I Loaded the Occult Panel

A large vehicle careened off Brook Street into Hanover Square at a terrifying speed.

Its wheels tore through a puddle, slinging muddy water across the side of a carriage parked by the curb.

By the time the coachman sprang up to curse, the vehicle had already barreled past.

Of all things, it was an ambulance, its body painted olive green with red crosses emblazoned on both sides.

The driver’s door flew open, and a young woman hopped down.

She wore a khaki uniform and mud-caked high-laced boots, with an armband on her left sleeve that read: F.A.N.Y. (First Aid Nursing Yeomanry).

Her hair was cropped remarkably short—red like Catherine’s, though a shade darker—and a pair of round-framed glasses sat perched on the bridge of her nose.

She was striking; the Earl’s fine family genes saw to that, giving her slender brows, a straight nose, and thin lips, with two bright patches of red whipped into her cheeks by the cold wind.

Had she simply stood there without a word, she could have passed for a young lady sitting in a family study reading poetry.

Yet she had the cheapest five-penny cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth—the kind frontline soldiers loved best.She strode right up to Richard and snatched the feather out of his hand in one swift motion. The lady who had been handing out the feathers froze on the spot.

The driver twirled the feather between her fingers. ”Is this ostrich plumage?”

The lady’s face flushed crimson. ”You...”

”What he’s doing is far more dangerous than whatever your staff-officer husband does sitting in the War Office.”

The driver flicked her ash.

”I’ll take this feather off your hands—my cab happens to need a duster. The windshield is plastered with mud from Calais, and I’ve been having to wipe it with my sleeve every time.”

The lady’s mouth worked, but not a word came out.

Someone nearby recognized the girl.

”Viola?”

”Morning, Aunt,” Viola said, nodding toward the crowd. ”Am I late?”

”No... why on earth did you show up driving an ambulance?”

”My baby needs to go back for a major overhaul.” Viola grinned toward her beloved vehicle.

”The factory’s in Manchester, so driving up from Folkestone was right on the way—just in time for my cousin’s wedding.”

”From Folkestone to the Imperial Capital counts as on the way?”

”Anything heading north is on the way.”

With that, she tucked the white feather straight into the breast pocket of her uniform jacket.

The lady finally found her voice. ”Miss Blackburn, what are you...”

”Madam,” Viola cut her off flatly.

”When it comes to the front lines, I have more right to speak than you do. Last month, I drove an ambulance along the road from Ypres to Calais and hauled some three hundred men in total.”

She stuck the cigarette back between her lips.

”Plenty of soldiers died without ever wearing an armband on their sleeves. When their mothers come to claim them, you’re welcome to go pin a feather on them too.”

Dead silence fell beneath the portico. The woman’s face drained from red to white; her lips trembled twice before she spun on her heel and retreated into the crowd.

Viola bared her teeth at the lady’s back and blew a smoke ring.

Then she turned, wiped her palm casually on her trousers, and held her hand out to Richard.

”Viola Blackburn, bridesmaid.”

Richard shook her hand, noticing her palm was covered in calluses and traces of stubborn engine oil still lingered between her fingers.

”Richard Williams, best man.”

”I know you. All the girls in our circle call you the Great Wine Barrel.”

Viola pulled her hand back and burst out laughing.

”Last time at the Royal Academy, when you and Phillips drank that whole pack of young masters under the table, we saw every bit of it from the sidelines.”

She glanced inside the church. ”By the way, where’s my bridesmaid dress?”

A bit sheepish at being called the Great Wine Barrel, Richard turned to lead the way. ”In the vestry. Constance had someone deliver it ahead of time.”

Viola tossed her cigarette butt to the ground and stubbed it out with her boot. ”Right then, lead on, Mr. Best Man.”

Grey, Clara, and Catherine were already waiting inside.

They had arrived together. Grey and Richard’s aunt had set out from the Ashford Residence in that vintage car of hers, picking up Clara and Sophia along the way.

