Noir stood by the desk, his chest still heaving slightly from the exertion and the lingering adrenaline. The diaries were hidden, safe for now. But the silence of the room, once a temporary reprieve, now pressed in on him, filled with the echo of Alder's frantic last words and Elias's chilling prophecy. This world… a setup. It will happen again, this world is gonna' be gone. The words were a brand, seared into his very being.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the clammy coolness of his skin. The headache still throbbed, a dull, persistent ache behind his eyes, a physical manifestation of the terror that had just been unleashed upon his reality. The weight of Inspector Volkova's card, still in his pocket, felt like a lead plumb bob pulling him down into this nightmare. Three days. Three days until he faced them again, until the "expert" arrived.
Grace would be back soon. The thought jolted him back to the mundane, yet equally terrifying, reality of his immediate situation. He was not just a victim of cosmic horror; he was an imposter, living a lie, a Fool balancing precariously on the edge of discovery. He knew almost nothing about Alder Wilson's daily life, his routine, his habits. Every interaction was a potential pitfall, every question a test.
He glanced around the room, his eyes now seeing it not as a familiar space, but as a trove of information he desperately needed to decipher. He had to become Alder, at least superficially, to survive the next three days. He couldn't afford to arouse suspicion, especially not from someone like Grace, who knew Alder intimately.
Where does he keep his schedule? His money? What are his typical mannerisms, his preferences? The practical questions, mundane in any other circumstance, now felt as crucial as understanding the nature of the Fourth Epoch. He needed to find the hidden currents of Alder's life, to immerse himself in them before he drowned.
He walked slowly, deliberately, towards Alder's wardrobe, the scent of dust and old linen filling his nostrils. He needed to find whatever Alder used to organize his life, to manage his affairs. He felt a desperate urgency, a need to absorb every minute detail, every small piece of the puzzle that was Alder Wilson, before the "expert" arrived, and before the world, as Elias warned, was "gone."
Noir opened the wardrobe, the hinges creaking softly in the quiet room. A faint scent of old linen and subtle academic mustiness wafted out. Inside, Alder's clothes hung neatly: a few tweed jackets, several plain shirts, trousers pressed with careful creases. Everything was practical, understated, reflecting a studious and perhaps somewhat reclusive nature.
No wild fashion choices here, at least. Noir thought, a faint, almost sardonic flicker of his old self surfacing amidst the dread. Another thing to remember: bland is good.
He ran his hands over the fabrics, feeling for any hidden pockets, any tell-tale bulges. Nothing obvious in the jackets. He checked the trousers, feeling inside the pockets. Empty.
His gaze then fell to the bottom of the wardrobe. A small, neat stack of folded shirts. Below them, a shoe rack with a few pairs of sensible leather shoes. And tucked away in the back corner, almost out of sight, was a small, wooden box, unadorned and unassuming.
A box. Noir's heart gave a slight thrum. This felt promising. People didn't usually hide empty boxes. He reached in, his fingers brushing against the cool, smooth wood. He pulled it out, placing it carefully on Alder's bed. It wasn't locked.
He lifted the lid. Inside, it wasn't treasure, but something far more valuable to him now: order. A small, leather-bound wallet lay nestled within, beside a small ring of keys, and, most importantly, a folded piece of parchment that looked suspiciously like a schedule or calendar.
Noir's fingers closed around the items, a wave of desperate relief washing over him. This was it. The mundane, yet absolutely crucial, information he needed to navigate the next three days. This was Alder's anchor to the world, and now, it was his.
Noir picked up the folded piece of parchment from the box. It was a weekly schedule, written in Alder's precise hand. He quickly scanned it, noting his classes, study times, and a few recurring appointments. He saw the Wednesday essay for Professor Thompson, and a surprising amount of free time, mostly filled with the vague notation "research."
Before he could delve deeper, a key rattled in the front door, and a familiar voice called out, "Alder? I'm back!"
...
The sound of the key in the lock, followed by Grace's voice, sent a jolt through Noir. He shoved the schedule, wallet, and keys back into the wooden box and quickly tucked it back into its hidden spot beneath the wardrobe. He stood, forcing his expression into what he hoped was a casual, unconcerned look. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to appear as though he'd just been lost in thought, perhaps even a bit disheveled, as Alder might be after a morning of intense study.
The door to the room swung open and Grace stepped in, carrying a few books and a satchel similar to Alder's. She looked tired, a few strands of dark hair escaping her usually neat bun. Her eyes, however, were sharp, immediately assessing him.
"You're back early," she observed, her voice carrying a hint of surprise. "Rough morning?" She walked further into the room, setting her satchel and books down on a nearby table, her movements efficient and familiar.
Noir managed a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Just... a lot to process." He tried to keep his voice even, to sound like Alder. He thought of the terrifying details from Alder's diary, the whispers, Elias's gruesome death, the "setup" of this world, and the police summons. The weight of it all was immense, but he knew he couldn't let it show. He had to embody the 'Fool' in a new way now: outwardly naive, inwardly scrambling for survival.
Grace didn't seem to notice anything amiss. She turned to him, a faint frown creasing her brow as she peered at him more closely. "You do look a bit pale, Alder. Are you feeling alright? More than just 'processing'?" There was a hint of a familiar, concerned affection in her tone, the way one might inquire about a quiet, studious housemate.
