Blaze watched Aleric go out.
Good, she thought.
The notebook goes with him.
I can see through the window.
She looked at Lain methodically working through the room.
He's identified the paint on the hands, she thought. Correctly concluded it's an artist or craftsman. Correctly identified the positioning of the body as deliberate.
Wrong about who.
Wrong about why.
Looking at the how.
Not looking at the why.
She already knew the why.
Had been assembling it from the street sounds coming through the window since Aleric went outside.
She said nothing.
Let's see, she thought, if the notebook finds it.
She watched Aleric through the window.
Moving through the people still gathered outside. Talking to everyone. Writing everything down with the open unhurried interest of someone who genuinely wanted to know what each person had to say.
The fruit seller, she thought, watching him approach the stall at the edge of the market. He doesn't know why he's going there.
He never does.
He just goes.
She looked at her nails.
Three minutes, she thought.
The street outside was busier than the art house had been.
Not with the urgent crowding of people who had just witnessed something — that crowd had dispersed, their immediate curiosity satisfied, replaced now by the quieter persistent presence of people who had heard something had happened and had come to stand near it without being entirely sure why.
Aleric moved through them.
Notebook open.
Brush in hand.
He talked to everyone.
Not strategically.
Not with a plan that worked from one witness to the next in deliberate sequence.
Just — everyone. The woman from the nearest stall. The scholar who had come back. Two artists from a different house. The child on the wall. The person selling refreshments at the edge of the market.
He wrote everything down.
Every detail. Every name. Every theory. Every timeline offered by people who had been thinking about this for days and hadn't had anyone ask them about it until now.
He talked to the fruit seller.
The fruit seller talked for a long time.
About the morning. About the market being quieter than usual. About the three artists who had left the village in the past week. About a man three days ago asking questions — which artists worked in which houses, which ones had the most influence with patrons, which ones were planning to stay through the season.
Aleric wrote all of it down.
The description of the man. The way he stood. The way he spoke. The way he was dressed. The specific quality of his questions — not curious, not casual. Purposeful. Like someone working through a list.
He wrote it and kept going.
Most of it was background.
He didn't know yet which part wasn't.
Aleric came back inside with his notebook full.
He found Lain examining the body with the focused composure of someone who had decided to be useful and was following through on that decision. Maze was coming down from the upper floor. Blaze was in her chair.
He looked at his notes.
"The child on the wall saw someone enter last night after closing," he said. "Carrying something heavy. Moving quickly."
Lain looked up. "Consistent with the body being positioned after hours."
"The fruit seller described a man from three days ago. Asking questions about which artists worked here. Which ones had the most influence." He looked at the page. "Same description as the marking you found."
Maze looked at him.
"Same," she said.
"He's still in the village," Aleric said. "The fruit seller said he buys from the north end stall every morning. Same time."
They had a shape now.
Not a name.
A shape.
Aleric was writing it all down when the door opened.
Four constables.
The head one first — a broad man with the specific expression of someone who had been given a job and intended to finish it quickly and without complications. The others filed in behind him with the quiet obedience of people who had learned that following was easier than deciding.
The head constable looked at the room.
At the body.
At four strangers standing around it.
His expression settled into something that had already made a decision.
"Step away from the body," he said.
Aleric looked up from his notebook.
"We've been investigating," he said. "We have information about who—"
"Step away from the body."
"If you'll just listen for a moment—"
"You." The head constable pointed at him. "Are a child. Step away from the body."
Aleric opened his mouth.
"We found two witnesses," he said, with the patient reasonable tone of someone who had decided the most useful thing was to keep talking. "A child who saw someone enter last night after closing. A fruit seller who can identify the man who was asking questions about the artists three days ago. If you go to the north end stall right now he's probably still—"
"This art house is closed pending investigation," the head constable said. Loudly. To the room rather than to Aleric specifically. "The body will be removed. Everyone present is to come with us for questioning."
"We weren't here when it happened," Aleric said. "We arrived this morning. We've been trying to help. If you would just—"
"Son."
Flat.
Final.
The tone of someone who had decided the conversation was over.
"Nobody asked you."
Aleric looked at his notebook.
At everything he had written down.
At the fruit seller's description sitting there on the page with the answer sitting right inside it.
He looked at the head constable.