At the church doors, they had run into Catherine, fresh out of the sanatorium.

Duncan had insisted his niece attend, claiming her bones were about to rust from lying in bed for so long.

Bringing all of them together at a single wedding was entirely Count Blackburn’s doing.

By old Albion custom, the bride’s family hosted the wedding and sent out the invitations.

Although Phillips had mentioned over afternoon tea that they would ”only invite relatives and friends,” the Earl had spent several days writing out invitations by hand.

”I said relatives and friends only,” Phillips had complained to Richard afterward.

”The Earl said no problem at all—after whittling down the relatives and friends the Blackburn Family has accumulated over several centuries, it came to a mere four hundred or so.”

By the time the list was finalized, St. George’s Church was packed to capacity, and the hotel banquet hall was fully booked.

With the war now raging at full tilt, a gathering on this scale was a rare sight indeed.

The social season had been suspended since last year—balls, regattas, and the Royal Ascot had all been canceled. So once the invitations went out, replies came flying back like snowflakes.

Some people even pulled strings through several layers of connections just to squeeze their names onto the guest list.

The mystical side turned out in even fuller force. The elder Phillips had served in the General Administration for decades, and everyone who hadn’t made it in time to see him off at his funeral showed up today.

Clara had even been invited by the Earl by name; having advanced to Minor Adept at twenty-four, she was already a rising star of some renown within the Empire’s circles.

Sophia, meanwhile, had come as Lecturer Fairfield’s companion.

”I’m here for the game meat,” she had declared self-righteously in the car.

”The department dining hall hasn’t seen a whole cut of meat in two months. Why wouldn’t I come?”

Once inside the vestry, however, Viola could no longer keep up her devil-may-care swagger from outside.

She was swearing up a storm. ”Who designed this dress? Is this row of buttons down the back meant for someone with three hands?”

Before arriving, Grey and the others had been intensely curious, since Constance herself had told them that her younger cousin was far more outstanding than she was.

Grey had tossed and turned all night unable to sleep, and that morning she had redone her hair in front of the mirror several times.

Clara had spent days pondering just how many ways the word ”outstanding” could be interpreted. Catherine had heard it from Sophia, whose loose tongue had ensured half the Department of Classics knew about it.

And now, as it turned out...

”Could someone give me a hand?”

Half a head poked out from behind the dressing screen, her short hair a tousled mess and her glasses crooked on the bridge of her nose.

”Whose fingers are on the slender side?”

Grey hesitated a moment before stepping behind the screen.

Behind it, Viola stood with her back turned while Grey fastened the buttons for her.

”Thanks.” Viola flashed a sweet smile. ”You’re Grey, aren’t you?”

”You know of me?”

”My cousin told me about you.” Viola looked down at the pale lavender dress she was wearing.

”She also told me about Lecturer Fairfield and Miss Blackwood. She briefed me on every single female guest coming today, one by one, as if I were marching off to war.”

Grey fastened the last button and took a step back. Viola turned around; the dress fit her beautifully, the pale lavender setting off the fairness of her skin.

She took off her glasses and peered into the full-length mirror beside them.

”Do I look like a purple onion?”

Grey couldn’t hold back a laugh.

Standing outside the screen, Clara found this person terribly strange.

Ever since her advancement, she could hear the pitch in a person’s breathing, their heartbeat, and the rhythm of ether coursing through their pathways.

The ether of the girl behind the screen had a bizarre rhythm.

It cycled in four-beat measures, much like a four-stroke gasoline engine over at the School of Engineering.

Catherine’s Scales, meanwhile, dipped in deference before Viola.

This girl had ferried three hundred dying soldiers off the front lines; Nemesis’s Scales respected her for it.

Catherine respected her just as much—she had accomplished on the battlefield what Catherine herself could not.

