Albert didn't move when Vaughan's giggle died into silence. He sat straighter, folding his hands neatly on the table, his eyes locked on the Lord's.
"I asked," Albert said calmly, "what was in the original report."
The correction landed like a stone dropped in still water. Amelia's smile faltered, her painted lips tightening as she turned her gaze to her husband. Vaughan, for once, did not laugh. His eyes narrowed, his fingers stilled against the gilded armrest.
"Well," Amelia murmured, voice sharp with disapproval, "the boy is naughty."
Vaughan's mouth twitched. "Yes… naughty," he echoed, though there was no mirth in the word.
Albert simply inclined his head, almost polite. "Two questions, nothing more you said."
A heavy silence stretched — then Albert slipped a small brass whistle from his coat and blew once, sharp and clear. A door opened immediately, and a servant in pink and gold stepped forward, balancing a golden tray. Upon it lay a single scroll tied with black ribbon. The servant bowed low and offered it.
Vaughan exhaled, defeated, his voice low. "The original report. Costly to secure, I assure you. But here it is. The only copy, written in the butler's own hand that night as directed before the tale was… amended and reported."
Albert reached for it, but Vaughan raised a finger. "Ah-ah. Everything has a cost."
Raleigh tensed beside him, but Albert didn't flinch. "What cost?"
Vaughan's lips curled into a smirk. "Information. On someone,"
"Who?"
Albert asked curiously.
"Franklin Phelps."
Albert blinked, surprised. "Phelps?"
"Yes." Vaughan's giggle returned, but it was bitter now, jagged. "That glittering rise — oh, the medical genius with his miraculous fortunes. A story for children. The truth is simpler. The Lulough are financing him. Lady Morgan herself. I just can't prove it yet, you are going to help me find what I need,"
Amelia leaned forward, eyes gleaming with quiet malice. "Lady Lulough,"
Vaughan's voice hardened. "You see, detectives, Franklin Phelps is no self-made man. He owes nothing to his Doherty loans, as he claims. His wealth, his sudden influence, his voice at council banquets, all those talks about his medicines that can heal anything — it is all Lulough's hand. A young,male, friendly face accepted by all is nothing but a pawn for someone like Lady Morgan, its what she does, play a game with the families, and she does not care who bleeds for her victory. She would see herself not merely among us, but above us — an oligarch, the single head of the council. She has whispered such ideas before years ago. Raymond Hanns opposed her. And… his son disappeared for two days."
The air grew heavy. Raleigh's brows drew tight, and Albert sat very still, his mind turning. That missing-child story — Jonathan Hanns gone for two days, no explanation. Could it be tied to Lulough's ambitions? Or was Elton planting shadows where none existed?
Elton shrugged, almost careless. "Credible or not, it is what I believe. And Franklin Phelps is the thread. Tug on it, and you'll see where her ambitions unravel, raymond hanns is murdered mysteriously and Franklin Phelps takes the hand of Valia Lulough, Makes a Claim For the Council Seat as well as becomes the sole distributor of the Vyre shipment from Varecia, This is nothing but a power play, coincidences? "
Albert reached forward and took the scroll at last, his face calm though his heart pounded. "We'll keep our eyes open."
"Eyes opened? If I want eyes opened, I would get a thousand with a single whisper, No, what I need you two to do, is find out why Lady Morgan is financing a puppet like Phelps, what exactly is she up to," his voice turned cold, enough to startle the detectives who gave a nod awkwardly
Vaughan's giggle softened into something oddly satisfied. "Good boy."
Amelia clapped her hands, and in an instant the servants poured back into the room, each bearing bags upon bags of sugared breads, biscuits, candied fruits.
They set them before the detectives like tribute.
Albert rose, stiff but polite. "Thank you. For the tea… and the truth."
"The truth, what truth?"
Both Lord Elton and Amelia stopped for a moment and giggled.
Raleigh clutched his share of snacks with mild disbelief, muttering under his breath as they left, "I've never been so glad to step outside in my life although good tea by the way."
Albert smiled faintly, the weight of the envelope under his arm. At last, something solid. At last, a trail.
Meanwhile – The Hanns Study
The sun hung heavy in the sky, spilling its pale light through the tall windows of the Hanns study. Once chaotic, the room was now scrubbed into order, silent and still, like a shrine to absence. On the wide oak desk sat only three items, each as out of place as the other: the old blueprints with their shifting languages and symbols, the strange book Lord Madeiya had pressed upon him, and the iron key with its Hanns sigil cut at the base.
Jonathan sat before them, elbows on the desk, eyes closed as if in prayer. None of it fit together. Not yet. But in the pit of his chest he knew the pieces belonged to the same whole. He only had to see it.
From the lower floor came the sound of Heller in the kitchen — measured, methodical, the clean thunk-thunk of a knife cutting through fresh meat. The rhythm carried upward, filling the silence like a metronome, steady, relentless. To Jonathan it became almost hypnotic, as though each chop pressed him further inward.
He tried. He forced himself to remember.
The night came back to him in fragments.
The family was returning from a gathering. The storm was gathering, the town had been awfully quiet that night, His father drove, unusually quiet. Michael, restless, kept tugging at Eleanor's sleeve, trying to claim her attention, his laughter filling the carriage. Then — the jolt. A tire struck by something unseen on the lonely hill road.
Raymond had stepped out, swallowed at once by fog. Jonathan could still hear it: his father's muffled curse, then the cut-off shout — a scream. Glass shattered. Eleanor was dragged into the fog through the window by unseen hands, her cries sharp and raw.
Jonathan clung to Michael, the world tilting into chaos. Their mother reappeared for a heartbeat, blood on her face, dragging at Michael, trying to pull them both free — only for the fog to reclaim her. Her fingers locked on Michael's wrist, pulling him into the white void with her. His brother's terrified scream was the last sound Jonathan heard before silence crushed it all.
Alone in the carriage, Jonathan had hidden, too afraid to move, the air turning colder and heavier. He felt it then — the presence. Not a body, not a face, just something vast and watching. He could not look at it, yet he knew it was there. And then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone.
He had stumbled out, trembling, and found them. His mother and Michael — broken, bleeding, barely alive — lying on the stones. His own voice screaming, sobbing, begging for help echoed in his ears even now.
A sound jolted him back.
Jonathan opened his eyes to find Heller standing in the doorway with a tray. A simple lunch, steam curling faintly from the dishes. Heller's eyes narrowed with concern. "You were far away, Master Jonathan. A nightmare?"
Jonathan straightened, smoothing his hands over the desk, forcing composure. "Just… a thought." He managed a nod, though his chest still burned with the memory.
Heller's gaze fell on the desk — the blueprints, the book, the key. His brow furrowed, but he said nothing. He only set down the tray with his usual precision.
Jonathan pushed back his chair. "I'll be stepping out soon."
Heller inclined his head. "I'll prepare the car."
"No." Jonathan raised a hand. "Not the car. Not today. And… something plain to wear. Common, nothing spoken of."
For the first time, Heller hesitated. He bowed his head in acceptance, but worry shadowed his eyes.