The head constable was not looking at him.
He was looking at the body with the expression of someone calculating how quickly this could be resolved and filed away.
He's going to close it, Aleric thought. Right now. Without looking at anything we found. He's just going to close it.
He looked at Lain.
Lain stepped forward.
He had been standing to the side with his arms folded and his expression composed, watching the exchange with the focused patience of someone waiting for the correct moment to speak.
The correct moment had arrived.
"Constable," he said.
The head constable looked at him.
"I understand your position," Lain said. "There is a body. There are strangers present. The simplest resolution is to remove both and close the matter quickly." He kept his voice level. Even. The specific tone of someone who had been trained to speak to authority and was applying that training carefully. "But the simplest resolution is not the correct one here. We have found two witnesses who can identify the man responsible. We have a description. We have a location. If you act on this now—"
"And who exactly," the head constable said, "are you to tell me how to conduct an investigation."
A pause.
Lain looked at him.
At the others behind him.
At Aleric still holding his notebook.
At Maze standing with her hands at her sides.
At Blaze in her chair examining her nails.
He had tried reasoning.
He had tried evidence.
He had tried the measured professional tone of someone presenting a logical case to a reasonable person.
The reasonable person had not materialized.
"My name," Lain said, "is Lain. Son of the Grand Duke. Prince of the eastern provinces."
He said it plainly.
Without drama.
Without buildup.
Just — stated it. The way you state a fact that is simply true and has always been true and does not require decoration.
The head constable looked at him.
For one moment the room was completely silent.
Then the head constable laughed.
Not politely.
Not briefly.
A full laugh. The kind that came from somewhere genuine. He turned to the constables behind him and they laughed too — following as they always followed, because the head one had decided and the others complied.
"A prince," the head constable said, when he had finished. "Right here. In my art house."
"Your art house," Lain said.
"If you're a prince," the head constable said, wiping his eye, "then I'm the king."
He straightened.
His expression closed.
The laugh gone as quickly as it had come.
"You four are under arrest," he said. "For the murder of the artist found on these premises and for obstruction of an official investigation." He looked at each of them in turn. "Take them."
The constables moved forward.
Aleric looked at his notebook.
At everything written in it.
At the answer sitting right there on the page that nobody had asked to hear.
He looked at Lain.
Lain's jaw was tight.
His expression was composed.
His collar was perfectly adjusted.
He said nothing.
Maze stood very still.
And Blaze sat in her chair.
Looking at her nails.
The constables moved forward.
Aleric looked at the hand coming toward his arm.
Looked at his notebook.
Looked at the hand.
Wait, he thought. Just — wait. I have everything. It's written down. Page four. The fruit seller's description. The child on the wall. The marking on the collar. It's all there. If they would just—
"Come on," the constable said.
"I'm not — I just need one minute. One minute and I can show you—"
"Now."
The hand closed on his arm.
Aleric looked at it.
At his notebook.
At the constable's face which had the expression of someone who had made a decision and found Aleric's continued talking irrelevant to that decision.
He looked at Blaze.
She was looking at her nails.
Okay, he thought. Okay she's not worried. She's not worried which means I shouldn't be worried. She knows things I don't know and she's not worried so this is fine. This is completely fine. I am fine.
He was walked toward the door.
He looked at his notebook.
I have the answer right here, he thought. On page four. It's right there.
Nobody asked about page four.
Lain did not move immediately.
The constable on his left put a hand on his arm.
Lain looked at the hand.
At the constable.
At the head constable watching from across the room with the expression of someone who had delivered a predetermined result and was satisfied with the delivery.
"This is a mistake," Lain said. Level. Even. The specific tone of someone making a final reasonable statement before the situation moved somewhere neither of them could take back. "We did not commit this murder. When the truth surfaces — and it will — you will have to account for what you chose today."
The head constable looked at him.
"Noted," he said. "Move."
Lain held his gaze for one moment longer.
Then looked at Blaze.
She was looking at her nails.
Not at the constables.
Not at him.
At her nails.
With the complete focused attention of someone who had decided her nails were the most relevant thing in the room and was following through on that decision.
She's not worried, Lain thought.
He looked at the head constable.
At the constables around him.
At the door.
She's not worried.
He moved.
The third constable turned toward Blaze's chair.
