I don't know why, but after the carriage set off, the coachman first steered us toward Westminster Bridge. Once we crossed, and we were on the other side of the river, he turned us toward London Bridge. After crossing London Bridge, only then did he finally head for Belgravia.
I was reading the small notebook I always kept in my coat pocket. William, as usual, was calmly puffing on his beloved pipe. Frederick sat like a well-mannered child—perfectly still and attentive.
We had almost entered the Belgravia district. Baron Romeo's manor wasn't far now.
I closed the little notebook, looked at Frederick, and asked,
"By the way… you told the coachman to take this route, didn't you?"
Frederick gave a small nod, still smiling.
I stared at him a moment longer.
"And the reason?"
Frederick answered with that same gentle, unchanging smile.
"The distance from Carlton House Terrace to Belgravia is at most seven minutes, my lord. From what you said, I understood that you had arranged to meet the Duke of Liverpool in front of Baron Romeo's manor at precisely seven o'clock. So I instructed the coachman to take a slightly longer route—so we would arrive exactly on time."
I stared at Frederick.
I had never told him the exact time I had agreed to meet Geoffrey.
Yet to avoid any misunderstanding, I forced a small smile.
"I see…"
I turned my head to look out the window—when the carriage suddenly stopped.
We had arrived at Baron Romeo's manor.
Frederick opened the door and waited for me to step down. William finished cleaning the rim of his pipe and looked at me. I exhaled, climbed out.
And—in utter disbelief—Geoffrey Jenkinson and I arrived at the exact same moment.
When he saw me, he smiled.
"We arrived simultaneously. So our entrance will be announced together…"
I gave a faint smile.
"Yes… exactly."
We walked toward the entrance of the manor's grand hall. It was only a short distance—twenty metres at most, by my estimate.
Geoffrey and I approached side by side. As we entered, the bell-ringers called out:
"Their Graces, the Dukes of Manchester and Liverpool, and their entourage, have entered…"
Suddenly the entire hall fell silent.
No whispers. No murmurs.
Every person present inclined their head slightly.
Geoffrey and I simply smiled.
As two of the four great dukes—the highest rank among the hereditary peerage—we were not required to do anything more than preserve our dignity.
Geoffrey had both hands in his trouser pockets. My hands were free. Whether hands are in pockets or not carries no particular significance.
After our entrance, Geoffrey and I stood together for a moment—when Baron Romeo and his bride, Juliet, who had been standing just behind him, approached us.
When Romeo drew near, he bowed slightly and said,
"I welcome Your Graces to my wedding celebration. Thank you for honouring us with your presence."
Geoffrey and I returned very shallow bows—just enough to show respect to the host, as custom demanded among the peerage.
After the brief courtesy, I smiled at the baron and his bride.
"Congratulations to you both on your wedding."
They both bowed again—slightly deeper this time.
Geoffrey repeated exactly the same words I had used.
When Geoffrey and I were momentarily alone again, I turned to him.
"You're already married, right?"
Geoffrey looked at me strangely.
"You were at my wedding yourself. Why ask?"
I gave a small smile.
So the original Elias had attended Geoffrey's wedding. Interesting.
I cleared my throat lightly.
"You know I'm getting old. My memory isn't what it used to be…"
Geoffrey let out a quiet laugh.
"We're both only twenty-eight, Elias. What do you mean 'old'? Are you finally thinking of finding someone? Should I help you look for a suitable lady at receptions like this? I have excellent taste!"
I smiled faintly.
"No, thank you… I'm sure if you chose a wife for me, you'd search the entire kingdom for the ugliest woman possible."
Geoffrey covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.
"You know me too well… I'll have to change my strategy."
I smirked.
"The most you could do is push the rook all the way to the end of the board."
He slipped both hands back into his pockets.
"We should play chess again sometime. It's been two years since the last match…"
I adjusted the cuff of one sleeve with my other hand and said casually,
"I know you just want me to come over so I can play uncle to your children…"
Geoffrey twisted the ring on his finger.
"But you'd make an excellent uncle to my children."
I gave a short, quiet laugh.
"First point: I'm not your brother. Second point: I don't like children."
Geoffrey opened his mouth to reply, but I cut in.
"By the way—I need to step away for a moment. I'll be right back."
Geoffrey nodded slightly.
"Fine. I'll wait for you."
I left Geoffrey and wandered toward one of the manor's other halls.
It was just as crowded—full of men and women of various ranks. The walls were lined with paintings of every kind.
As I strolled among the portraits, my eye caught one that felt strangely familiar.
I stepped closer and stared.
It looked so recognisable—as though I had seen it somewhere before.
Then a voice spoke beside me.
"This is a portrait of King Charles II… Judging by the style, it is almost certainly the work of John Michael Wright. That precise, highly detailed, realistic approach, combined with Baroque refinement—this is unmistakably his hand. A very special piece."
I turned toward the speaker.