... With twenty minutes left before the ceremony began, Richard and Viola waited for the master of ceremonies to signal their entrance.

The girl slipped one foot out of her shoe and dangled it in midair.

”Did my cousin tell all of you that I’m more outstanding than she is?”

Richard didn’t answer.

Viola let out a laugh. ”When I achieved my Signature two years ago at seventeen, I chose a spark plug made by Lodge Brothers.”

She fished a spark plug from a hidden pocket in her dress and cradled it in her palm.

”When the old men in the family saw this thing, their faces turned green.”

”For someone born into the Blackburn Family, a signature artifact is at the very least a sword left behind by the Crusaders. After holding a meeting to discuss it, they finally wrote me into the registry—the book our family uses to match up the younger generation—with the evaluation ’diminished value.’”

She slipped the spark plug back into her hidden pocket.

”Then the war broke out, I went to Calais, and the battlefield ended up honing me instead—so my value climbed right back up.”

She deliberately trailed off there.

”Speaking of that registry, among the family’s current marriage prospects, your priority ranking has climbed to fourth.”

Richard turned his head to look at her.

”The top three are basically direct heirs to earls or higher peers, or people who advanced to Minor Adept in their early twenties.”

Viola was still swinging her unshod foot.

”First is from a ducal house, second is from the Admiralty, third... never mind. Either way, you’re fourth—up two spots from last month.”

”Why did I move up?” Richard asked, though he already had an inkling why.

Viola didn’t answer, sliding her foot back into her high heel.

”Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter what’s written in that breeding studbook. We just have to put on an act for the day.”

”If our family ever really corners you one day, remember to give me a heads-up.”

She flashed that toothy grin again. ”I’ll need to duck back to the front lines and hide out first.”

The master of ceremonies was gesturing to them from across the way.

Richard told Viola to head over first while he went to sort out a few things. Stepping into a smaller storage room, he emptied the pockets of his overcoat and transferred everything into his morning coat.

Catherine’s stack of IOUs went into the left inside pocket.

MacFie had warned him that if this sheaf of paper fell into an outsider’s hands, her ability would be rendered useless; it had to be kept close to the body.

The left inside pocket sat right over his heart—the safest spot there was.

Next was that pencil.

As he picked it up, his fingertips caught that faint warmth again.

He placed the pencil together with the IOUs, tucked them into his left inside pocket, and fastened the button.

Richard silently went over what he needed to keep in mind next:

’The Blackburn Family is patient. They’ve waited a whole year—they didn’t invite me today just for the wedding feast.’

’So I won’t use my own fountain pen to sign the register;’

’I won’t touch any of the Blackburn Family’s artifacts;’

’And I won’t stay alone with the bridesmaid for too long...’ As he repeated these warnings to himself, the pipe organ began to play outside, opening with the prelude to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.

Richard reached up and straightened his top hat.

By the time he reached the nave, Constance had already walked in.

She had changed into her wedding gown of ivory satin, its long train trailing behind her and the veil lifted back over her head.

Behind her, Lady Blackburn hadn’t stopped fretting for a second.

”Constance! The groom is still right here! The groom mustn’t see the bride before the ceremony, it’s...”

”Mother, we’ve known each other for over a year.”

Constance paid the superstition no mind.

”He’s seen me in hunting gear, he’s seen me in a hospital gown, and he’s lain beside me in the snow on the front lines for a whole night. One extra look at my wedding dress now isn’t going to cause a disaster.”

Phillips had already raised both hands to cover his eyes.

”I didn’t look.”

Lady Blackburn opened her mouth, then finally let out a sigh and turned back toward the side aisle.

Phillips lowered his hands from his eyes.

”All right, let’s run through the rehearsal.”

Since the pipe organ couldn’t be played for the rehearsal, Phillips hummed the tune himself.

Halfway through, he drifted off-key, earning a sharp glare from Clara as she poked her head out from the organ loft above.