Stopped.
The chair was there.
Her ink bottle was still on the arm of it. Dark blue. Uncapped. Exactly where she had placed it.
She was not.
Aleric saw it from the doorway.
One moment she was there.
Then she wasn't.
No motion.
No sound.
No transition of any kind.
Just — the chair. The ink bottle. The empty space.
Wait, he thought.
Where—
She was right there.
I was looking at her.
She was right there and then she—
He looked at the chair.
At the ink bottle.
At the empty space.
Where did she go.
The constable's hand tightened on his arm and moved him forward and he went because his legs were still working even though his brain had stopped.
She was right there, he thought.
I was looking at her.
I specifically was looking at her.
The constables had noticed.
"She was right there," the fourth one said.
"I know she was right there."
"I looked away for one second."
"I didn't look away."
They looked at each other.
At the chair.
At the ink bottle.
At the space.
"Sir," the fourth constable said.
The head constable walked over.
Looked at the chair.
At the empty space.
His expression moved one degree in a direction that wasn't comfortable.
"Where did she go," he said.
Nobody answered.
"Sir," the fourth constable said again.
"What."
"The other one is gone too."
The head constable looked at the space where Maze had been standing.
Also empty.
Two people. Gone. Between one moment and the next. Without sound. Without motion. Without explanation.
The ink bottle sat there.
Uncapped.
Patient.
"Ghost," the fourth constable said very quietly.
"Nobody said ghost."
"I'm just—"
"Nobody said ghost," the head constable said firmly. To the room. To himself. To the fourth constable specifically. "People do not vanish. There is an explanation."
He looked at the chair one more time.
Looked away.
"Take those two. We're leaving."
The fourth constable walked past the chair.
Did not look at the ink bottle.
Looked at it anyway.
Lain had seen all of it.
From the corner of his eye.
Both of them, he thought. Gone. Between one moment and the next.
He looked at the chair.
At the ink bottle.
At the fourth constable walking faster than necessary.
There is a reason, he thought firmly. She does not do things without reason. I know this. I have been with her long enough to know this.
A pause.
She left us with four constables and a murder accusation.
Another pause.
There is a reason.
He kept walking.
There is a reason, he thought again.
Slightly less firmly.
Aleric was still looking at the chair over his shoulder as he was walked through the door.
At the ink bottle.
At the empty space.
She'll come back, he thought.
She always comes back.
She just — stepped aside. There's probably a reason. There's definitely a reason. She knows things I don't know and she had a reason and she's coming back.
He looked at the corridor ahead.
She's coming back.
He held his notebook tighter.
Page four, he thought. I still have page four.
They were walked through the village.
People watching from stalls and doorways with the specific quality of people who had decided this was not their business and were watching very carefully anyway.
Lain walked.
And thought.
The constable on his left was broad. Experienced looking. The kind that had done this many times and had stopped finding it interesting.
The one on his right was younger. Slightly less certain in his grip. The kind that followed because following was easier than deciding.
The head constable was ahead. Back straight. Satisfied. Moving with the specific efficiency of someone who had been given a job and finished it.
The fourth one — the ghost one — was behind them. Still walking slightly faster than the situation required. Still not looking at anything specific in particular.
Lain assessed all four of them.
Then assessed the street.
The market. The stalls. The people watching. The open road at the far end that became fields and then became the wider world beyond this village.
Force, he thought.
Not impulsively.
Clinically.
The one on the left first. He's the biggest but he's also the slowest — his weight is in his chest not his legs. One strike to the side of the knee. He goes down and stays down.
He kept walking.
The one on the right — younger, less certain, grip already loose. He'll step back before he steps forward. Half a second of hesitation. That's enough.
He looked at the head constable's back.
The head one is the problem. He's been watching this whole time. He'll react faster than the others. But if the first two are already down he's reacting to a situation that has already changed and people who react to changed situations make different decisions than people who react to expected ones.
He ran through the timing.
The sequence.
The specific chain of movements that would take approximately four seconds and end with all four of them on the ground and himself and Aleric at the far end of the road and moving.
It's possible, he thought.
Probably.
The probably was the problem.
And after the probably.
