❝
WITHIN the austere hall of the Luxtonian public library, set between stone walls and under a thick cloak of ivy, Charlotte sat modestly upon a carved walnut chair, her profile half-veiled by a simple veil. Opposite her sat Saevionh, still bearing the appearance of a gentleman with no advantages of title, studying a volume with such sedateness bordering on reverence.
The silence between them was broken only by the susurrus of turning parchment and the muffled tick of the grandfather's clock above the mantle. About twelve volumes lay open in between—some brittle and yellowing, some freshly bound yet no less barren of the truth they sought.
With a soft sigh, Charlotte closed the book with a gloved hand resting upon the cover.
"It is most disheartening," she said, conversing in a composed tone when fatigue intruded, "that we have devoted the last three months to this pursuit, and yet out of all the chronicles in this city, one does not yield an inkling of Viktor's lineage. It is as if the man never existed."
Saevionh did not answer at once. His gaze had locked with a line of print his eyes had alighted on with three prior readings, and his fingers flicked the page over again, as though some hidden clue might reveal itself in this latest fourth viewing.
"Perhaps," he whispered, at length, with a faraway tone, "the records were not lost but rather… purposefully erased…"
He left the insinuation hanging.
Charlotte's eyes zoomed in upon him.
"Reduced to ash and silence, you say? Then what good would it do to sift through these halls of knowledge if their very remembrance has been buried in oblivion?"
Saevionh's gloved hand hovered above the parchment before sinking down once more. Again, he read through that same sentence with almost agonizing deliberation.
"Because," he finally said, "if I do not read them again, I shall lie awake tormented by the thought that I missed something vital. Those pages ring in my ears, Charlotte; even in my sleep."
He now regarded her, revealing the slightest fissure in his practiced calmness, his gaze flickering with a glimmer of vulnerability.
"Law and order must restore scepter and staves to mind. What is more, with certainty it owns its own sound. Well... for a while at least."
Charlotte kept watching him, for a long time looking extremely anxious, yet she did not utter a single word. She had observed before how he stroked over the edges of documents more times than necessary, how he would scan and rescan his eyes over the same passage with a quiet kind of despair. Perhaps now she understood why it was so.
"I do feel the fret within yours, Lady Charlotte, but remain calm," came the soft cadenced intonation, disposing with the calculated effort to anchor himself as much as to soothe her, "for the absence of visible knowledge does not mean a total loss of existence."
Have you not considered that there may still be clues hidden, disguised as art or language or allegory?'
As he said this, he turned the delicate page and querulously offered her a richly illustrated plate-an image rendered in muted yet vivid hues to form a haunting tableau called The Dance of the Living and Dead: A Pas de Deux in the Lake of Wine. This portrait was odd, disturbing, and viewed as a strange fascination; two figures-one wrapped in a skeletal frame and other was dressed in royal clothing; they waltz upon a mirrored lake in red, and from above, winged masks witness under a blood-red sky.
Saevionh's gloved hand did not part from the page. He held it there, his fingers pressing lightly against the corners, as though unwilling to trust the book to remain still unless held down.
Charlotte leaned forward, frowning.
"Is this not the magnum opus of the painter Alonzo de Calart-executed in the year 1847?" asked Charlotte with astonishment, raising the heavy folio with her hand, its well-known lines falling back into memory. "And for what reason is it being produced now, Saevionh? It has been several weeks of searching through this library, and this work has been long known to us."
Saevionh's eyes were steadfast.
"Because," he said, "Alonzo de Calart never was."
There was a pause, not only for effect but also because his mind required the moment-to confirm, to reassert the fact against the dozen doubts that clamored in his thoughts.
"It is," he concluded finally and quietly with conviction, "a pseudonym under which none other than Vincent Fritzner Calestinia himself works."
Charlotte's lips parted in confusion.
"Vincent... the patriarch?"
Saevionh gave the faintest nod.
"But the name was buried - like so much else in this matter. But the style, the symbolism, the recurring figures... I have seen them too often in his other documented commissions. I have compared them. Repeatedly."
He didn't mention that he had spent quite close to a fortnight analyzing brushstrokes and signatures under candlelight, obsessively keeping track of consistencies between the known and the obscure-until the connection had become undeniable or, rather, until he couldn't bear the thought of its not having been true.
Carlotta sat back, stunned by the idea, and observed him in silence.
He had a certain disquiet within him-refined, and hence cloaked in manners, though he was unmistakably in that state-as though his very sanity demanded that he chase every whisper of a pattern until it rendered truth.
He is a Calestinian?" Charlotte was surprised indeed; the revelation that she had just received was really astonishing. "His artwork, it was shown in the El Daumier-Gaston Gallery, which might be where crucial information is-we're sure to find something there," said Saevionh, with an air of certainty, then he closed the book as they agreed upon the next course of action.
"At this moment, the painting remains our utmost sure source of information," was how Saevionh responded, in very direct words, to the painting exhibited in the book. "But the place must be sought through overseas." He even added to his statement.
"I think I should tell the Countess to extend her assistance for us to go overseas; after it, I have to ask about the chances of having a private invitation to get close to the painting and further find some details that may clue us in." The man hurriedly was talking, lifting the leader-bound ledger covering the table.
Quietly hushed stillness fell upon the Luxtonia public library, where dust gentle swayed through shafts of afternoon light while the scent of old parchment wafted in the air, and Charlotte adjusted her veil that concealed her face as she glanced at Saevionh a few paces away leafing the ledger as meticulous as a surgical operation with almost surgical precision.