Viola slipped her arm through Richard’s.

As they reached the third row of pews, she tilted her head closer to the left side of Richard’s chest and drew in a breath.

It was completely casual, no different from someone taking a passing breath of crisp air on a chilly day.

To Richard and his high Perception, however, the trace of her ether could not have been more obvious.

It was the Hunt-Tracking Method.

It had been documented in those breathing method outlines his aunt had shown him—every deep breath acted as a tracking pulse.

The two of them walked to the church doors, then turned and paced back down the aisle. As they reached the altar steps, Richard couldn’t resist pressing a hand against the left side of his chest.

Standing right beside him, Viola gave a small laugh. ”Mr. Best Man, what do you have in your left pocket?”

”A Pocket Watch.”

”A Pocket Watch.” Viola clearly didn’t buy it. ”Right, a Pocket Watch.”

When the actual ceremony began, the Earl placed the bride’s hand into the groom’s.

Later, while signing the marriage register in the vestry in front of a room full of witnesses, Phillips reached the column for ”Father’s Name,” only for the ink to slide right off the page.

Standing beside him, Constance swiftly took the pen and pressed down hard to write: ”Deceased, Chief Inspector.”

The church bell-ringers began to toll the bells.

All the ringers this year were old men; the young ones had all gone off to join the army.

In the pocket of Phillips’s coat, the old teapot began to hum.

Richard could hear an answering resonance from very far to the east—a Bell without a clapper.

His grandfather laid a hand on Phillips’s shoulder and said in a low voice, ”My old friend came too.”

Just then, someone outside the vestry began to play the violin.

The music drifted in through the crack of the door. The opening note was long and low, spreading slowly beneath the vaulted ceiling until it gradually pressed back the lingering echoes of the bells.

It was Bach’s Air on the G String.

Everyone in the vestry paused what they were doing. Richard turned his head and peered out through the gap in the door.

Clara had taken her place beneath the organ loft, her violin tucked against her snow-white neck.

A court musician hired by the Earl sat at the organ, softly pressing the accompanying chords for her.

Her eyes were closed, her dark green velvet gown sweeping the floor while the silver tuning fork at her collar glinted with every draw of her bow.

The piece had originally been composed for a string orchestra.

Later, someone had arranged it to be played solely on a violin’s lowest string, without changing strings once from start to finish.

Using only that single string, his senior drew forth the weight of an entire orchestra.

The entire church listened in rapt silence. Elderly ladies in the front pews lowered their handkerchiefs, and children in the back rows stopped squirming.

In the fifth row by the aisle, Grey sat with her fingers tightly intertwined.

When the violin ceased, that final note lingered beneath the vault, circling several times before slowly fading away.

The church remained hushed for a moment before everyone erupted into warm applause, with Sophia springing straight to her feet.

Richard’s aunt was smiling too; having a student like Clara certainly did her proud.

...

The wedding banquet was held in the hotel’s ground-floor ballroom.

Richard was seated at the head table, right next to Viola.

He glanced around the room: Grey was at a table by the window, surrounded by relatives and friends of the Ashford Family;

Clara was in the center of the hall, seated with Sophia and a table full of veteran Scholars from the Imperial Capital; and Catherine was closest to the entrance, flanked by Duncan and two distant cousins of the Blackburn Family.

The four of them had been scattered across four different tables—clearly a deliberate arrangement by the Blackburn Family. Before the soup was served, however, the Earl rose to his feet.

Members of the Blackburn Family set down their knives and forks first, followed by their extended relations.

Last of all were the uninitiated guests, who simply saw everyone else putting down their silverware and followed suit.

Only then did Richard notice a small round table set at the very head of the room above the main table, its chairs left unoccupied.

A place card stood before each plate, bearing only an emblem drawn in silver ink:

A solar corona, an anvil, a curved arc, an ear of wheat, a Bone Flute, a seashell, and a thin line stretching into the distance...

