Back in Backlund.
The flat on Skirt Street had been wrecked and still wasn't fully sorted, so Vincent had spent the previous night at the Caesar Restaurant. He hadn't slept much. A large portion of the night had been spent travelling back and forth between the Nation of Disorder and reality — relaying the mythological stories he'd heard from the Bernadette on the Harry Potter side to this Bernadette.
Helping her in her practice — no, helping her create new Mystery Reincarnation spells.
Vivian had arranged for people to go and put the flat back in order overnight, replacing the damaged furniture as well. All told, the expense ran to several hundred pounds.
Apart from Bernadette's lingering resentment over the clothes that had been ruined, the whole affair had actually turned out very much in their favour. Vincent, unlike Klein in the original story, had made sure to search Capim's property thoroughly after the fact — cash, jewellery, the whole lot came to somewhere between three and five thousand pounds.
"No wonder you became a pirate queen — nothing beats robbery for a quick profit."
Bernadette spoke with a reminiscent air. "I started out as an adventurer. My fleet never attacked merchant ships — we mostly struck back against pirates. It was only later, when Father was assassinated at the White Maple Palace and the Intis Empire fell, that I wound up with a bounty on my head and found myself labelled a pirate without quite meaning to."
"But since the new Intis Republic insisted on calling me a pirate, I ran up the Jolly Roger and started specifically targeting Intis merchant ships. It was a useful outlet for a very difficult time."
She paused, then added quietly, "Later, I started to feel it was all rather childish and pointless, and I stopped targeting Intis specifically. But by then the reputation of the Pirate Queen had already spread far and wide."
Then, with a slight shift in tone: "If Father were still alive — if the Intis Empire had endured — things would have gone entirely differently, I expect."
Vincent took a sip of coffee and, taking his cue, asked: "About those two priorities you mentioned yesterday — how do you plan to approach them?"
"Report it to the Church. How does that sound?"
"???"
He hadn't expected to hear that from Bernadette.
Not that he should be entirely surprised — certain tendencies really did seem to trickle down from the top of the Tarot Club.
"It's more a probe than a report, really," Bernadette explained. "A way of testing the Church's attitude toward the matter. If this is eventually confirmed to be true, and the Loen king has the Church's backing, then..."
She left the sentence unfinished. Vincent asked cautiously, "Would you give up?"
"What do you think?"
"I think... probably not."
"Whatever happens," Bernadette said, her voice going quiet, "I will try — even knowing full well I'm throwing myself against something I can't move. But you needn't worry."
"About what?"
"I won't throw away our lives for Father's sake — because only the living have the luxury of hope. If Father truly ends up dying because of the Loen king's ascension, then what I do with the rest of my life will be to pursue every possible means of dragging that man back down from his throne, and making him pay."
A pity the Apocalypse is only a decade or so away.
Come to think of it — did Bernadette know about the Apocalypse? About what lay behind it?
"So — how do we actually go about making the report?"
"Simply enough. Write an anonymous letter and leave it somewhere the Church will find it — drop it near the church door, leave it inside a chapel, anything that gets it into their hands."
"It's only a probe, after all. Simple and functional is all we need."
"Right."
Can't let the invisible servant run this errand — that thing has no common sense. Better find a few street urchins to deliver it to a few different churches.
At that moment, Vivian knocked and stepped in. "Your Majesty — I've located the manor you were looking for."
Vincent blinked for a moment before remembering: he'd asked her yesterday to find the manor from the dream-divination, the one Ellie had been taken to. He felt a faint sense of vertigo at how much had happened since then:
He'd started the day trying to find out who'd ransacked the flat. That had led to the discovery of a human trafficking connection. Then Ellie's kidnapping. Then Capim. Then, somehow, they'd ended up discussing the Loen king's possible bid for godhood.
Life really was impossible to predict. You could never guess what absurd turn the next moment would bring.
"Where is it?"
"In the outskirts of Queen's Borough. A place called Red Rose Manor."
She paused before continuing: "It is the private manor of His Royal Highness the Third Prince, Edessak Augustus."
Ah. The prince who had also discovered that the Witch's charms were quite something. Vincent remembered him — in the original, a tragic figure used and discarded by his father from beginning to end.
If Ellie's identity really was the "princess" he'd been speculating about, then being brought to Edessak's manor probably didn't constitute an abduction.
"Perhaps it's a form of protection," Bernadette said. "If the Prince has noticed something is wrong, he may have forcibly brought his sister back to prevent her from digging any further."
Vincent looked at Vivian. "Vivian — do you know if the Loen royal family has a princess named Ellie?"
"No."
She clearly already had a thorough knowledge of the royal family's membership.
Perfectly unsurprising — someone hiding her identity to work as a lawyer and then a public prosecutor, using a false name, was the most natural thing in the world.
"However — Prince Edessak does have a full-blooded sister. Her name is Ophelia."