"What of me?" she inquired in a low yet clear voice, shaking with apprehension. "Am I to remain a mere shadow in this foreign town while you risk yourself further?" Her fingers tightened faintly around the spine of the book she held, betraying her worry.
Saevionh remained silent at first. With a soft thud, he closed the ledger and aligned it to the edge of the shelf before tumbling to her side. Though his features appeared composed, his fingers twitched ever so slightly at his side, resisting the pull to fidget with the gloves tucked into his coat. "For the present," he finally said, "it would be wise to return to the Grimoard residence. I would never permit a fair lady to roam alone through unfamiliar streets, least of all one who bears a face that might draw unwanted attention."
Charlotte exhaled, brushing a hand through her curls, her brow slightly furrowed. "You say that as if we were not preparing to travel overseas again," she replied with a sigh, stepping closer and pointing a delicate finger to his chest in protest. "Surely, the risks are the same, if not greater."
Saevionh blinked momentarily off-guard and then wore a faint smile at the corners of his lips-his eyes did not share this admiration. "Ah," he went on in a soft voice, "is my Lady speaking with rather bold implications? I daresay if you were to be recognized in port or at sea, your freedom would fly as fast and surely as ink upon rain-washed parchment." Thus assuredly self-composed, yet surreptitious with one hand to pull the sleeve of his coat into place.
"I suppose you do have a point…" Charlotte murmured as she cast her eyes to the tall windows, where sunlight poured like gold across the pages of forgotten books. "But if we do leave the kingdom, how do you expect me to remain hidden? Those aboard the vessel may recognize me, and word of it would spread like wildfire in the Crown Gazette."
"You need not concern yourself with such matters," was Saevionh's smooth response, though tinged with an edge of sharpness-like someone rehearsing their response far too many times in their head. "I've already got the passage sorted. One free of prying eyes."
Charlotte tilted her head. "And who, pray, would lend us such discreet service?"
He hesitated, however briefly, knocking a gloved finger to his lips for theatrical hush. "That's a secret I'm going to keep," with a playful glint in his eyes, he added, "let's just say they are not your typical sailors... but pirates."
"Pirates?" Charlotte echoed, raising one brow, inadvertently skeptical. "I've always thought such stories were for young children."
Saevionh chuckled under his breath, although the sound was just a tad contrived. "Perhaps. Or perhaps every myth has some seed of truth. Either way, they owe me a favor."
Charlotte crossed her arms, unconvinced but amused. "You speak as if you've just walked out of one of those adventure novels."
He gave a half-bow, fingers brushing over his coat lapel one last time, smoothing it flat. "And if I have? Then let us make certain this tale has a satisfying ending."
"Anyway, I think I must flip all the pages of these books again," Saevionh muttered, his voice taut with barely concealed tension. "I might have missed something. Hopefully, once more, we shall find a clue." His fingers tapped nervously against the table as he spoke, as if the rhythmic motion helped ease the anxiety churning beneath the surface. Without saying anything further, he returned to his place at the chair, straightening his coat with deliberate motion before picking up a book he had already perused. Every page was treated with orderly precision, as though he had to approach each with the intent focus of an artist that no detail might escape him.
Charlotte observed the scene for a moment; she noticed his fingers trembling slightly each time he turned the pages. He did not do it once but several times, flipping the same pages almost compulsively. His brow furrowed; he would stop at the end of every two pages, mouth moving silently as though replaying word-for-word, line-by-line, ensuring that not a single thing was missed.
Giving a soft sigh, she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. "I'll help," she said quietly, her voice filled with resignation as her gaze softened, looking at his incessant activity. She moved over to the table that was sprawled with cluttered papers and books, some already well-weathered from his relentless flipping. Papers lined the edges of the desk, perfectly in order, as though alignment was of utmost importance.
Saevionh could not even give her a gesture in acknowledgment; instead, he was too consumed in what he was doing. He was flipping through pages; his eyes scanned the print for the smallest inkling of a clue while his fingers hovered over the edges, almost as though checking for something invisible to anyone else. It was all mechanical, every move calculated, held hostage now in an act he could not free himself from, glaring signs of sheer exhaustion written over him.
Sitting next to him, Charlotte looked at the papers on the table with growing frustration. "We've already gone through these," she said softly, her voice a gentle interference into his concentrated silence, but he did not answer, just continued flipping with determination, each page turned an echo of his internal battles.
"I know," came his response in a pained murmur, "but I can't leave anything to chance. Not now."
Charlotte watched him as he flipped yet another page, and though she knew that the tension thickening around them was getting really unbearable, she only wondered whether he was simply afraid of missing something—of failing. Another sigh escaped her; she would have to be patient, if this was going to go on with his obsessive behavior.
To him, all the books, all the documents, and even the painting of Calestinia had become rather inconsequential; all he needed to find was that one thread that could begin to unravel the mystery; and if he had to turn the pages a thousand times to find it, he would.
As Charlotte gazed at the wall clock, a wild thought flitted through her mind. Had she believed that a pirate might offer her passage upon the seas? The very thought appeared silly, for she had always thought of pirates as mere tales told to frighten children-about wicked men, if they did exist.
"I do hope," she muttered softly to herself,
"That such pirates are not thieves and rogues, bent on mischief and crime."