Ding! Dong!
The bell rattled again, its shrill clamor echoing across the walls of Klara's barely furnished apartment. She lowered the newspaper she had been pretending to study—the pages were cluttered with discussions on investments, commodities, and railway shares that she could only half-care about. Not that the information was useless. No—she had to live in this city, play her role, maintain the image of "Sherlock Moriarty, detective." Even a Fool had to eat.
But the bell continued.
Ding! Dong! Ding!
"By the Evernight…" she muttered, folding the newspaper with a snap and pushing herself up from the sofa. Dressed in her usual "at-home detective" garb—white shirt, black vest, no bowtie, the image of a bachelor playing professional—she stretched her arms as if reluctant to move at all.
The first job in my career as a detective? she mused while walking toward the door. Not that I can keep sitting here like a stuffed doll waiting for work to knock. Maybe I should hang a notice: 'Leave your troubles written down, I'll divine your appointment in the morning and maybe show up.' Hah. Except no one sane would wait for a no-name detective to "maybe" care.
Her lips curved in faint irritation. Honestly, if it weren't for appearances, I could just divine whether I'd get work each morning. Save myself the boredom.
Yet her hand hovered over the handle before she touched it. She didn't bother with the peephole—she didn't need it. A Clown's premonition whispered across her skin. She saw them as clearly as if the door had been made of glass.
One: an old lady. Plush black hat, a spine bent like an exhausted willow, and a face folded deep into wrinkles. Her skin sagged in sallow tones, yet her eyes—bright blue—were alive with stubborn sharpness. She gestured impatiently for her companion to ring the bell again.
Two: a young man. Mid-twenties. His eyes bore the same hue as the woman's, clear blue, though his face was taut with propriety. His black double-breasted coat was immaculate, bowtie perfectly aligned beneath his half-top hat. He stood there as though he were about to walk into a ballroom instead of his neighbor's home.
Klara twisted the handle, pulling open the door with her best "detective smile," poised and professional—
And froze.
Because there was a third.
Her eyes swept from the young man's chest upward, higher, and higher still, until her gaze locked onto that maddeningly familiar, frustratingly perfect face.
Adrian.
The Mirror himself.
Standing at her doorstep like this was the most natural thing in the world. He inclined his head in a slight nod of greeting. No smile. No flourish. Just that unshakable indifference carved into his features, as though the gods had sculpted him and decided he needed no other expression.
Her smile faltered, words catching on her tongue. Too close. Too familiar. Too… oh, of course, he shows up here. Did he see through me already? Or is this some sick joke?
"Good morning, Madam, Sir." She forced her voice light, sliding back into her role. "What a wonderful day it is… at least for the five minutes I managed to spot the sun."
Her voice died a little toward the end as her gaze flicked once more at Adrian. Not even a twitch. Not even a smirk. Ugh. People like him—good-looking people— really does have it too easy. They just stand there with their symmetrical faces and blank stares, and everyone thinks they're amazing instead of constipated.
"Yes, it's always shy," the old lady nodded, taking her words at face value. "Never comes out from behind the fog and the clouds."
"The same as always," Adrian added, his deep voice cutting into the air with a weight that seemed to silence everything around it. He gestured lazily toward her with one gloved hand. "This is Sherlock Moriarty."
Klara's heart skipped.
She almost missed her cue. Almost let her mask slip entirely. What game are you playing, Mirror? she wondered as her mind spun. You know. You must know. Or are you gambling that I'm who you think I am, one of the newest threads woven into Backlund's tapestry?
Her face betrayed none of it. Only the faint curve of politeness. "Yes. And what may I help you with? I'm sorry, please come in. Let's sit down and talk." She stepped aside, inviting them toward the modest guest area.
But the old lady shook her head firmly. "No, there's no need. I don't want to waste any time. My poor Brody is still waiting for me to save it!" Her voice cracked, sharp and trembling.