Before every chair burned a white candle.

Viola leaned in and explained under her breath, ”Those are reserved for the guests higher up.”

”Higher up?”

”Virtuosos.” She motioned toward the small round table with her chin.

”It’s an old rule in our family—for both weddings and funerals, we burn invitations in the chapel fireplace. They’re burned for the ones on good terms with the Blackburn Family, or at least not on bad terms. However many invitations catch fire, that’s how many chairs we set out the next day.”

”Have any ever shown up?”

”Not a single one.” Viola gave a dry snort.

”The liveliest it ever got was at my great-grandmother’s wedding, when a silver fork in front of one of the chairs shifted by itself. The whole family talked about that for decades.”

She paused.

”Oh, well, I can’t quite say not a single one has ever come.”

Glass of soda water in hand, the Earl turned toward the small round table, bowed slightly, and moved his lips.

He murmured so softly that only the few people nearest him in the entire hall could make it out, Richard among them.

”...He who dwells behind a thousand doors, one in age with every newborn.”

”...He who once single-handedly ordained the bloodlines of all kings.”

”...He whose faces have become a multitude, whose names have reached a thousand, whose cradle alone is never empty in the world.”

Only after finishing the honorific name did the Earl raise his voice.

”At the Blackburn Family’s wedding today, we first toast the honored guests at the high table.”

The flames of the eleven candles stood straight and still.

Richard extended his Still Water slightly in that direction, then swiftly drew it back.

The burned invitations hadn’t even drawn an echo; the Virtuosos simply had no time to spare for a junior’s wedding.

Only before the chair at the very head of the table did the candle flame flicker.

The temperature across the entire ballroom rose a fraction with it.

Everyone at the Blackburn Family tables bowed their heads, and the Earl’s shoulders relaxed as he let out a long breath.

”That chair belongs to our family’s ancestor,”

Viola said, her voice much softer now.

”It comes to take a look every time. Just one look counts as blessing the newlyweds.”

Once reverence had been paid to their ancestor, the soup was served.

The Earl took his seat again and offered Gerard a smile from two tables away. There was actually a hint of smugness in that smile—a rare sight on a middle-aged man who seldom let his emotions show.

Gerard kept his head down and drank his soup, ignoring him.

The Ashford House had no patron backing them; there was simply no helping it.

After the soup was finished and the fish course cleared away, the waiters poured a fresh round of tea for everyone.

The master of ceremonies tapped his glass, and the ballroom fell quiet.

”And now, a toast from the best man.”

Richard rose to his feet, holding no notes.

He looked over the head table, then at Phillips.

”Cicero once wrote a short book called On Friendship.”

A few light chuckles rippled through the ballroom, likely from guests who found quoting Cicero at a wedding a touch too pedantic.

”In it, he says that a true friend is another self,” Richard said.

”The reason I quote Cicero is that I first met Phillips two autumns ago at the Cicero Cup competition. Later, we ran into each other at the Imperial Capital University Library, and he asked if I wanted to have some tea. When I told him I didn’t drink tea, he said I must be a terribly boring person.”

Laughter broke out across the ballroom, and Phillips buried his face in his hand at the head table.

”Cicero also said that friendship makes prosperity brighter, and adversity lighter to bear.”

Richard paused.

”Over the past year and more, he has been through a great deal—moments of brightness, and moments of shadow.”

The ballroom slowly grew quiet.

”Through friendship, those who are absent are present all the same.”

”On a day like today, there is someone who ought to be sitting at the head table.”

Richard looked at the head table.

Right beside the bride and groom’s seats in the center stood an empty chair.

”The groom’s father...”

He opened his mouth to speak the name, but on the tip of his tongue it slipped away.

”...That Chief Inspector,” was all Richard could say.

”He is here today as well.”

Saying no more, he raised his teacup.

”To the bride and groom.”

