The sharp cold of December seeped in through the window frames, leaving a thin mist upon the glass. The room's only light was a candle flickering atop the mirrored vanity; with every tremor of the flame, the shadows on the wall stretched toward Miss MacLeod's shoulders, then recoiled. She brushed her long, straight hair with slow, deliberate strokes; the soft sound of the bristles marked a steady rhythm in the night's silence. Her breathing was calm, her face expressionless, as though she had hidden her thoughts among the strands of her hair.
When the door hinges creaked softly, the sound cut a brief scratch through that rhythm. Miss MacLeod didn't turn her head; only her shoulders tensed for a moment before returning to the same measured motion.
"The herbal tea I prepared for my uncle seems to have put him to sleep," Godfrey said, pausing at the threshold and leaning inside. His grinning face was half-lit, half-swallowed by the candlelight; his blue eyes gleamed, a confident curve resting at the corners of his lips. "Did you miss me?"
Miss MacLeod paused the brush for a heartbeat, yet didn't look away from her reflection in the mirror. Her voice was flat, precise.
"My father is not your uncle. You are the child of my grandfather's brother's child."
Godfrey shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "What difference does it make?" he said lightly. "That makes us cousins. In any case…" His gaze drifted into the room, roaming over the bedspread, gliding through the candle's glow. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"No, I am not. Good night."
Miss MacLeod set the brush on the vanity, stood, and crossed to her bed with heavy, unhurried steps. As she straightened the quilt, her movements were controlled; there was no haste, no hesitation.
Godfrey remained outside the door. He didn't retreat; on the contrary, he stayed where he was, watching her. The candlelight no longer caught his face, only the glint in his eyes.
"At the masquerade…" he said, his voice now lower, more careful. "That baron asked you to dance, didn't he? Do you know each other?"
"Yes," Miss MacLeod replied, her back still turned to him. "He does business with my father; I don't know the details. And besides, it was a masquerade. I doubt he realized who I was."
Godfrey's gaze hardened, the smile on his lips thinning into a narrow line. He straightened in the doorway.
"That would be for the best, Florence," he said, in a tone of warning. "Don't force my hand. Good night."
His shadow lingered in the crack of the door for a moment longer, then dissolved into the darkness of the corridor. The candle flame quivered; all that remained in the room was the heavy silence of the night.
December 17, Ravencroft Mansion
After the ball, I hadn't seen so much as a single strand of Miss MacLeod's hair—not at the faculty, not at any gathering, not on the pavements. It was as though her very existence had been erased from Edinburgh. In truth, I was relieved; I felt more at ease. Of course, there was still the nuisance called Godfrey looming over me but even he hadnt appeared.
Until today.
There was a knock at the door of my study. Louder than usual. I had sent the twins into the forest to look for herbs at Elora's request. Normally, Elora and I would do that together, but… things between us were still a little strained.
"Come in."
Butler Sebastian looked somewhat flustered.
"Sir, you have a visitor."
I didn't lift my head from the papers before me; the railway idea I had discussed with Mr. Martin was beginning to appeal to me.
"Tell him I'm busy. And who did you say it was?"
"Mr—" Sebastian was cut off by a blond man who placed a hand on his shoulder as he stepped forward. "Godfrey," he said with a smile. "How are you, Mr. Adrian?"
Mr. Adrian? He was being far too familiar. This was Alistair Godfrey. Though his excessive familiarity and careless manners irritated me, I stood and shook his hand. The smell of tobacco hit my nose sharply, so much so that I nearly recoiled by reflex.
"Sebastian, make us some tea."
"Sebastian, don't make us tea," Godfrey said, smiling at me.
"I don't like tea, and I won't be staying long."
I signaled Sebastian with a look to leave. As the door closed behind us, the Godfrey nuisance refused to release my hand when I tried to pull away, continuing the handshake while casually swinging his arm. What a peculiar man. I supposed Miss MacLeod had been right, his way of thinking was different from ours.
