The past week had been a whirlwind. Once Christine recovered, thanks to the silver lotus, Mr. Hawthorne gave me enough money to move into a better hotel closer to the apothecary. A generous gesture, of course, considering how often he forgot to eat, blink, or acknowledge basic human emotion.
Still, I took it as a small victory. Finally, somewhere clean and quiet, without damp sheets or unwanted visitors scuttling across the floor at two in the morning. That alone felt like I'd climbed a rung on the social ladder. Just one. Maybe half.
The new hotel was tucked in a livelier part of the city, surrounded by busy markets and winding alleys full of shouting vendors. The air carried the scent of spices, roasted chestnuts, and perfume from passing strangers, with the occasional whiff of something less glamorous. It was charming in a chaotic sort of way.
The building stood out with its ironwork balconies and colorful shutters, looking like it belonged in a romantic novel. I half-expected someone to lean over a railing and sing about lost love.
Inside, the lobby offered a quiet kind of elegance. Chandeliers spilled soft light over velvet chairs, and the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers lingered in the air. The receptionist greeted me with a professional smile and a voice like warm tea as she welcomed me to The Moonlight Haven. It sounded either like a respectable inn or a place where people came to have dramatic affairs. I wasn't sure which.
I gave her my name. While she sorted through the paperwork, I looked around the surroundings.
A few guests lounged on sofas, murmuring politely. One couple in the corner was practically making out, completely oblivious to the world. I wrinkled my nose as I looked away, quite amused. Then I saw a lone figure sitting at the bar.
He hunched over his drink, dark hair shielding part of his face. Even from across the room, the way he sat, with his shoulders drawn in, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, showed that he's exhausted. Or heartbroken. Or possibly just a very long Tuesday.
The receptionist returned, handing me a brass key with a long silken tassel.
"Room 613, fifth floor," she said. "You'll find the staircase just past the sitting room. If you need assistance with your luggage, the porter can bring it up for you."
I thanked her and slipped the key into my palm. It had a cool, satisfying weight to it, grounding me as I turned toward the staircase. The wooden floor creaked underfoot, less like a warning and more like a welcome, as if the building was stretching in its old bones.
The room itself was a pleasant surprise. Deep blue wallpaper trimmed in gold gave it a regal warmth, elegant but not overbearing. A large bed took center stage, the heavy coverlet folded with care, the pillows adorned with delicate embroidery. Near the window, a plush armchair stood beside a small round table, a good corner for reading or simply doing nothing with great purpose. Overhead, the ceiling fan spun lazily, keeping the air just fresh enough.
I crossed the room and opened the window. A cool breeze slipped in, carrying with it the scent of evening and distant music. Somewhere below, a violin played, weaving through laughter and the gentle clatter of horse-drawn carriages on the cobbled road.
It was a far cry from the damp little room I'd left behind. This place felt like it had stories to tell, but none that would crawl into your bed at night.
With a soft sigh, I set my bag down and sank into the armchair. The cushions gave without complaint, and I let the stillness settle around me like a second skin.
For the first time in a long while, I felt like I could exhale. Not just rest, but truly stop.
In the following days, I turned back to my routine that was both soothing and surprisingly invigorating. Mornings began with fresh pastries and coffee, the kind that warmed you from the inside out. I shared over short conversations with the hotel staff too. I quickly learned their names, their quirks, and in return, offered small pieces of my own story, careful to keep the strange parts neatly tucked away, of course.
The hotel had become a quiet refuge after long hours at the apothecary. It was only a short walk away, which made my daily routine feel almost effortless. Each evening, I'd return, turn the key in the lock, and step into a space that, for the time being, belonged entirely to me.
One evening, as night crept in and the city's energy faded to a gentle hush, I found myself curled up in my room, book in lap and mind elsewhere. The lamp cast a golden glow across the walls and through the open window drifted the slow, melancholy hum of a violin. Someone in the street below was either practicing or nursing a heartbreak-possibly both.
And yet, despite the comfort of it all, my thoughts kept straying back to the statue I had discovered in the tunnel. No matter how often I tried to dismiss it, I couldn't shake the image from my mind. It hadn't looked like a sculpture. It had looked like a man, like someone caught in the act of dreaming, and then forgotten by time.
