Lady Breckenridge
Berend turns on his heel and starts walking north again, between rows of leaning Shell District construction. He places one foot in front of the other, parallel with the dirty gutter, and at each cross street he moves from one corner to the next, careful not to give himself even the chance to make an unintended turn.
This route should lead him to the place where the Shell district and the West Gate meet, just outside the Temple District. It might not be exactly where he was turned around before, but it should be close. Would he see some kind of shimmering barrier, like in the old stories? Three days ago, he wouldn’t have believed it. Now he’s ready to believe anything. It’s a dangerous state to be in, and he knows it.
I’m not going mad, I’m not going mad, he says to himself with each careful step. There’s an explanation and I’m going to find it.
It’s been several blocks. He goes one more, eyes down, and the cobblestones give way to hard earth, baking in the late afternoon sun. Wheel ruts serve as a reminder of the previous rain.
Berend looks up.
Before him is the abandoned warehouse, its door hanging open. A constable stands on either side, looking bored and uneasy at the same time. Another moves within, while a fourth makes notes in a small bound book, measuring the distance between the deepest ruts with a length of string. The chain holding the door shut lies broken on the ground.
How? Berend is certain he made no turns, and yet here he is, directly west of where he was intending to go. He’s also several blocks farther from his starting point at the edge of the plaza, which means at some point, he lost track of time as well as distance.
I’m not going mad.
The statement is starting to ring a little hollow.
Well. He’s confirmed that there is something there, at that meeting point between three districts, and he has also learned that he won’t be able to find out what it is on his own. He’ll wait, then, and let the Sentinel look at it. She has more experience with magic and its absurdities. Maybe she’ll be able to solve the problem, and maybe she won’t, but in either case, Berend is more than willing to give it up for the evening. It is starting to get dark, and he has an appointment to keep.
He is also suddenly ravenous. He hasn’t eaten anything since this morning.
Something dark—man-sized, and dressed in muted colors—moves at the edge of his vision, in an alley between two buildings. Berend stands still.
All four constables, in their grubby, dark gray uniforms, continue their work without looking up—it’s not one of them. The figure stops and does not move, either to approach or leave.
Slowly, Berend turns. He can see the figure until he faces the alleyway, when it suddenly vanishes.
He looks back toward the warehouse door. The figure does not reappear, even when he turns around in a full circle. Maybe he is going a little mad.Berend straightens his hat and heads north through West Gate, keeping his head forward while his eyes dart from side to side, looking for anyone who might be following him. He sees neither a shadowy figure nor a reappearance of the scarred man from the Temple District.
As he circles back around toward the city center and Lady Breckenridge’s apartments, he notices nothing amiss, and he does not get lost. Perhaps things are not so bad as he feared. A fine meal and finer company will do him some good, and tomorrow he’ll be back to searching for a murderer in dark, blood-stained alleys and abandoned hiding places. He’ll bring Isabel along, and she’ll solve the magical mystery with grim-faced efficiency, and Berend will find Mikhail’s killer and put all this nasty business behind him.
He feels a twinge of guilt as he nears the tree-lined street where the widow Breckenridge resides. A Son of Galaser should be working day and night to avenge his brother. Mikhail would have done the same for him, had Berend met an ignoble end some seven years ago. More recently, though, Mikhail’s condition had only gotten worse, and Berend feels responsible for that, too.
But he’s here already, the sun has almost set and the wind is cold from the northern sea, and there’s a soft orange light in the upstairs window. It wouldn’t do to keep Lady Breckenridge waiting.
With a renewed promise to Mikhail’s damaged spirit, wherever it might be, Berend goes up to the door.
The doorman, an elderly gentleman in a stiff collar, recognizes him and lets him in with no more ceremony than a shallow bow. Berend enters the house and makes his way up the stairs, following the delicately painted vines that climb alongside him. A girl in a sharply-pressed apron answers the upstairs door. Berend smiles, friendly enough even if it is a bit forced, and tries not to think of the ghost in the Belisia estate.
“Lady Breckenridge is expecting you,” she says. “She’s finishing her work, and says not to wait for her. She’ll join you shortly.”
Berend thanks her, and hands her his hat and cloak, and he proceeds through the small vestibule into the dining room. The table is set for two, with candles in silver fixtures and a bottle of garnet wine.
He sinks down into the closer of the two upholstered chairs with a contented sigh, and thinks that he will never grow tired of this. One day he’ll be out of the mercenary business, and he’ll be secure enough to have a place of his own, with a dining table and a feather bed.
But not in Mondirra. He thinks he’s seen enough of the city to last him quite some time.