"You're two weeks late. Did you lose your way in Edinburgh, or what?"
At last he let go, pulled out his tobacco, and lit it in one swift motion. He sat down in my chair behind the desk, crossing his legs with ease. How could a man be this comfortable in another man's house? To an outside observer, one might think this desk, this room even this entire estate belonged to him.
Involuntarily, I clasped my hands behind my back and dug my fingers into my own flesh. My teeth were clenched, and my foot had begun tapping against the floor.
"I wasn't delayed," he said. "I simply wanted to spend time with my Florence." As he turned those sharp, searching blue eyes toward me, he released his smoke into my room. "Do you know her?"
I had never once wondered what they had been doing all this time, nor how they spent their days together. I merely asked, "Who did you say?"
"Are you familiar with the MacLeod family, Mr. Adrian?" He took another drag from his rolled tobacco.
"I have a railway project with Mr. Martin. We're considering routing the line through one of my estates, it would make transport and sales easier for my workers."
He glanced over the papers on my desk, even went so far as to pick one up and attempt to read it. He was disturbing the order of my things, and my room already reeked of smoke.
"It looks like a splendid project," he said, placing the paper back down and looking at me.
"Did you come here just to ask me that?"
"Of course not. The reason I'm here is the Crow Father. I don't have a corpse to examine at the moment, so I suppose I'll wait for a murder to occur and act then."
"You're going to wait for one of our people to die? Is that what you're saying?"
"Everyone has their own way of doing their job, Baron. This is mine. I'm thinking of speaking with the relatives of the deceased soon. Perhaps I'll find something of note." He stubbed his tobacco out on the wooden surface of my desk, leaving a mark.
"Now let me ask you this… where were you on the night of Saturday, October eighth, when Mr. Wood was killed?"
I froze, staring at the mark on my desk.
"Here, at the estate. My brother Laurence was giving my sister Elora a piano lesson, while I was reviewing my notes."
"Well then—your memory must be quite strong, to recall exactly what you were doing on that date…"
"I said I was an ordinary man. I didn't say I was an idiot."
"Alright, alright!" He raised his arms as if in surrender. "Don't get angry. I'm leaving now." He stood up lazily and stopped in front of me. He was taller than I was. He took a deep breath.
"At the ball… you remember whom you asked to dance, don't you?"
"Of course. How could I forget those eyes? Lady Celestine."
"Before her. The one before that. Did you know that woman?" I caught a flicker of disdain in his gaze, a twitch of disgust at the corner of his mouth.
I squared my shoulders and, with an exaggerated smile, voiced exactly what he didn't want to hear.
"Who? Oh… now I understand. You mean that woman. Mr. Martin's daughter, the one with perfectly straight hair, who enjoys reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning, has an interest in plants, used to play the piano, sews her own clothes, and has an excellent eye for thread and color harmony. Miss Jane Florence Euphomia MacLeod? No, I don't know her."
I expected him to flare with anger, but instead unexpectedly he grinned at me.
"Good day to you, Mr. Adrian Ravencroft. For today, and for every day that follows."
Mr. Godfrey was just turning toward the door when he cut my name off halfway. The look he cast over his shoulder suggested a change of mind; he turned back and assessed the room once more, as though even the placement of my belongings whetted his appetite.
"I've changed my mind," he said slowly. "I'm hungry, Mr. Adrian. Feed me before I go."
Concealing the tension rising along my spine, I inclined my head slightly.
"As you wish. I'll inform the cooks—"
"By your hands," he interrupted. There was a deliberately testing smile at the corner of his lips. "Any other way would be unacceptable."
My gaze hardened involuntarily.
"Why?"
He shrugged, as though assuming I already knew the answer.
