The morning was gray, damp, and heavy, as if the fog had gotten into her bones while she tossed and turned all night.
Klara groaned, dragging herself upright from the bed that smelled faintly of mold and regret. "Brilliant choice of lodging, Klara," she muttered at herself, rubbing her temples. "Oh sure, Klara, let's just pick this boarding house. Cheapest option, they said. Convenient, they said. Ha! Conveniently one step away from getting executed in your sleep."
Her words weren't an exaggeration. Sleeping next to Adrian Bellacorte, as Mrs. Sammer had informed her, was like trying to rest with a loaded gun under your pillow—except the gun occasionally sighed in that tired, terrifying way judges did, which somehow made it worse.
How do people in this city even survive like this? Do they just… nap with impending doom right next door?
She splashed her face with cold water. The basin rattled faintly. Maybe from her own shaking hands. Maybe from him. She refused to ask.
But then her mind betrayed her, again, serving up the memory of last night. He had stood in front of his window, coat shrugged off, shirt tugged free at the cuffs. Muscles cut into clean lines down his back as he moved, broad and deliberate—
Klara slapped her cheeks. Hard.
Focus! Focus, you idiot! You can't trust hot people! They're always the most troublesome ones. Always. Absolutely. Forever.
Still, her lips tugged upward, a grin sneaking in as she muttered, almost shyly, "...though he did have a nice back."
She froze in place, ears burning, then shoved her face back into the basin until the cold water bit at her skin. "Nope! Not happening! Not allowed. Off the table. Gone. Done. He's trouble incarnate, Klara, and you know it."
Her blush burned hotter than the tea she downed for breakfast—cheap, watery, a single penny's worth of brown disappointment. She shoved it down with two thin slices of toast and "butter" that had the texture of candlewax. A queen's feast, really.
No matter. Today she had work to do.
First stop: the Backlund Bulletin.
Klara marched through the streets, cane tapping at the cobblestones, determined to shake off her sleepless night. She stepped into the Bulletin's headquarters—a cramped building that smelled of ink and sweat—and paid thirty pounds to post her advertisement.
From Tuesday onward, readers would find a little strip of text buried in the paper's inner pages:
Sherlock Moriarty. Private Investigations. Reasonable rates. Strict confidentiality. Address: 15 Minsk Street.
"Not flashy, not too big. Just enough to reel in business without painting a bull's-eye on myself," she whispered, tucking the receipt into her bag.
She could have aimed higher—major papers, wider reach—but the thought of her name splattered across the Tussock Times or the Daily Tribune made her stomach churn. She needed clients, not fame.
Her second task was trickier: supplies.
Her route through Backlund's shops looked innocent enough. A little flower shop here for powders, a jeweler there for thin silver slices, a discreet herb seller tucked between a bakery and a tailor. To any passerby, she looked like a scatterbrained woman wasting money on trinkets.
But Klara's pockets grew lighter with every purchase. By noon, she had spent five more pounds, the humongous sum she'd brought from Tingen shrinking to a nervous ninety-two.
"Spending money's easier than breathing," she groaned as she left the last shop, tugging her coat tighter against the wet wind.
Her stomach roared, reminding her she hadn't eaten since that sorry excuse of a breakfast. She ducked into a cafeteria that smelled faintly of fried onions and coal smoke. The prices on the wall made her wince, but she ordered a black pepper steak anyway. Eight pence gone, just like that.
The waiter plopped the plate down, and Klara found herself staring at the sad strip of beef like it was both her salvation and her ruin.
"Eat it slow," she mumbled, carving off the first piece. "Every bite's basically a coin vanishing into thin air."
Still, the pepper was sharp, the meat greasy, and it gave her the strength to lean back with a sigh. Her mind was already darting ahead—to rituals, to casework, to how much longer she could last on the money she had left.
But then, because she couldn't help herself, her thoughts slid back to him.
He's next door, Klara. Right next door.
She slapped the table lightly, startling the man at the next booth. "Nope. Not thinking about it. Not him. Not his coat. Not his stupid perfectly groomed hair. And definitely not his back."
Not to mention… I should be safe. Nghh… What is he even doing at this place? Smurfs like him are the bane of my existence even way back before then.
Her fork clinked against the plate as she lampooned. She picked up the last bite, shoved it into her mouth, and chewed angrily until her jaw hurt.
By the time the clock struck one, Klara had already staggered back into 15 Minsk Street, dragging her tired feet across the wooden floor. Lunch could wait; rituals came first.
She lined up her makeshift arsenal of powders on the table like a witch with poor budgeting skills: slumber flower, dragon blood grass, dark red sandalwood, and mint. Stirred together, they made Holy Night Powder—the closest thing she had to a proper wall of spirituality.
