"It seems the detective is at work," said a new voice. It was I.
I am Thomas Hardy, the physician and clandestine writer who usually stands beside the detective. Of medium height, slightly bent as if long vigils had carved my spine—a habit I have made peace with; my face is pale not from illness but from the habit of prolonged contemplation. My eyes, behind thin spectacles, regard the world with considered slowness; they do not sparkle with the eagerness of a youth hunting a trace, but no minute oddity or petty mark escapes them.
My coat is a dark gray of coarse wool that embraces the hip pockets, and on my chest hangs the chain of a pocket watch that clicks softly whenever I shift my shoulders; I put a pen into my breast pocket and take from the other a small notebook, page after page—and I write in a compact hand that sometimes spills into long margins when a wave of description carries me away. If my hands do not wipe my brow in thought, one of them flicks the pen's edge and the other presses the notebook's cover; and often you will see ink smudges upon them that are seldom erased, silent attestations to what I have written and what remains unwritten.
As a rule I begin by recording before I render judgment: first I see, then I note, then I subject the scene to thought; my observations are not mere ledger entries but the material from which inference is built. My voice is measured; I favor long, unfolding sentences that sometimes break with a short interjection—"ah" or "huh"—for that brief pause leaves room for the truth to step forward.
My bond with the Detective is a mixture of quiet reverence and professional loyalty: I value him more as a scientific principle than as a man. I yield to his peculiar methods because, time and again, I have witnessed them bring forth tangible results. I provide him with my observations; he shapes them into hypotheses; and in the end, we confirm what those minute details truly signify. I am the first listener, the diligent scribe, the sensory translator of what others merely glimpse with the body's eye, until it becomes a narrative fit for record.
"There was nothing surprising in this line of narrative—I only wish to know who he is," said Castor.
Ancaues wavered, took three steps to the left, then replied: "He is not someone of whom you can ask who. He is the very idea of investigation itself speaking to us."
"The idea of investigation?…" Lagrita asked with curiosity. "I have seen many living concepts, but this is new."
"Oh, my lady, detection is not bound to the Uris; it is a task that falls upon any plane of reality," the Detective murmured.
"Oh… that makes sense," said Lagrita. Then she gestured toward the other man—myself. "And what about him? Who is he?"
I lifted my hat in a courteous bow. "Thomas Hardy, at your service… the Detective's assistant."
I said no more, and they asked no further. They simply accepted it. Lagrita nodded her head in assent.
"So then, have you discovered anything, Detective?" asked Ancaues.
"Oh, much indeed," he replied, pulling a handful of grass from the ground.
"You seem greatly concerned with the grass. Is there something wrong with it?" I asked.
"Oh yes—it is entirely wrong. Look at it," he answered, with that superior tone he uses when he notices what escapes us.
I drew closer to where he stood and knelt on my left knee, touching the blades. "Well, I find nothing strange about it."
"My poor Thomas, how I pity you… how can this grass even exist? It requires at least a month before you would see seedlings, and yet here it is, tall and mature already. How can that be?"
"Perhaps the palace vanished more than a month ago," Castor suggested with confidence, believing he had surpassed this man of riddles.
"That is impossible. If the palace had disappeared so long ago, word would surely have reached you long before now. Do not forget that Simon ruled this region; had he vanished earlier, rumor would have reached your ears swiftly, instead of leaving you stunned now at these revelations. No—the disappearance cannot have exceeded more than a few hours, or at most a handful of days."
Castor turned the Detective's words over in his mind, extracting the logic from them.
Lagrita pointed down toward the village beneath the hill: "I am certain the villagers will confirm the Detective's account."
The Detective nodded in agreement.
I lifted my chest proudly, as though I had unraveled the mystery, and declared, "Simon's palace did not vanish until after the tomb was opened."
The Detective inclined his head in acknowledgment, and my spirits rose—yet he said nothing, waiting for me to explain how I had reached such a conclusion. I continued: "According to the driver's testimony, Simon had gone from his palace to purchase the fairy from Athcalis. Therefore, the palace must have still been standing at that time."
The Detective tilted his head again… but his silence betrayed his disappointment. Clearly, my conclusion was flawed.
Castor stepped forward, his rough voice underscored by the thud of his staff striking the ground. "In truth, the driver said: 'My lord met Lord Athcalis that night to purchase a fairy.' He never said he carried his master from any place. All he confirmed was that he brought him to the cemetery that night."
I tried to argue: "But Ancaues and Ignis read the driver's memories—they can confirm it. One of them is with us now." I turned to Ancaues.
Ancaues advanced and said: "Yes, you are correct, I did read his memories, and that recollection was there… but the driver's memories were damaged. It was clear they had been deliberately altered, with great portions missing. They cannot prove anything."
I could not press the matter further. I could hardly claim, I am the Narrator, therefore I know the truth. Dissatisfied, I kept silent. Yet still I wondered: how did the Detective reach the same truth, if my reasoning had been wrong?