"You're a perfectionist. When I sat at your desk, when I stubbed out my tobacco on it, when I addressed your steward by name, when I behaved this familiarly without even knowing you... I crossed your boundaries. You didn't object, but I saw something tighten inside you. Anger… no, rather a cold contempt, disgust. That's why you won't hesitate to show me something you do very well, a chance to prove that you're perfect. And I want to see that in your cooking. I'm certain the meal you prepare for me will be approached with the same meticulous care."
I understood then what he was trying to do: he wanted to see a knife in my hand, to measure the attention I paid to time while cooking, to cleanliness, to precision… just as the Crow Father did in his perfect murders. He had already grasped my need for flawlessness, and he was testing whether I applied it when killing as well. He wasn't as foolish as I had hoped, he was simply an intelligent madman.
There was a brief silence. Then I gestured toward the kitchen with my head.
"Then please, this way."
The kitchen had a lower ceiling compared to the rest of the manor; copper pots were lined along the walls, and the cutting boards had darkened with years of knife marks. The coals in the hearth were still warm. Godfrey stood by the door with his arms crossed, he had come to watch, not to help.
"I'll make you a steak pie," I said. "One doesn't go hungry in Edinburgh."
"You Scots' fondness for meat has always surprised me."
"In this cold, we believe meat gives us strength."
I removed my jacket and rolled my sleeves up to my elbows. First, I placed the veal on the counter; as I cut the large, fibrous pieces, the dull thud of the knife filled the kitchen. I dusted the meat with flour, shaking off the excess. I heated some suet in a cast-iron pan; once the fat was hot, I added the meat. As the surfaces sealed, the scent grew heavier, spreading a deep, inviting warmth.
I finely chopped the onions and added them to the meat. Then came some stock, a little black pepper, bay leaf, and just a hint of nutmeg… I added the measures not by calculation, but by habit. I let the mixture thicken over a low heat; with every turn of the spoon, it felt as though I were stirring my patience as well.
Godfrey's voice came from behind me.
"Isn't this rather laborious for a baron?"
"No," I replied, without taking my eyes off the pot. "Carelessness is what's troublesome. As you said, I'm a perfectionist."
I could have made the dish poorly but it wouldn't have suited me. And if I made a mistake to dispel suspicion, I would only draw more of it. I would show him who I was through this meal.
As I rolled out the dough, flour spread quietly across the counter. I shaped the edges with my fingers, not too thick, nor thin enough to tear in haste. I transferred the meat filling to a ceramic dish, covered it with the dough, sealed the edges by pressing them down. I cut a small slit on top to let it breathe, then brushed it with egg yolk until it shone.
When I placed it in the oven, a heavy anticipation settled over the kitchen. The ticking of the clock, the crackle of the coals, and Godfrey's breathing intertwined. As I cleaned the counter, my hands were steady but my mind keenly felt this man's presence.
When the pie came out of the oven, its crust had turned golden. As I cut into it, steam rose; the meat, tender, slowly parted within the dark, rich sauce. I placed a slice on a plate and set it before him.
"Enjoy your meal,"
"More meticulous than I expected," he said.
I simply dried my hands and stepped back. Yes, it was meticulousness but the real reason was to remind myself that control still belonged to me in this house.
"But I would prefer to eat at the table with you. I feel uncomfortable eating alone."
Did he suspect I would poison him? For God's sake, I had prepared the meal right in front of his eyes. I let out a deep breath, almost a sigh.
"As you wish, detective."
"Call me Alistair. That will do."
"It was my father's name, so it feels strange. For now, I'll call you Godfrey."
He shrugged. "Works for me."
By the time the servants set the table, the twins and Elora had already arrived; dinner was ready precisely on time.
"It smells wonderful…" Jasper said. When they reached the table, they noticed Godfrey, an unfamiliar face. Laurence looked at me suspiciously.
"Were we expecting a guest, brother?"
"Allow me to introduce him—Detective Alistair Godfrey."