Was it truly just a forgotten piece of art? Or something else entirely? A relic from a buried ritual, perhaps. A tribute to a lost noble. Or, more unsettling still, an alchemist's attempt to breathe life into stone. I'd heard of statues carved to mourn royal sons or to honor war heroes, but this one had been hidden in darkness, surrounded by bones and dust. It had no name, no pedestal, no reverence.
Just silence.
The craftsmanship still haunted me: the faint blue veins beneath its skin, the impossibly fine hair, the regal threads stitched with care that no common sculptor would ever bother with. If this was meant for display, why bury it like a secret?
A felt a heavy pressure in my chest, as if I had done a crime, like stealing the crown jewels or murdering someone who owed me a great debt, but I brushed it off. There were more logical explanations, surely, less unnerving than the ones my imagination kept dragging into the light.
For now, I told myself, it was only a statue.
Just a very convincing one.
I reached for the amulet resting against my collarbone, rubbing my thumb across its smooth surface. It had been my silent guardian for years, protecting me from spirits that lurked just beyond the veil. If the statue had been anything more than carved stone, surely I would have sensed it.
The thought offered some comfort. Then came a knock at the door, breaking the quiet.
It was soft. Not the nervous tap of a lost traveler, nor the frantic pounding of an emergency. My pulse quickened as I turned toward the sound.
Who would visit me at this hour?
It couldn't be Mr. Hawthorne. He had no reason to check on me, especially not this late. Maybe someone from the hotel staff? A message from the apothecary?
A faint tension stirred beneath my ribs, but I welcomed the distraction. I wasn't afraid. Only curious. With one last glance at the open window, where the violinist's song still drifted through the night, I stepped forward and reached for the door.
I took a breath and opened it.
A man stood there. He looked unfamiliar, but something about him tugged at my memory, like I'd seen him before in a dream I couldn't quite place
He said nothing. Just stood there with an air of quiet certainty. Beside him, a hotel staff member lingered with a polite, mildly curious look, as if she too was trying to understand why this man had come to find me.
I thought I had known him once. But the man standing there in that sharp suit, looking like he stepped out of someone else's life, didn't match anyone I could recall. He had the air of someone used to being in control. Calm, put-together, just confident enough to make you wonder if he owned the place.
He looked important. The kind of man who gave instructions, not introductions. Someone who didn't wait around unless he wanted to. And still, something about him lingered. Maybe it was the slope of his shoulders or the way his eyes held mine a second longer than they should have, as if he was trying to remember too.
My throat tightened, and I swallowed. My mouth was dry, and I could hear my own pulse. It felt like trying to remember a dream from years ago-hazy, familiar in feeling, but just out of reach when I tried to pull it closer.
Then, as if a hidden door creaked open in my memory, it hit me. The sharp-eyed boy who used to sit near the windows, always watching, rarely speaking. Eleven years. It had been that long. And whatever softness time might have carved into me, it had chiseled something altogether different into him.
Could he be... He couldn't be...
"Good evening, Miss Masha Montclair," he said, his tone low, polite, and calm. I caught the faintest trace of a smile trying to form on his lips. "It has been eleven years. You would scarcely know me now. I am Victor Darkstone."
The name struck me.
Victor. The boy who had grown up in Averlain's winding lanes, who lingered at the edges of summer festivals, quiet while others laughed. I remembered the boy who used to watch the river with a gaze too serious for his age.
"I... almost didn't recognize you," I admitted.
His stony expression did not change. "That is natural," he replied.
"It's been... a long time," I murmured, unsure if I was addressing him or myself.
Which was an understatement. Eleven years. He'd clearly been busy turning into someone who looked like he stepped out of a fashion plate and could afford the entire hotel.
His dark eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place-relief, maybe, or some well-rehearsed uncertainty. He hesitated, just for a beat, like he was bracing himself for a slap or a scolding. When neither came, his shoulders relaxed, and he offered a small, reserved smile. "Indeed, it has. How have the years treated you, Masha?"