Vincent flipped a coin, the image of Ellie's face in his mind. "Ding." He sent it spinning into the air. "Ellie is Princess Ophelia."
The coin tumbled through the air several times and landed in his palm — heads up. Affirmative.
There it was. That girl with the bright-eyed naivety of someone who still believed earnestly in things — she was, in fact, a princess.
"In that case, there's probably no need to pursue this further," Vincent said inwardly. "Whether or not Prince Edessak took Ellie away as a form of protection, the result is the same — she's been kept away from this whole mess."
George III could manipulate, exploit, and discard his own son without a flicker of hesitation. Disposing of an inconvenient daughter would cost him nothing. It was one of the ways he could never be compared to Roselle — that devoted father of one, who was perhaps the only king in a thousand years to be so thoroughly soft when it came to his own child.
Vivian then said, with a touch of hesitation: "Your Majesty — regarding the Derlin Law Firm, which you've had me keep an eye on..."
"Is there news?"
Neither Vincent nor Bernadette had forgotten about this. According to the letter Derlin had sent to Stephen at the time, a replacement was due to arrive in Backlund before long — but a full month had passed now and nothing had stirred.
"The premises have been re-let."
Vivian continued: "Based on the current renovation style, it appears to be in the process of becoming a tavern."
"Do you know who took the lease?"
"Yes. A man called Rafter Pound — a baronet in Backlund. His ancestors apparently had quite considerable means, but he ran through the entire inheritance after succeeding to the title. His main occupations seem to be drinking and pursuing women. A short while ago, he sold off what remained of his ancestral property, spent the proceeds on another round of debauchery, and then, two days ago, inexplicably leased the old Derlin premises."
"My investigation suggests that this Rafter Pound's ancestors had bloodline connections to the Tudor Emperor."
At first, hearing the name "Rafter Pound" meant nothing to Vincent — not until "Tudor Emperor." Then it clicked: That's the man who gets possessed by Medici and starts digging tunnels, isn't it?
From what he recalled, Rafter Pound had been under surveillance for years and had been maintaining a facade of degenerate uselessness, while nursing a deep-seated ambition to restore his ancestor's glory. This unscheduled move to lease the Derlin premises felt out of character — something the original story hadn't included. And Vincent couldn't think of any direct interaction he'd had with the man. Why would his presence have triggered a change?
Wait — Rafter Pound's goal had always been that underground ruin. And the Derlin law firm, just before it went dark, had been connected to that very ruin. Could there be a link?
Worth a look.
Half an hour later — the old Derlin Law Firm, now rechristened "Sour Plum Tavern." Workmen were inside, hauling out the rubble from the renovation.
Vincent stepped up with a curious expression. "When does the place open?"
One of the workmen shrugged. "No idea. We're just here to do the work."
"And the owner?"
"Came by this morning, checked things over, and headed off. The renovation'll take another week or two at least — earliest you'd see it open."
"I see. Thanks."
He thanked the workman and moved to one side. "Should I go and look him up directly? For all we know, this baronet might be the contact Derlin mentioned — his replacement."
"Unlikely." Bernadette was sceptical. "Choosing someone with such a conspicuously sensitive background as a front would be too risky. Every move he makes would invite scrutiny."
"Unless it's precisely the opposite of what anyone would expect?"
"I'd say: there's no need for something that convoluted."
He flagged down a public omnibus and rode it to Queen's Borough West, Sylvester Street, Number 29 — Rafter Pound's address. Rafter Pound, however, was not at home.
The room inside was dim and disordered, empty wine bottles scattered everywhere, torn women's undergarments tossed carelessly across surfaces, the air thick with the smell of alcohol mixed with stale sweat and tobacco — a genuinely nauseating combination.
Hard to believe this was a nobleman's home.
A sweep of the room with the Clairvoyant Eye found nothing useful. Vincent moved to the back courtyard and settled in to wait.
About ten minutes later, the back gate swung open and a puffy-eyed, grey-templed man in a cotton velvet dressing gown shuffled in, wobbling slightly. He still had a bottle in hand, tilting it toward his mouth as he walked. He belched.
Clunk. He tossed the empty bottle aside, then stared through the window at the square diagonally across the street, eyes glazed, looking as though he might fall asleep on his feet.
Bang!
A gunshot shattered the quiet.
Rafter Pound's face went from startled to blank — hypnotised.
Vincent stepped forward. "Rafter Pound?"
"Yes."
His voice was entirely expressionless.
"Do you know a lawyer named Derlin?"
Rafter Pound shook his head. "I don't."
"Are you a member of the Moses Ascetic Order?"
Another shake. "No."
"Then why did you suddenly lease the Derlin premises?"
"I... received an instruction from my ancestor in a dream."
Vincent and Bernadette were both surprised. "Which ancestor?"
A trace of a smile drifted across Rafter Pound's face. "Naturally — the greatest emperor the Tudor Empire ever produced."
To be continued…
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