Wanted criminals, he thought. In a village. In a region connected to the empire. Connected to the Grand Duke. If this reaches my father — if the wrong person hears that the Grand Duke's son assaulted four constables over a murder accusation in an art house—
He looked at the fourth constable.
At the back of the head constable's head.
And if master hears, he thought.
If master decides I'm a nuisance.
If this is the thing.
After everything.
After the abyss and the shadow and the years and the collar and all of it.
If master decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
He looked at his own hands.
The technique was there.
The timing was there.
The ability was absolutely there.
He kept walking.
Not today, he thought.
Observe.
Find the corruption. Find the connection. Find the shape of what this actually is from inside the cell where nobody is watching me look.
That's the useful thing.
That's what master would—
He stopped that thought.
Adjusted his collar.
Kept walking.
Beside him Aleric had been talking.
Quietly.
Continuously.
Lain had been so absorbed in his tactical assessment that he had filtered it out entirely and was only now tuning back in.
"— which means the answer is still on page four," Aleric was saying. To nobody. To himself. To the general vicinity. "And the notebook is still in my hand. Which means the evidence still exists. Which means eventually someone will look at it and—"
He looked at the people watching from the stalls.
"We didn't do it," he said.
To a woman near a paper stall.
She looked away.
"Page four," Aleric said, holding up the notebook at her.
The constable's grip tightened on his arm.
Aleric looked at the grip.
At the notebook.
They didn't even look at page four, he thought.
It's right there.
In my hand.
He looked at the town office getting closer.
Sis will fix it, he thought. Sis always fixes things. She just stepped aside. There's a reason. Sis always has a reason. She's probably watching right now through that mirror and thinking about exactly when to step back in and when she does she'll fix everything and page four will finally matter.
He nodded to himself.
She'll fix it.
A pause.
She's definitely going to fix it.
Another pause.
She's going to fix it, right.
He looked at the town office door.
She's going to fix it.
He held the notebook tighter.
"At least I still have the notebook," he said.
To nobody.
To himself.
To the notebook specifically.
The town office was exactly what a town office looked like when the people running it had stopped trying.
Lain noticed this immediately.
The desk near the entrance unmanned. Papers stacked without order. A constable asleep in a chair near the far wall who didn't wake up when they came in. The specific accumulated disorder of a place that had been functioning on minimum effort for long enough that minimum effort had become the standard.
Corruption doesn't always look dramatic, he thought. Sometimes it looks like this. Like nobody bothered.
He filed it.
Kept walking.
The cell was at the back.
Small.
Stone on three sides.
Bars on the fourth.
A floor that suggested cleaning was a concept this room had heard about and chosen not to engage with.
The door opened.
They were put inside.
The door closed.
The lock turned.
The constables left without speaking.
Their footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Got quieter.
Then gone.
Then silence.
Lain stood in the middle of the cell.
Looked at it.
At the stone walls.
At the bars.
At the floor.
At the ceiling.
At the bars again.
He filed it under temporary.
Straightened his collar.
Began mentally mapping everything he had observed in the town office on the way in. The desk. The papers. The sleeping constable. The head constable's expression when he sat down — not relieved, not satisfied. Something else. Something that looked like someone checking something off a list someone else had given them.
Someone gave him this result, Lain thought. He didn't find it. He was handed it. The question is who handed it and why this specific result and what connects it to the infiltrator and the marking on the collar and the orders someone is claiming came from—
"Okay," Aleric said.
Lain looked at him.
Aleric was standing near the bars.
Looking at them.
At the corridor beyond them.
At the floor.
At the bars again.
"Okay," he said again.
He looked at his notebook.
At the bars.
At the ceiling.
"This is fine," he said.
Lain waited.
"This is completely fine," Aleric said.
He looked at the stone wall on the left.
At the stone wall on the right.
At the stone wall behind them.
At the bars in front.
"There's a lot of stone," he said.
"Yes," Lain said.
"And bars."
"Yes."
Aleric looked at the bars.
"Sis will fix it," he said.
"Probably," Lain said.
Aleric looked at him.
"Definitely," Aleric said.
"Yes," Lain said.
"She always fixes things."
"Generally."
Aleric looked at him again.
"You're not helping," he said.
"I'm agreeing with you."
"You're agreeing with me in a way that sounds like you're not agreeing with me."
Lain said nothing.
Aleric looked at the bars.