A polite question, but his tone hinted at something more, like the years might've held answers neither of us were ready to speak aloud.
The hotel staff shifted beside him, clearly aware she was intruding on something. "Shall I leave you two to catch up?" she asked delicately, eyes flicking between us.
By that gesture, she must have assumed that there's indeed something juicy between me and this mysterious man.
"Yes, thank you," I said, already half-distracted, barely glancing her way.
She disappeared, and silence settled between us, comfortable for neither, like a coat that no longer fit.
I studied him again. His suit was simple-nothing loud or gaudy-but there was a quiet elegance to it. Well-cut, well-made. The kind of thing you wouldn't look twice at unless you knew fabric. And I did. It looked like good wool, maybe imported. His shoes had been worn, but cared for. Whoever he was now, he hadn't forgotten how to look put-together.
He had changed. Quite a bit. Broader in the shoulders, steadier in the way he held himself. Still water, yes, but not the kind that sits idle. There was a current under there-stronger, and deeper than I remembered.
But what truly unsettled me wasn't how much he'd changed. It was the timing. Eleven years gone, and suddenly here he was, standing in this hallway like it meant something. This didn't feel like coincidence. It felt like something planned. As if he'd been watching the clock for the right moment to step back into my life.
I sighed and let the silence hang between us. Something about his presence unsettled me. Not in any obvious way. Not from fear. It was more like hearing a tune from long ago, one you can't quite name, yet it stirs something in you all the same.
He looked older, though not by much. His features had sharpened: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips pressed into a quiet line. There was a bit of stubble along his chin, just enough to seem intentional. But it was his eyes that gave me pause. Dark and steady, they didn't just meet mine. They studied me. And there was something in them I hadn't expected. A heaviness, like he'd seen too much of the world and never managed to set it down. Or childhood trauma, which I suspected he might have, considering his mysterious family background.
In his hand, a gold cigarette case glinted, engraved with a serpent curled around a mirror. My breath caught for half a second. I'd seen that symbol before. I didn't know where, but it tugged at something buried deep.
A faint scent clung to him. Not quite soap, and certainly not perfume. It reminded me of dried herbs, old paper, and worn leather, like the inside of a well-traveled trunk. There was also something sharper beneath it, metallic, almost like blood left too long in the air. I couldn't name it. Only that it didn't belong. Not here. Not now.
My fingers instinctively brushed the amulet at my collarbone without thinking.
Why now? Why after so many years? There was a reason for his visit. There had to be. And something told me it wasn't just a reunion over tea.
Victor let out a quiet chuckle, with a note I couldn't quite place. "You look troubled, Masha."
He stepped inside slowly, unhurried, giving me the chance to stop him. I didn't. He took the chair across from me with that same composed grace, like every motion had been rehearsed.
"Have I displeased you somehow?" he asked, tilting his head. The curve of his lips suggested amusement, but his eyes told another story. Something flickered there-uncertainty, maybe. A quiet question he didn't dare voice.
I offered a tight smile. "Just surprised, that's all."
His smile deepened, but it stayed surface-level. "Surprise is the beginning of all meaningful encounters," he said. "Or so I'm told."
The line sounded casual, even clever, but something in his tone felt off, as if he was treading carefully.
Then, for a brief moment, his expression shifted. The glimmer of charm faded, giving way to something more difficult to read.
His gaze wandered past me, somewhere distant. "Still... life doesn't always follow the lines we draw for it," he murmured, more to himself than to me.
His voice had gone softer. Not dramatic, not self-pitying—just... tired.
Ah, he is still the Victor I know. Often talking about strange stuff, mostly to himself. But as a woman who's into strange things, it didn't matter.
A pause settled between us, not awkward but thick. The kind of silence that waits to see who'll speak first, and what they'll dare to say.
Then, as if pulling himself back from the edge of some distant thought, he gave a small shake of his head. Whatever had passed across his face vanished. His expression settled, his eyes refocused on me, and just like that, the composed, unreadable Victor returned, complete with that faint, familiar smile.
But I had seen it.
That crack in the mask. That flicker of something unguarded, almost human.
And I didn't know if that made him more trustworthy, or far more dangerous.