"Who are you?"
The man turned calmly toward me. He stepped back slightly with his left foot, placed his right hand over his heart, and bowed from the waist.
I stared in surprise.
When he straightened he said,
"I am John Smith, Your Grace the Duke. Professor at the University of London. Graduate of Oxford. Holder of an MA degree…"
I studied John Smith for a moment.
I opened my mouth to reply—when suddenly I felt that same falling sensation again.
This time I was in a golden space—filled with various ruins and scattered black-and-white chess pieces.
John Smith's voice pulled me back.
"Is something wrong, Your Grace?"
I stared into his eyes.
The last time—at Westminster Abbey—when I read the plaque, I had felt the same fall… but into a sky.
Why now? What was wrong?
I was still trying to process it when John Smith spoke again.
"Your Grace?"
I snapped back, coughed once, and said,
"A pleasure to meet you… but I must go."
I moved to step past him—when he said,
"If I may be so bold… would you consider employing me as an advisor? A professor's salary is… not what one might hope."
I gave a short smile.
"Yes, I know… If I need counsel, I will certainly let you know."
I walked away from him.
He was an ordinary man—yet seeing him filled me with an inexplicable unease. I didn't like him at all.
I climbed the stairs to another hall.
Suddenly a servant spoke.
"Sir… where are you going?"
I smiled.
"I'm looking for the lavatory. Do you know where it is?"
The servant pointed.
"At the end of the hall, sir."
I raised my hand in thanks and headed that way.
I hadn't reached the end when I noticed a half-open door.
I'm a duke. I shouldn't pry. I shouldn't cause trouble. I should never do this.
I entered the room anyway.
I glanced around.
An ordinary room—covered in dust, old and decaying.
I exhaled.
"This is just a normal room…"
I turned to leave—when my eye caught a coverless book on the desk, beside a burning candle.
I walked to the desk.
When I reached it, I froze—not out of surprise, but sheer disbelief.
Why did this book have no cover?
An aged, yellowed volume. Only one thing written on the first page: "XII".
No cover—so I could only think of it as the book "XII".
I picked it up and began flipping through.
Every page was blank.
I rifled through them quickly—all empty. Just old, yellowed, crumbling paper. Dirty.
The desk was filthy too.
But right now, only the book mattered—not the author, not the date. Just that single Greek numeral on the first page: XII.
Before anyone could come, I set it back on the desk and left the room.
I continued toward the end of the corridor.
A few minutes later…
I re-entered the main hall, searching for Geoffrey—when suddenly the entire room fell silent again.
I moved toward the centre in surprise.
Geoffrey was standing near the entrance, facing someone.
Baron Romeo and Juliet stood a little behind him.
I realised this was important and quickened my pace.
When I reached Geoffrey's back he said,
"Your behaviour today borders on impropriety, and it disregards the customs of hereditary nobility…"
I stepped beside him and looked at the newcomer.
"What's going on…?"
Geoffrey exhaled deeply.
"This is Viscount Ernest of Cobham…"
I glanced between Geoffrey and the viscount.
"And… what happened?"
Geoffrey gave the viscount a cold look.
"He… arrived after we entered the reception."
I raised my hand, rubbed my eyes briefly, and said,
"Come on—let's go. I found something interesting."
Geoffrey exhaled again.
"Fine… I hope it really is interesting."
In truth, I pulled Geoffrey away to prevent any incident.
I led him back to the portrait of Charles II and discussed the painting with him.
The reception continued late into the night.
A lavish dinner was served to all the guests.
Everything passed normally—except that I never saw the university professor John Smith again.
As guests of honour, Geoffrey and I each received an eight-pointed star as a gift.
At Baron Romeo's request, the two of us posed for a photograph with him.
Around eleven o'clock, Geoffrey and I left the reception together.
He headed toward Mayfair.
I returned to Carlton House Terrace.
That night's reception finally ended.
After returning home and changing into nightclothes, I was too exhausted from the long day to go out for a walk.
So I simply went to bed.
At last, another exhausting, endless day was over.
Tomorrow, the Security Advisor would depart—on the long journey I had ordered him to undertake that morning—to search for those three books.
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A long coat was hung on the coat rack.
A pocket watch was placed on the desk.
The blood moon's crimson light poured straight into the room.
The windows stood open; the curtains swayed gently.
A man stood before a mirror—half his face swallowed by the darkness of the chamber.
After staring for a long moment, he smiled.
He twirled a quill pen between his fingers.
He stepped back from the mirror, still spinning the quill, and gazed into a shadowed corner of the room.
"The eyes of a liar… were painfully obvious."
He looked up at the sky and the blood moon.
Suddenly the quill slipped from his fingers and struck the door.
He gave a short, almost silent laugh—then fell completely still.
The wind grew stronger; the curtain lifted, brushed across his face, and fell back.
The man placed one hand on the window frame and let a faint, invisible smirk cross his lips.