Clive walks quickly toward Charlie's room, guided by one of the servants through the wide corridors of the estate.
The house feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Too orderly for something that has already gone wrong.
As uniformed voices echo faintly from outside, he turns to the housekeeper standing rigid near the stairway.
"I'd like permission to check Master Charlie's room," Clive says. "For clues."
The housekeeper hesitates only a moment.
She knows his face.
She knows he is the one who spoke up for Charlie, the one who helped expose the false trail at the Canary Club.
She nods. "You may."
Clive inclines his head and steps into the room.
The door is half open.
Inside, the room looks as if a storm passed through it.
Drawers are pulled out.
Books lie scattered on the floor.
The bed sheets are twisted and half torn free.
Clive pauses at the threshold and glances at the servant.
"Was the room like this when you first discovered Master Charlie missing?"
The servant shakes his head quickly. "No, sir. We did this while searching."
Clive nods once and moves inside.
He searches methodically.
Not fast.
Not frantic.
He checks the bed first, then the floor, then the desk.
No blood.
No obvious signs of a struggle.
That alone troubles him.
He moves to the bookshelf.
Medical texts.
Anatomy volumes.
Surgical references.
All expected.
Then, while running his fingers along the spines, one book shifts strangely.
He pulls it free.
Inside, hollowed into the pages, is a smaller book.
Red-covered.
Worn.
Unfamiliar.
He opens it slightly.
The writing is not in the local tongue.
Clive's breath slows.
He recognises the script immediately.
Golden Sand Continent.
Before he can examine further, a voice calls out.
"Did you find anything?"
Clive closes the book instinctively and slides it into the inner pocket of his trench coat.
He turns.
Simon and Bell stand at the doorway.
"Nothing," Clive says calmly.
They step into the room and begin their own search.
Clive continues moving, now watching more than searching.
His eyes drift toward the window.
Something catches his attention.
A thin thread.
Tied carefully around the window bolt.
He steps closer.
The knot is neat.
Deliberate.
He turns to the servant.
"Was the window open or closed when you first came in?"
Bell looks up sharply. "What did you find?"
"The window," the servant answers. "It was closed."
Simon crouches and inspects the thread.
Clive asks again, more casually, "Does Master Charlie usually sleep with his window open or closed?"
"In spring," the servant replies, thinking, "he sleeps with it open."
Then his eyes widen slightly.
"I remember now," he murmurs. "Mike said the window was open last night."
Simon straightens. "Who's Mike?"
"One of the estate guards," the servant says.
Bell nods. "Call him."
The servant hurries out.
Simon exhales. "We have two possibilities now."
"One," Bell continues, "Linda somehow entered through the window and took Charlie."
Simon grimaces. "Or two—Charlie left on his own."
Clive speaks quietly. "Linda is an old woman nearing fifty. How would she overpower a man younger than her and remove him without noise?"
Bell and Simon exchange a look.
Bell's jaw tightens.
"Now you can leave," Bell says. "From here on, we handle it."
Clive opens his mouth to protest.
Bell's gaze hardens.
"This is police business."
Clive closes his mouth.
He nods once and turns away.
Outside the estate, he calls a carriage.
"To the Crown Library," he tells the driver.
The carriage rolls through the city, steam hissing softly, until the grand structure of the Crown Library rises before him.
Built soon after Parliament itself, the library stands as a monument to collected knowledge.
Only the Royal Library surpasses it.
Clive signs his name and address at the counter and moves directly to the language section.
He walks deep into the shelves, past newer volumes, until he finds the old translations.
Golden Sand language.
He pulls a translation guide free and carries it to a desk.
Sitting down, he retrieves the red book from his coat.
His fingers tremble slightly as he opens it and checks the cover.
Basic Blood Alchemy.
His mind goes blank for a heartbeat.
Then panic surges.
He closes the book immediately and slips it back into his coat.
He forces himself to breathe.
Calm.
He takes the translation guide to the counter and borrows it for a week.