Everyone in the hall rose to their feet and lifted their glasses—tea, soda water, and ginger beer clinking together across the room.

At the head table, Phillips’s mother pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.

Phillips’s eldest brother stood beside the empty chair, the teacup in his hand trembling.

Phillips stood with reddened eyes.

Raising his cup, he gave Richard a nod, tilted his head back, and drained it in one gulp.

It was only tea, yet he downed it like strong liquor.

When the main course was served, Richard was in for a surprise. He took a bite of roast chicken; as the meat settled in his stomach, nourishment flowed along his main vessels toward his limbs—accompanied by ether.

It was faint enough to be nearly imperceptible, blended into every bite of meat.

He glanced around the room.

At the head table, his aunt took a bite of roast chicken, paused in surprise, and took another bite.

Catherine’s uncle set down his knife and fork and rubbed his previously injured arm, an odd expression on his face.

Not far from the head table, his grandfather was eating very slowly, chewing every mouthful for a long time.

Beside Richard, Viola sliced off a hefty piece of venison pie and stuffed it into her mouth.

”This is our family’s Feast of Plenty,” she said around a mouthful.

”For people like you, eating it does the body good.”

Viola motioned with her chin toward an elderly gentleman at the next table.

”For people like him, eating it just fills the stomach.”

’This must be part of a Virtuoso family’s foundation,’ Richard thought to himself.

The girl clattered her knife and fork down and pushed the venison pie in front of her to the middle of the table. ”I hear you have quite an appetite.”

”Frontline rule is the field kitchen wagon only comes round once—eat too slow and you’re left licking the bottom of the pot. Care for a contest?”

Richard looked at her.

Viola was already pushing up her sleeves, baring forearms toned with lean muscle.

At the head table, Phillips overheard them first.

”A contest?” He perked right up. ”An eating contest between the best man and the bridesmaid?”

”That’s right!” Viola nodded vigorously.

”Montagu!” Phillips called out to the neighboring table. ”Come be the referee!”

Montagu set down his teacup with a sigh and rose to his feet.

Across the ballroom, guests began turning their heads one after another.

Waiters brought out two fresh venison pies and set one before each of them.

Montagu raised his hand. ”Begin.”

Viola ate at breakneck speed, her knife and fork flying across the plate.

Piece after piece of meat and pastry crust vanished into her mouth, chewed a few times and swallowed down as if she were fighting a battle.

Richard didn’t eat particularly fast, yet his stomach seemed bottomless, accommodating however much he put away.

Watching the two of them hit it off in such lively fashion, the Earl beamed from ear to ear and waved a hand to the side.

Waiters promptly brought out two more venison pies, along with two servings of poached pears in syrup.

The pears were intensely sweet, their syrup pooling across the plate, and halfway through hers Viola was already cloyed by the richness.

”Final course,” Viola said after forcing down the rest, rising to her feet again. ”The final course decides the winner.”

The ballroom doors swung open, and four waiters wheeled a cart inside.

Atop the cart stood a three-tiered wedding cake. Phillips gripped the handle of the knife, with Constance’s hand resting over his.

As the blade sank in, a rich fragrance swept across the entire ballroom.

The bride made the first cut, and in keeping with old custom, slices of cake were distributed to every guest.

The moment the taste of vanilla touched Richard’s tongue, what he tasted was the wish he had made back in July. He sat there with his fork poised in midair, motionless for a long while.

[eating Lv.4... 98%... 99%... 100%.]

[Advancement requirements met.]

The panel glowed before his eyes, waiting for him to tap it.

Advancing [eating] to Lv.5 would alter his body, and the moment it leveled up, his stomach might churn violently.

Viola was sitting right beside him; with a single breath, she could scent him from head to toe.

He lowered his fork and slowly finished the remaining bite of cake.

”The best man wins!” Fischer shouted from behind them. ”The bridesmaid still has half left!”

”All right, I admit defeat.”