…'It'? Klara caught onto the pronoun instantly, her brows twitching. A pit opened in her stomach.
The young man adjusted his coat, his voice steady and formal. "Brody is my grandmother's cat, Madam Doris's. He disappeared last night. We were hoping you could assist us in finding him. We live at the end of this street, so we thought it best to begin here. We are, of course, prepared to compensate you—five soli. And if you can prove that you've spent more time and effort, I'll make up the difference."
There it was. Her "detective" career, unveiled at last.
Find… a cat.
Her lips curved, but her eyes darkened faintly. So this is my grand debut? The mighty Fool of the Tarot, divine overseer of a secret gathering, reduced to chasing after a runaway furball because I happen to live next door. What's next, dogs stuck in chimneys?
Her gaze slid, almost instinctively, toward Adrian.
Expressionless. He stood with the same sharp posture, his eyes giving nothing away. To anyone else, he was cold. To her, however—she could feel it. He was enjoying this. Quietly. Smugly.
Oh, you smug bastard. You're savoring every second of this, aren't you? Watching me juggle dignity and pretense over a cat. If you laugh—just once—I'll poison your coffee.
But he didn't laugh. He didn't even blink.
And somehow, that was worse.
"Very well," Klara said at last, her detective mask firm. "Tell me everything you know. When was Brody last seen? Any unusual signs? And—" she glanced faintly toward Adrian again, "—how far he might roam."
Internally, though, her mind was screaming. This isn't detective work. This is babysitting a missing whisker.
Yet she straightened her shoulders. Fine. If this is the game, I'll play it. But Adrian? Enjoy your victory while it lasts. Because the moment you slip, the moment you falter, I'll lampoon you so hard the gods will feel it.
"It makes me look like a clown…" Klara muttered under her breath, though her lips curved in that professional detective smile that she now suspected would be her most frequently worn mask. A Fool pretending to be a detective pretending to care about a missing furball. Truly, my descent into comedy is complete.
Well, she couldn't turn down her first job. Not after hanging her shingle on the door and playing at this new identity. And—yes—there was also the Seer's point of view whispering at her: a job, however small, sets the wheel turning.
She exhaled, straightened her vest, and asked, "Can you describe it in detail?"
Granny Doris perked up before her grandson could even part his lips. "Brody is a lovely, lively black cat," she said in a voice sharp with emotion. "Very healthy, beautiful green eyes, loves chicken breast—cooked, mind you, never raw. Last night, he ran off just like that. No, no, he must've gotten lost! I filled his bowl with chicken breast, plenty, but he never came back to even look."
Klara kept her features smooth while internally groaning. Marvelous. A gourmet cat with better taste in food than I have. Perhaps Brody should be the detective, he'd clearly know where to find the good meals.
She dipped her head politely. "A very thorough description, Mrs. Doris. Thank you." She tapped her cane lightly on the floor and declared with mock-gravity, "I accept this request. Alright, let us go to your home now. I'll need to search for clues and traces. Reasoning lies in the details, after all."
Doris's eyes shone. "You're the most proactive detective I've ever seen. It's a deal!"
And just like that, her fate was sealed.
The old lady and her grandson bustled out of the apartment, leaving Adrian still standing by the doorframe like some immovable marble statue. Klara reached for her coat and hat, her cane sliding into her grip with practiced ease. She spoke without turning around, her tone just a shade too polite.
"And you, Mr. Bellacorte? Did you need something from me as well?"
His reply was smooth, effortless. "Simply escorted them to a… promising detective that would solve their problem."
Klara clicked her tongue. Of course. This man, this smug, insufferable man, wandering into my life like it's his drawing room. As if shepherding me toward mundane errands is a perfectly natural extension of his day.
Her lips twitched. She couldn't stop herself. "You really are a nuisance," she muttered, venom hidden beneath her sweet tone. One of those dreadful people who eat KitKats sideways just to watch the world burn.
