned that trust very quickly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You met Beatrace in Glacio, and by Zero Day you were already willing to give her the combinations to your vaults. It is not unusual for a man of your position to marry a young wife, but it is unusual for him to give her so much authority. Beatrace must be an exceptional woman.”

Cynd scowled. His eyes focussed on a spot between himself and Jon as if an invisible book were floating there. Jon knew exactly what he was thinking: had he told the great detective when he had met Beatrace? Had he mentioned that she was young? Those were things he might have said, but he didn’t remember saying them…

“Yes,” Cynd said at last. “Beatrace is exceptional. She is… unique.”

“Unique? Mr. Cynd, most old men who marry young women are interested in waistlines, not in uniqueness.” Jon paused, wondering how far he could safely lead Cynd down this path. When Cynd offered no response, Jon prompted, “What is it that makes Beatrace so special?”

Cynd sat in silence for another moment before asking, “Are you a religious man, Mr. Alder?”

“I am open to religious possibilities,” Jon said. “There is much we do not understand about our world. We cannot be confident of what is impossible.”

Cynd scoffed. “Why don’t you just say ‘I’m not telling?’ You ask people what they believe about their own eternal destiny, and they recite diplomatic nothings.”

“I mean that I don’t find any of the codified religions fully satisfying. I see the possibility of some truth in all of them, but I don’t submit my opinions to the approval of monks or sages.”

Cynd raised his eyebrows. “Oh you don’t?”

Jon returned to his seat and leaned forward, narrowing the space between them. “Lowdous,” he said, “I respect intellectual honesty, and I think you do too. Let’s be honest: no one really believes that the Emperor is the First Sage. The temples preach that because the law requires it, but no one really believes it’s true.”

“That, Johannes, is something an Inquisitor would say.”

“You think I’m an Inquisitor?”

“No!” Cynd laughed. His face softened with the laugh. “That would be too complicated.”

“I am open to religious possibilities,” Jon repeated. “So tell me honestly: what makes Beatrace special?”

“Oh, hollow moon,” Cynd said. “I’ve got nothing to lose by telling you. If you think I’m crazy, so what? Beatrace is my second wife. My first wife, Bernice, died last year, in Malvarma.”

“How long had you been married to Bernice?”

“Fifty-one years. Good years. I loved Bernice. I love Bernice. When I lost her, I expected to be alone for the rest of my life–however long that is. But then I met Beatrace, and she was…”

“And Beatrace was Bernice?”

“And Beatrace was Bernice. That sounds crazy to say out loud, but… she is. She looks just like Bernice did forty years ago. And that’s not just an old man’s feeble memory. I have a portrait of her at that age, and Beatrace looks just like it. She has the same tastes, the same mannerisms, the same sense of humor. And she has the same interest in me.”

“Do you believe that Beatrace is Bernice reincarnated? The same soul in another body?”

Cynd spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It seems so,” he said.

“But their lifespans overlapped. Bernice was alive when Beatrace was born. She was alive most of her life.”

Cynd spread his hands and said nothing.

“Did Beatrace believe that she was Bernice reincarnated?”

“I never asked her, specifically. She knew that I thought so, and she didn’t say otherwise.”

“What about Beatrace’s childhood?”

“Similar to Bernice’s. Not identical. They were both only children of small landowning families. They both moved to Norbus when their parents died. They both got jobs at the same restaurant.”

“The Joyful Hart.”

“Yes! How do you know that?”

“Simple deduction. There are very few restaurants in Norbus that have existed long enough for both women to have worked there. Of those, the Joyful Hart uses the oldest recipes.” Jon pointed to the bulge in Cynd’s sash where the flintlock was concealed. “And I see that you are a man who appreciates tradition.”

Cynd jaw went slack in astonishment.

Nailed it! Jon thought. He struggled to keep satisfaction out of his expression.

“Mr. Cynd,” Jon said, rising from his seat, “I have decided that I will take your case, if you will trust me with it.”

“You think you can find Beatrace?”

“I will not only find her, I will return her to you.”

“How can you promise that? You don’t even know that she’s alive.”

“I suspect that she is alive,” Jon said. “And I already have an idea of where to start looking for her.”

“Where?”

“Mr. Cynd, if you hire me, you must trust me. You will know my theories when I am certain they are correct.”

Cynd glared at Jon for what seemed like a whole minute. Jon began to wonder if he had made a mistake. In this iteration, had Cynd mentioned meeting his wives at the Joyful Hart? No. He had only mentioned that they had both worked there. Had he noticed that Jon knew too much? Or had Jon overreached by claiming that he already knew where to start looking for Beatrace? Jon groped for something to say that might derail Cynd’s train of thought before it reached an unwanted destination.

“My wife has been wanting to visit Norbus,” Jon said casually. “But we haven’t had an excuse to go.”

“You’re married?” Cynd asked, surprised.

“Yes. I usually just call her my secretary when talking to clients, because she is my secretary too. Anna is a brilliant woman, and a great help to me, but she doesn’t like the spotlight.” Jon put on a tiny smile and let his eyes drift, as though thinking of some pleasant memory.

“Alright,” Cynd said after another moment. “I will trust you, Mr. Alder. Name your price.”

Jon leaned back in his chair. “When I return your wife to you,” he said, after what he judged to be a dramatic pause, “I will let you name my price.”