Viola looked down at her plate, rubbed her stomach, and couldn’t help letting out several burps in a row.

The Earl and Lady Blackburn were frantically signaling her with their eyes, but she didn’t spare them a single glance.

Lively chatter filled the ballroom once more as guests rose in twos and threes, teacups in hand, mingling among the tables. The Earl, too, left his seat with his wife to make the rounds and cultivate connections at the other tables.

Seizing the opportunity, Viola leaned toward Richard, the scent of vanilla bean still lingering on her breath.

”Last week my uncle added a line to your page, and I didn’t get a clear look at it before.”

”And you’ve seen it clearly now?” Richard raised an eyebrow.

”This morning, he had me fetch the registry out of the car for him,” Viola said.

”So I flipped through it while I was at it.”

She raised her teacup to her lips, hiding half her face behind it.

”It says: The Ashford Family’s fortune has surged sharply within the year; its origin is suspected to involve the hunt. Advisable to conclude a marriage alliance swiftly.”

Richard’s hand paused in midair around his teacup.

A sharp surge in fortune—that was none other than the share of ”personal fortune” the lord of the hunt had allotted him.

And for them to suspect its origin involved the hunt meant that the Earl—or rather, the Virtuoso ancestor standing behind him—had already caught the scent of the Wild Hunt.

Across the room, having made a circuit of the ballroom, the Earl returned to the head table and raised his glass once more. The first toast had been to welcome; the second was to give thanks.

It was to thank the Virtuosos who had not come—for their absence meant that, at the very least, they bore no ill will.

”The Blackburn Family gives thanks to the honored guests at the high table...”

At that very moment, the flame of the second-to-last candle suddenly leaned outward.

The corresponding chair slid back a fraction, scraping softly against the floor.

All of a sudden, Richard caught the scent of coal smoke on a winter morning in Slag Alley, mingled with the faint smell of soap from his mother’s apron.

Beside Gerard, Evelyn sniffed the air as well, looking puzzled.

”Grandfather... do you smell that? It’s a bit like our home’s...”

Before Gerard could answer, the sound of guests sniffing rose and fell all around them.

A young waiter refilling teacups stared off in a daze, completely unaware even as the tea overflowed the rim.

The lady who had handed out the white feather was there too, her fingers clutching the edge of the tablecloth in a death grip, her face drained of all color.

Though everyone smelled something different, each caught the familiar scent of the neighborhood around their own home. Immediately after, a crushing sense of pressure climbed sharply through the room.

A little girl burst into tears in her mother’s arms, and several white-haired gentlemen rose to their feet without thinking.

Those connected to the mystical side each reacted in their own way.

Gerard remained seated at his table without a flicker of expression, yet the veins on the backs of his hands bulged starkly.

The teacup in Isabella’s hand split with a sharp crack.

Clara heard a single note—immeasurably long, with neither beginning nor end in sight.

Above Catherine’s head, her Scales didn’t dare so much as quiver.

A whale had just swum past the pan of her Scales; she had no idea where to even begin weighing it.

Still holding his glass aloft, the Earl turned his head toward the man who had appeared in that seat at some point unnoticed.

He was tall, his hair piled atop his head in a tangled heap like dry straw.

He wore black formal attire, though his leather shoes were still caked with river mud.

The man looked up and gave a casual wave to the hall full of frozen guests.

”Sorry about that, everyone. I’m late—the road wasn’t easy to travel.”

The Earl didn’t dare show the slightest negligence; as he set his glass down, a splash of soda water sloshed over his fingers.

”You are... the one from the Mouth of the Underworld River...”

”Don’t stand on ceremony. Just call me Matthew.”

The Earl straightened his tailcoat and stepped toward the small round table.

Halting three paces from Matthew, he bowed deeply and was just about to speak.

”That’s enough. Step back—I will receive him.”

A clear, childlike voice rang out, and every eye in the hall turned toward the sound.