Not glamorous, not elegant, but effective enough.
"A real silver ritual dagger would make this easier…" she muttered under her breath, nose wrinkling as the mint stung her eyes. "But of course, life insists on me being broke. Again."
She sighed dramatically, then leaned back. The truth was she had no choice but to keep improvising like this until she advanced further—Sequence Seven, minimum. Until then, she was the queen of duct-tape mysticism.
Her hand lingered on the little bowl of shimmering powder. Her lips twitched into a crooked smile.
"At least the company won't change. Justice, Hanged Man, Sun… familiar faces, if you can even call crimson stars faces. Honestly, they're probably the closest thing I've got to coworkers."
She stretched across her bed, staring at the ceiling. "What surprise will Hanged Man bring this time? He does have a knack for turning up with treasure like it's pocket lint. Diary pages, maybe. Hopefully. Roselle's little ramblings do make excellent bedtime stories."
The thought almost lulled her into a nap—but the reminder of work snapped her awake again.
Detective work was survival.
Detective work was cover.
Detective work was… admittedly a little fun.
A private investigator had access to all walks of life, which made digging into the Beyonder circles possible. That was the plan: sniff out the Secret Order, trace their activities, and maybe stumble onto her next potion formula. Sequence Seven wasn't going to fall into her lap—unless she robbed someone, which… tempting, but no.
As for her real enemies, Klara pressed her lips together. Some names she shoved into the back of her mind. Ince Zangwill—definitely one of them. Better not to prod at that hornet's nest until she had something sharper than a cane and sarcasm. But if fate handed her his shadow one day… oh, she'd happily drop an anonymous little love letter at the nearest Church office.
She sat up suddenly, money anxieties gnawing at her like a rat in the walls.
Detectives didn't exactly rake in fortunes. Enough for a middle-class life, sure, but not enough for potion materials that cost entire inheritances. Which left her with two options: depend on Justice's generosity or gamble what little savings she hadn't already burned through.
Ninety-two pounds. That was all she had in the account she could actually touch.
"Which means," she told herself bitterly, "I have exactly the financial security of a soggy cracker."
Her fingers drummed the table. "Don't touch the ninety-two. Don't even breathe on the ninety-two. That money is sacred. Which means I'm officially jobless and broke until someone hires me."
She cursed under her breath and went to dig through the stack of newspapers she'd bought earlier, scanning the tiny print for promising investments. New inventions, joint ventures, too-good-to-be-true opportunities.
She snorted halfway through.
"Snake oil, snake oil, more snake oil. Honestly, who falls for this garbage?" she muttered, tossing the last one aside with a huff. "Useless."
By a quarter to three, she had locked herself in her bedroom, curtains drawn tight, incense and powders filling the air with their peculiar blend of sharp and sweet. With careful hands, she scattered the Holy Night Powder, tracing the edges of her little sanctuary until the wall of spirituality shimmered into place.
Then she exhaled, steady and deliberate, before walking four counterclockwise steps.
The world shifted.
The gray fog greeted her, vast and infinite, swallowing the horizon in endless silence.
Klara's breath caught.
No matter how many times she came here, her heart skipped that same beat. Up here, there were no debts, no worries about coin, no pounding headaches about rituals. Just her and the throne, her and the stars.
And gods, the stars. Crimson points scattered across the mist, each a life, each a mystery.
She approached the high-backed chair and sank into it, feeling it cradle her like a crown she hadn't quite earned. Her spirituality reached out, brushing against the nearest star, warm and pulsing beneath her touch.
The Sun.
He was praying again. She answered, her lips curving despite herself.
"Some things don't change, huh?" she whispered into the silence, her voice small but content. "The world can spin itself upside down, and I still get to sit here, above it all."
Klara leaned back in her chair, eyes closing briefly as the fog curled around her like an embrace.
Up here, for once, she let herself appreciate it. The quiet. The vastness. The reminder that there were places untouched by Backlund's dirt and smoke and endless noise.
A place that was hers, even if only for a moment.
The palace above the gray fog shimmered in its endless, heavy stillness.
It was so vast, so impossible, that every time Klara sat there in her Fool's chair, she felt like she had snuck into a god's parlor and was getting away with it.
At least until she remembered—she was the god in this parlor.
...Kind of.
Her fingers drummed idly against the carved armrest as she cast her gaze across the other three figures. Crimson motes of stars hung behind each one, glowing faintly with their prayers. Justice—sweet little Miss Justice—had that eager sparkle in her eyes again, the sort of sparkle that made Klara want to wave just to see the girl squeak.