Back outside, he hires another carriage and returns home.
Inside his living room, he spreads everything out.
The translation guide.
Blank sheets of paper.
Ink.
Pen.
And finally, the red book.
He opens it again, this time with care.
Slowly, painstakingly, he begins translating.
Word by word.
Line by line.
Blood alchemy.
Not surgery.
Not medicine.
Something else entirely.
And as the first translated sentences take shape, Clive realises the Stitcher was never just a murderer.
The wording in the book is precise, deliberate, and utterly detached from morality.
These killings are steps.
Preparation.
Practice.
There is more to the murders than obsession or madness.
While Clive continues translating by lamplight, Simon and Bell stand before a newly built structure on the edge of the city.
The building is fully white, its surface smooth and pristine, almost too clean for Olden City.
Wide steps lead up to the entrance, and large circular columns support a high roof that casts a deep shadow beneath it.
Simon frowns. "I thought this was a private library."
Bell studies the place, unease crawling up his spine. "Looks like the library is just a front."
They climb the steps.
The moment they cross the threshold, a strange sensation grips them.
It feels like stepping into a cage.
Like standing before a tiger that has not yet decided whether to pounce.
Both men tense instinctively.
Then they see him.
An old man sits against the far wall, thin and motionless, his eyes sharp despite his age.
He looks at them as if he has been waiting all along.
The oppressive feeling vanishes.
"You are the two detectives James said would be coming," the old man says calmly.
Simon and Bell nod at once.
Bell clears his throat. "Chief James said we could get help here with our case."
The old man inclines his head. "Go to the back. Amy is waiting for you."
They exchange a glance, then nod again and move deeper inside.
The interior looks like an ordinary private library.
Tall shelves packed with books.
Long tables.
People sitting quietly, reading.
A few glance up as Simon and Bell pass, then return to their books without interest.
Near the back wall, they spot a young woman with brunette hair, seated with her back against the wall, facing them directly.
Simon stops short.
"Amy Hargreave?" he says, surprised.
She looks up from her book.
"Simon," she replies calmly.
"Why are you here?" Simon blurts out.
"I work here," Amy says simply.
Simon opens his mouth to ask more.
Amy raises a hand. "Stop. I'll explain later."
Simon closes his mouth and nods.
"Come with me," Amy says, standing.
She walks to a nearby shelf and pulls out a book.
A faint click echoes.
From the far end of the shelf, something shifts.
Amy steps to the narrow gap between the shelf and the wall and presses her palm against the stone.
The wall moves.
It opens like a hidden door.
Without another word, she steps inside.
Simon and Bell follow.
The door closes behind them.
A stairway descends into darkness beneath the building.
—
Back in his living room, Clive stops translating at the thirty-third page.
From page thirty to thirty-three, the text changes tone.
It is no longer a theory.
It is an instruction.
A ritual.
To acquire the talent of an alchemist.
His eyes move rapidly across the translated lines.
Five organs.
Each was taken from a different person.
Each organ is required to initiate the ritual.
Then comes the next step.
A living sacrifice.
The text is chillingly explicit.
The greater the number of people sacrificed, the higher the resulting talent.
The ritual must be performed at midnight.
Under a full moon.
Clive's blood runs cold.
His gaze snaps to the window.
Moonlight spills across the floor.
Full.
Tonight.
His thoughts race.
Linda was the one who wielded the blade.
Linda killed.
But Linda was following instructions.
The handwriting in the book.
The medical precision.
The access.
The planning.
Charlie.
Clive's eyes widen.
Charlie is not just a participant.
He is the mastermind.
Clive springs to his feet, heart pounding.
He grabs his coat and rushes out of the house.
He hails a carriage, voice sharp as he gives the address.
"The police station. Now."
The carriage rattles through the streets, steam hissing, the moon hanging high above the city.
At the station, Clive bursts inside.
Too late.
Bell and Simon have already left.
He finds Seamus and Jake instead, poring over notes.