At the corridor.
At the empty space beyond the bars where nobody was coming from yet.
"She'll come," he said.
To the bars.
"She always comes."
The silence held for approximately forty seconds.
Lain counted.
Not deliberately.
Just — his mind counted things when it had nothing else to do and right now it had the cell and the bars and Aleric and the specific quality of quiet that preceded something.
Forty seconds.
Then Aleric sat down on the floor.
Which was either acceptance or defeat and Lain couldn't tell which.
"Okay," Aleric said.
To the floor.
"Okay so we're in a cell."
"Yes," Lain said.
"In a village."
"Yes."
"That we've been in for two days."
"Approximately."
"And we've been arrested for a murder we didn't commit."
"Correct."
"And the answer is on page four."
"Also correct."
Aleric looked at page four.
At the bars.
At page four again.
"Nobody looked at page four," he said.
"No."
"Not once."
"No."
"I held it up."
"I saw."
"I held it up at a woman."
"I saw that too."
Aleric put the notebook on his lap.
Looked at the ceiling.
"The ceiling is very close," he said.
"It's a small cell," Lain said.
"I noticed."
He looked at the walls.
"The walls are also very close."
"Yes."
"On three sides."
"Standard cell configuration."
Aleric looked at him.
"How do you know standard cell configuration."
"Education."
"They taught you about cells."
"They taught me about a great many things."
Aleric considered this.
"Did they teach you how to get out of one."
A pause.
"Yes," Lain said.
Aleric sat up slightly.
"Really."
"The techniques require either a key or a structural weakness in the bars or someone on the outside with sufficient motivation to—"
"Do we have any of those."
Lain looked at the bars.
At the lock.
At the corridor.
"Not currently," he said.
Aleric sat back down.
"Okay," he said.
The silence returned.
Different quality this time.
The specific silence of someone who had been keeping something back and was running out of the thing they were keeping it back with.
Aleric looked at his notebook.
At the bars.
At the space beyond the bars.
"Sis," he said.
Quietly.
To the corridor.
"Sis where are you."
He waited.
The corridor did not answer.
"She left," he said.
"She stepped aside," Lain said. "There's a—"
"She left."
"There's a reason—"
"She was in the chair." Aleric looked at his hands. "She was right there. In the chair. With the ink bottle. And then she just — wasn't. And now we're in a cell. And she's not here."
He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
Nothing there yet.
Wiped it again anyway.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You seem fine," Lain said.
"I am fine."
"Good."
"I'm completely fine."
"Good."
"I'm not scared."
"Good."
Aleric looked at him.
"Stop agreeing with me."
"You said you were fine."
"I am fine."
"Then—"
"I'm fine and also the cell is very small and sis is not here and the walls are very close and the floor is—" he looked at the floor, "—this floor has seen things. Bad things. I can tell."
"The floor is just a floor."
"You don't know that."
Lain looked at the floor.
He did not have a strong counter-argument for this specific point.
He said nothing.
Meanwhile.
In the hidden realm of her mind Blaze sat in a space that was exactly what she wanted it to be.
Comfortable.
Quiet.
Entirely hers.
The mirror floated before her showing everything.
She watched Aleric tell the floor it had seen bad things.
Interesting, she thought.
Not with concern.
With the specific quality of mild entertainment she gave things that were moderately worth watching.
Beside her Maze stood very still.
Eyes on the mirror.
On Aleric.
On the specific progression of his face from fine to not fine.
He's going to cry, Maze thought.
He's fourteen and he's alone in a cell and he's going to cry and master is watching through a mirror and—
She looked at Blaze.
Blaze was watching with the focused attention of someone who had found something genuinely worth the mirror's surface area.
Master, Maze thought. We should—
Blaze's hand moved slightly.
Not a sleeve swing.
Just — a small motion that meant not yet.
Maze looked at the mirror.
At Aleric.
At Lain sitting against the wall trying to be useful and achieving something adjacent to useful but not quite arriving there.
She said nothing.
Stayed where she was.
Watched.
"I'm not going to cry," Aleric said.
"Nobody said you were going to cry," Lain said.
"I know. I'm just saying I'm not going to."
"Noted."
"Because I'm fine."
"You've mentioned that."
"I'm mentioning it again."
"I understand."