So, naturally, she did.
Klara raised her hand, palm open, and gave Audrey a playful little waggle of her fingers. Justice's eyes lit up instantly, her posture straightening as she waved back with the enthusiasm of someone greeting a long-lost friend.
Cute. Too cute. It made Klara's lips twitch into the beginnings of a grin.
She was just about to say something when Hanged Man coughed sharply and, with the grace of a man terrified of losing his speaking slot, bulldozed right over her moment.
"Mr. Fool," he began, his voice weighted with forced calm, "I've obtained nineteen pages of Roselle's diary this time. Here, I must thank you for sending your Blessed to help me get rid of Qilangos. These diary pages will be the compensation I should pay."
Klara froze mid-wave, her grin vanishing like a candle in the wind.
"Wow. Rude." she muttered under her breath, slumping back in her throne.
Still—nineteen pages? She arched an eyebrow. Not bad. Definitely not bad. She adjusted her tone, leaning forward slightly, chin propped on her hand as she let her voice ring with that practiced calm that was absolutely not hiding her excitement.
"That," she said simply, "is the principle of equivalent exchange."
Audrey, bless her, practically melted in awe. Klara caught the subtle shift in her eyes—the way she now thought of her as Him instead of her. Not a friend. Not a woman. Not even a person. Just… the Fool. A title big enough to eclipse everything else.
It was flattering, in a terrifying way.
Hanged Man, ever the solemn seaman, bowed his head humbly. "The limit of my current memory is six pages. Please allow me to give them over separate occasions."
"No problem," Klara answered smoothly, though her fingers itched for the papers. Six now, the rest later. She could live with that.
The Sun, poor boy, tried very hard not to look like he was bursting with curiosity. His eyes darted toward the phantom pages that appeared in Hanged Man's hands, his knuckles tightening against the table. But when he saw Justice sitting politely without asking questions, he straightened his shoulders and imitated her composure.
Adorable. They were both adorable.
Klara, for her part, pretended not to notice as the six sheets of parchment floated into her possession. She lowered her gaze, ready to devour the first line of Roselle's ramblings.
And then—
thud
The sound reverberated through the palace. Heavy. Solid. Footsteps.
Klara's head snapped up. Her breath caught. She wasn't the only one—Justice went stiff as a rabbit in a snare, Sun blinked wildly, and even Hanged Man's calm cracked into sharp unease.
thud
Another step. Closer.
The impossible kind of closer.
Nobody could enter this place. This was hers. This was above the gray fog. A sanctuary even gods could not intrude upon—so then why…
thud
Why were they all hearing it?
thud
thud
From the end of the hall, a silhouette emerged through the haze. Tall. Steady. Inexorable.
Klara's blood drained from her face. Her lips parted in disbelief.
"No. No no no no—oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Step by step, he came.
First the gloved hands—white leather, perfectly fitted, tightening slightly as he adjusted them with precise movements. Then the coat: long, dark, sharply cut, each thread whispering of tailored perfection. Beneath it, the crisp vest and polished buttons gleamed faintly against the fog's dull light.
His boots echoed across the marble floor with that steady rhythm, announcing his presence like a gavel falling.
And then his hair—dark, swept neatly back, every strand disciplined, a soldier's neatness meeting a judge's severity.
Finally, his eyes.
Clear. Piercing. Silver, like polished steel reflecting the very fog around them. They swept across the table, over each of them in turn, weighing, judging, seeing.
Klara's stomach lurched.
He could see them. Them.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to look away, to duck, to hide—but those eyes dragged hers into their depth, unflinching and merciless.
He reached the table, gaze slow, unreadable, before finally—finally—he spoke.
"Quite amazing… this little gathering you have."
His voice was low, even. Not mocking, not impressed, not anything—just stating, as though his presence here was the most natural thing in the world.w3
Then, without waiting for permission, he pulled out a chair. Sat down. Leaned back with lazy elegance, one leg crossed over the other, coat settling perfectly into place.
As if he belonged here.
As if they were the intruders staring at him.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the fog seemed to have frozen, waiting.
Klara's hand trembled against the armrest of her throne. Her chest rose and fell too fast, heat burning her face even as cold dread soaked her skin.
Her eyes—her traitorous, wide, terrified eyes—remained locked on his.
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just met her gaze, silver irises gleaming like mirrors that reflected every inch of her panic back at her.
She couldn't breathe.
Her lips parted, but no words came. All she could do was stare back into those eyes that saw too much, those eyes that had no business being here, above the fog, across from her.
For once, Klara had nothing clever to say.
And that silence was the scariest thing of all.