The servant girl pours the wine, and the cook brings in the meal, and Berend allows himself to forget the troubles of the last few days. He should have done this sooner. The Fox and Dove is fine enough, especially for its reasonable cost, but this is a world beyond—it feels as though the murders and the terrible magic are a distant dream.
The study door opens on quiet, oiled hinges. Berend stands. Lady Breckenridge is resplendent as always, in an elegant but practical dress the color of the northern sea. The only decorative detail is the silver ribbon that laces up the bodice. Her hair, all rich mahogany but for two thin streaks of white, is held up by a comb set with pearls.
“Berend,” she says, extending her hand. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”
He takes her hand and kisses it. There’s a spot of ink at the tip of her forefinger, and he kisses that, too. “I could never.”
“Well, you must tell me what’s been keeping you. An acquaintance of mine mentioned he saw you in the company of the Sentinel, the other day—how intriguing.”
“I’m sure it’s not nearly as interesting as your acquaintance made it out to be,” Berend says. He pulls out her chair, and sits down after she does.
“Hmm. Is she pretty?” she asks, with the hint of a mischievous smile.
He realizes he doesn’t know the answer to that question. It’s hard to come up with an accurate image of Isabel’s face, rather than a vague, black-uniformed impression. “Not nearly so fine as you,” he says with a grin, but it fades as quickly as it appeared. “I’m sure you’ve heard that there is a murderer abroad. The victim found in the Shell District was a friend of mine.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” He wants to say more, to have someone hear how terribly guilty he feels for having let this happen to one of the last of his company, but he does not. That isn’t why he’s here.
“The Sentinel and I have been trying to find the person who did this,” he continues. “Thus far, the search has proved…less than fruitful.”
Lady Breckenridge sips her wine, and she thanks the cook as he serves her. To Berend, she says, “If there’s anything I can do to help you, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
She is well-connected, having only expanded on the vast business ventures she inherited from her late husband. There is hardly a soul in Mondirra and the surrounding countryside whom she does not know, and rarely a parcel that goes in and out without her knowing the contents. If anyone could find the answers Berend seeks, she could.
But what could he ask her? He finds it difficult to describe what he experienced this morning, and he doesn’t want to worry her unduly with talk of someone following him around. He’s reasonably certain that no one tailed him here, and if they did, well, he still has his pistol, and he sleeps lightly even in a feather bed.
“There is something,” he says after a moment. “It seems the murderer has been using a two-horse coach—not the sort of vehicle one might expect. If you find out that someone is missing one, or has been going on late-night jaunts, I’d like to know who it is. It would have a dark lacquer, and a recent scratch along the left side.”
“I can certainly put the word out,” she replies.
What else? Berend is growing tired of talking shop, but this is an opportunity he may not be able to get later.
He thinks of Lucian Warder’s device, and Mikhail’s damaged spirit. Lady Breckenridge is nearly a peer of the Belisias, in wealth and connections if not in family history, and is precisely the sort of person from whom the Belisias would want to keep their haunting a secret. If only he could have taken Isabel to the manor, and find out exactly what the device did to the girl’s ghost—but Berend has never broken a contract, and he isn’t going to start now.
Maybe there is a way to get a better look at the device, and to better inform the Sentinel. “If I could ask you for one more favor?” he says.
She raises an eyebrow. “You know you can ask anything. Whether I can grant it depends on what it is.”
“There is a researcher at the university by the name of Lucian Warder. He has a device that he says can banish wayward spirits, but he keeps its workings a secret. However, I’m sure he is in need of investors, and would be willing to allow you to look at it if you would at least consider funding his project.”
Lady Breckenridge takes another sip of her wine, and favors Berend with a bemused look. “What does this have to do with the murders?”
Berend sighs. “It’s…complicated. I don’t believe Mr. Warder has anything to do with it,” he says, and he doesn’t sound convincing even to himself. “But it’s possible that his invention may have been used on the spirit of one of the victims after the fact. I don’t think he’ll agree if I ask him, especially if the Sentinel is involved. He sees the church of Ondir as something of a rival.”
“I see.” She folds her hands on the table and leans closer, and the candlelight plays on the lines of her neck and the divot between her collarbones. “Do you mean to tell me you intend to listen in on this demonstration in secret? How very intriguing—and rather unlike you, I think. You’re usually very direct.”
Berend grins with genuine satisfaction. “I can be subtle.”
“Very well. I will see if this Mr. Warder is willing to meet. If he is, I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Thank you, Sophia,” he says, and kisses her hand again, lingering a little longer this time. “You are truly a blessing sent by the gods. How could I ever repay you?”
She gives him a wicked smile. “I’m sure I can think of something.”
Thank you for being patient and also for reading! The Book of the New Moon Door will always be free, but if you’d like to support what I do, you can throw a couple dollars my way on Ko-fi.
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