Aleric looked at the bars.
At the corridor.
At the space where sis wasn't.
"What if she doesn't come back," he said.
"She'll come back."
"But what if—"
"She'll come back."
"You don't know that."
"I know enough," Lain said. With the specific tone of someone who had decided something and was sticking to it. "She doesn't leave things unfinished. We are unfinished."
Aleric looked at him.
"We're unfinished."
"Yes."
"That's — that's actually reassuring."
"Good."
"We're like an incomplete task."
"Essentially."
"She hates incomplete things."
"She finds them offensive," Lain said. "Yes."
Aleric sat with this for a moment.
Nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said. "Okay that's — okay."
He looked at the bars.
"We're an eyesore she hasn't finished dealing with yet."
"That's one way to—"
"That's actually very comforting."
Lain looked at him.
I said we were unfinished, he thought. He turned us into an eyesore.
He adjusted his collar.
Said nothing.
The mirror showed Blaze this exchange.
She looked at it.
At Aleric nodding with the specific satisfaction of someone who had found comfort in being called an eyesore.
Adequate, she thought.
Not about the comfort.
About Lain's attempt.
He tried.
She looked at Maze.
Maze was watching with the expression of someone who found the situation concerning and was managing that concern with considerable discipline.
He tried, Blaze thought again.
Incorrectly.
But he tried.
She looked back at the mirror.
The comfort lasted approximately ninety seconds.
Then Aleric looked at the floor again.
At the bars.
At the ceiling.
"I'm still scared," he said.
"I know," Lain said.
"The eyesore thing helped for a moment."
"I noticed."
"But I'm still—"
"I know."
Aleric looked at him.
At Lain sitting against the wall with his collar adjusted and his expression composed and his purple eyes aimed at the middle distance with the specific quality of someone who was trying to project calm and mostly succeeding.
"You're scared too," Aleric said.
Lain looked at him.
"I'm—"
"You're scared too."
A pause.
"I am processing the situation," Lain said.
"That's scared."
"It's not—"
"That's just a longer word for scared."
Lain said nothing.
Aleric looked at the bars.
His eyes had acquired the bright quality again.
The specific brightness that meant something was building.
"I'm not going to cry," he said.
"I know," Lain said.
"I'm really not."
"I know."
"I just—" He looked at the space beyond the bars. "Sis."
Quietly.
"Sis I know you stepped aside and I know there's a reason and I know you're probably watching through that mirror right now and I know you're going to fix it but—"
He stopped.
Wiped his face.
Something there this time.
"I'm scared," he said.
To the corridor.
To wherever she was.
Just — to the air.
"I'm scared and I know that's dramatic and you'd tell me to stop being dramatic but I'm — I'm scared."
He wiped his face again.
Lain watched him.
At fourteen years old sitting on a cell floor with his notebook on his lap talking to someone who wasn't there.
He straightened.
"I'm here," he said.
Aleric looked at him.
Processed this.
"That's why I'm more scared," he said.
Lain absorbed this.
He wanted to argue.
He had several arguments ready.
All of them accurate.
None of them useful.
That's why I'm more scared, he thought privately.
He said that.
Again.
Without hesitation.
To my face.
He adjusted his collar.
Said nothing.
In the realm Maze turned to Blaze.
"Master," she said quietly. "He's—"
"I see him," Blaze said.
"He's crying."
"He's almost crying," Blaze said. "There's a distinction."
Maze looked at the mirror.
At Aleric's face.
At the tears that were happening despite considerable resistance.
"Master."
"He said he wasn't going to cry," Blaze said. "He's been very clear about that."
"Master he is fourteen and he is in a cell and he is—"
"Crying," Blaze said. "Yes. I see."
She watched.
With the focused attention of someone watching something that had moved from moderately entertaining into something else that she wasn't examining too carefully.
Dramatic, she thought.
A pause.
Completely dramatic.
Another pause.
She looked at the mirror.
At Aleric wiping his face and insisting he was fine.
At Lain sitting beside him now — not against the wall anymore, beside him —
with the specific expression of someone who had no idea what to do and was doing something anyway because doing nothing felt worse.
Fine, she thought.
Not about any of it specifically.
About the window.
The window had closed.
She put the mirror away.
Stood.
Looked at Maze.
"Come," she said.