He seized on the suggestion, a safe, familiar excuse. "Just… absorbed in my studies, I suppose," Noir replied, trying to sound suitably deep in thought, perhaps a touch melancholic. "Some of the older texts can be quite… consuming." He hoped his vague words would suffice, mimicking what Alder might say if he were truly lost in his research.
Grace sighed, but it was a soft, understanding sound. She seemed to accept his explanation. "Well, try not to consume yourself along with them. You know how you get." She gave a light, almost teasing shrug. "I'm off to the kitchen. Fancy some tea? Or just need a quiet afternoon for more 'consuming' thoughts?"
The question hung in the air, an offer of mundane normalcy that Noir desperately needed to accept. It was a test, subtle yet vital. He needed to respond in a way Alder would, to maintain the fragile illusion.
A wave of profound relief washed over Noir. A simple, ordinary cup of tea. It was a lifeline he hadn't known he needed. It offered a moment of respite from the suffocating dread, a chance to ground himself in something mundane, something predictable.
"Tea would be… excellent, Grace," Noir said, his voice softer now, a hint of genuine gratitude in it. "A quiet afternoon sounds... precisely what's needed."
Grace smiled, a small, tired but genuine curve of her lips. "Thought so. Don't worry, I won't disturb your profound ponderings too much." She picked up her satchel and headed towards the door. "Meet you in the kitchen."
Noir watched her go, a fresh wave of anxiety quickly replacing the brief relief. Profound ponderings. That was his persona. He had to maintain it, flawlessly. Every gesture, every word, every silence. He walked towards the kitchen, his mind already rehearsing responses, preparing for the small, domestic battlefield that awaited him. He was the Fool, playing a part he hadn't studied, on a stage he barely understood, with stakes far higher than any performance.
The kitchen was a cozy, well-used space, filled with the comforting scent of baked bread and simmering spices. Grace was already at the stove, pouring water into a kettle. Sunlight streamed in through a large window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
"Sugar or milk, Alder?" she asked, her back to him as the kettle began to hum.
"Just milk, please," he replied, remembering the small detail from the schedule he'd glimpsed. Or was it from Grace's observation? He couldn't quite recall, but it felt right. He moved to the small wooden table in the center of the room and pulled out a chair, settling into it.
Grace brought over two steaming mugs, the ceramic warm against his hands. The tea was dark, fragrant. She sat opposite him, taking a long sip.
"University was a madhouse today," she began, a slight frown creasing her brow. "The queue for the library was absurd. And Professor Valerius decided to spring a pop quiz on 'Material Efficiencies of Glimmer-Steel Alloys' – completely unannounced." She took another sip, a dramatic sigh escaping her. "My head is still spinning."
Noir nodded, trying to appear engaged. Glimmer-Steel Alloys. Valerius. These were new pieces of information about her life, which he could use to steer the conversation. He had to be careful not to reveal his ignorance about his own academic world.
"A pop quiz?" he murmured, making it sound like a mild, thoughtful observation rather than a desperate attempt to gain information. "That sounds… taxing. Did you manage it?"
Grace rolled her eyes playfully. "I think so. It's just disruptive, isn't it? One plans their entire day around research, and then boom, unexpected metal alloys." She chuckled softly. "How was your lecture? Armitage isn't known for being merciful with his Saturdays."
Noir took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, letting the warmth spread through him. He needed to be vague, yet convincing. "Armitage was… Armitage," he began, choosing his words carefully. "He delved deep into the societal impact of the later dynasties. The way power consolidates, how narratives are shaped by the victors." He leaned back slightly, trying to convey a thoughtful, almost philosophical detachment. "It certainly gives one pause to consider the foundations of… established truths."
Grace hummed in agreement, a knowing look in her eyes. "Yes, that does sound like Armitage. Always making you question everything." She took another sip of her tea, her gaze drifting out the window for a moment. "Sometimes I think you and Elias spend too much time in those old history books. You both start talking like professors before you've even finished your degrees." She smiled, a fond, almost wistful expression, but the mention of Elias sent a fresh shiver down Noir's spine. He had to remain calm.
"History has its own kind of power, Grace," Noir said softly, trying to inject a touch of Alder's earnestness into his voice. "More than just facts. It reveals patterns. Or perhaps… conceals them." He watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. The mention of Elias, his missing friend, lingered like a silent threat.
Grace simply nodded, seeming to accept his pronouncement as typically 'Alder.' "True enough, I suppose. Though I prefer my power to come from practical applications. Give me a new engine design over an ancient dynasty any day." She chuckled again, then pushed her empty mug aside. "Well, I should get to my own research. Don't let those historical patterns consume you entirely."
She rose from the table, gathering her books. Noir watched her go, a sense of relief flooding him as she left the kitchen. He had survived the first interaction. He had navigated the mundane, deflected the questions, and kept his terrifying knowledge hidden. But the mention of Elias, however fleeting, was a stark reminder of the fragile tightrope he walked.
He took another long sip of his tea, the warmth now feeling like a meager defense against the cold fear that still gnawed at him.