In truth, over the past two weeks I had warned each of my siblings about this man. I told them our… affairs would be disrupted, that I would handle everything alone from now on, and that they should speak little in Godfrey's presence, offer no unnecessary information. So they already knew of him. Godfrey greeted each of them in turn, then bowed and kissed Elora's hand.
"Well, well… I didn't know you had such a beautiful sister. Does Edinburgh know of her existence?"
"She will attend the balls next year," I said, cutting in to warn him. "For now, she isn't available for introductions, Mr. Godfrey."
He was beginning to become unsettling.
"Protective brothers, hm?" He winked at Elora and turned back to the table.
"Then let us eat. I'm certain your brother has an excellent hand in the kitchen."
The children looked surprised. Jasper asked, wide-eyed,
"Did you make the food?"
"Mr. Godfrey insisted, I couldn't refuse."
Godfrey looked at the plate, then at me. He smiled—this time more cautious, more attentive.
Godfrey sat down beside me at the table and slowly lifted his fork; the moment metal touched porcelain, the silence atop the table became almost audible. The flames of the candelabra trembled in the grease along the rim of the plate, and the steam rising from the meat curled upward toward Godfrey's face. When he took the bite into his mouth, the muscles in his jaw stood out deliberate, patient, and excessively prolonged chewing.
I was sitting perfectly upright. My back didn't rest against the chair; I leaned slightly forward with controlled attention. My eyes were fixed on the smallest twitch of Godfrey's eyelids. I knew this moment wasn't an evaluation, but a trial. As Godfrey continued chewing, the air in the room grew heavier; the scent of spices gave way to something metallic, almost tension-laced.
"What do you think of the meal, Mr. Godfrey?"
This time Godfrey lifted his head slightly and locked his gaze directly onto mine. He was still chewing; the look was intentionally drawn out. Everyone at the table held their breath. Even the servants' footsteps seemed to fade in the distance. When Godfrey's lips finally parted, Laurence's brows furrowed without him realizing it.
"Disgusting."
"I suppose it didn't suit your palate."
"No, I love this dish. The MacLeods' servant makes it beautifully. Yours, however, is terrible. Being meticulous doesn't improve the taste of food, after all."
When the words were released into the air, Jasper's eyes widened for a brief moment. Elora's fingers clenched the edge of the tablecloth; the fabric crumpled slightly beneath her grip. All of them were waiting for my reaction. When the expected outburst didn't come, their surprise only deepened. Godfrey's intent was clear: to spill the anger inside me onto the table, to push me out of control in my own home, at my own table. But this was precisely where he knew I would remain calm. I wasn't someone who caused scenes; if I were, there would be blood.
The smile that appeared on my face was perfectly measured. Neither warm nor cold, simply appropriate. My jaw didn't tighten, my brows didn't tense. My shoulders were loose, but this wasn't relaxation; it was the posture of absolute command. Godfrey's words had reached me, but I hadn't allowed them inside. One of the candles on the table crackled softly; its flame stretched upward, then settled again.
"I understand. I apologize for that. If anyone else at the table would like something different, that's perfectly fine."
Godfrey continued to study me. His gaze lingered, openly disrespectful. I didn't shift beneath it. The order of the table remained intact, plates unmoved, no one standing. Which meant the chaos Godfrey had been waiting for wasn't going to arrive.
Godfrey sprawled back in his chair and began to laugh.
"Mr. Ravencroft. I'll be honest with you," he said.
"I'm listening."
"Even if it's a bit early, I find myself impressed by you. Impressed in a way that borders on respect. When the Duke said you were a talented young man, he must have neglected to mention that you're intelligent as well. You're truly a remarkable man, adapt to my mind games immediately."
"I'm not sure whether I should be pleased to have earned your favor."
"Rest assured… at least until I witness a new murder by the Crow Father."
"I see. Actually, I was thinking of paying a visit to the MacLeods tomorrow. Do you know if they're available?"
"No," he cut in sharply. "It would be better if you came two days from now."
I didn't know why, but something about that answer carried the stench of something vile beneath it.