She snatched her hat and left before she said anything sharper.
Unlike Tingen's muddier roads, Backlund's streets had been steadily remade with cement and asphalt. The rain still fell often, but at least one didn't have to wade through a mire of muck just to keep a promise.
Doris walked briskly despite her age, cane clicking with determination, and her grandson hovered protectively at her side. He leaned closer to Klara, his voice lowered as though Adrian weren't drifting silently behind them.
"I hope you'll do your best to find Brody. He's… he's one of my grandmother's pillars. Ever since my grandfather and my parents passed away, Brody has been her closest companion. She hasn't been the same since he went missing. She says she hears him mewing. Miserable sounds. It worries me."
Klara softened a little despite herself. She nodded solemnly. "I'll do my best. Right—I still don't know your name."
"Jurgen. Jurgen Cooper. Senior solicitor." He gave a short bow of his head.
Soon they reached 58 Minsk Street. The house was shadowed and damp, the kind of interior that smelled faintly of dust and loneliness.
"This is Brody's bowl," Doris said, pointing with her cane. "And this is his favorite box. He always sleeps here." Her face crumpled with worry.
Klara crouched, fingers brushing over several strands of sleek black fur in the box. She straightened, resting her grip on her silver-inlaid cane, letting her gaze deepen as though surveying every corner of the room. A bit of theater never hurts. They want deduction? I'll give them deduction.
Silently, she recited a divination phrase, hand slipping subtly so that the cane stood almost on its own. To Jurgen and Doris, it was nothing—just an eccentric detective peering about. But the cane tilted, ever so slightly, pointing.
Klara's eyes followed the motion. The cupboard.
Without a word, she strode forward, knelt, and tugged the door open.
"Meow!"
Out darted a sleek black cat, tail high, green eyes flashing. Brody shot across the room and straight to his bowl, the chicken breast still waiting.
"Brody!" Doris cried, tears springing to her eyes. "When—how—oh, you silly boy, you've been here all along?"
Jurgen gaped, then turned to Klara. "How did you know it was in the cupboard?"
Klara leaned lightly on her cane, her lips curving in a smile just faintly theatrical. "Deduction, my good man."
And so her first case was closed. She had located the missing "pillar of life," earned five soli, and—perhaps more importantly—built a thread of friendship with her neighbors.
But inwardly, as she slipped the coin into her pocket, she groaned. This is it. This is my legend's beginning. From Fool to Finder of Cats. Truly, the world has a sense of humor.
By the time Klara returned to 15 Minsk Street, the skies had darkened further, clouds thick with Backlund's eternal gloom. She adjusted her hat and spotted something—no, someone—loitering near her door.
Two someones, in fact.
Her steps slowed, and she pinched the bridge of her nose.
Standing outside her building was a tall, broad-shouldered man with wolfish features, grinning as though every moment of life was a tavern joke. Beside him stood a familiar boy with a stare far too sharp for his age.
And of course, Adrian was there too, striding toward them as though he owned the pavement.
"…What's this?" Klara asked flatly, already regretting the answer.
Adrian didn't even glance at her. He simply walked past, his voice calm as always. "Work. What else?"
He entered the building without another word, the boy following silently, the wolf-grinned man offering her a mock salute before ambling in behind him.
Klara stood there a long moment, staring at the lot of them disappearing into her home like it was their personal clubhouse.
They act like they own the place. As if my little flat were some guildhall where they could march in and make themselves comfortable.
She sighed, shoulders slumping. If nothing else, clients meant coin. And coin meant food. And food meant survival.
"…Well," she muttered, dragging herself inside after them, "if they're the clients, they'd better be paying in more than cat stories."
Klara led the intruders—clients, she corrected herself with an internal groan—to the guest area of her modest apartment. She gestured toward the chairs with a sweep of her hand, sarcasm dripping from her words.
"Have a seat… or not, seeing as you already have taken the liberty to do so."
Indeed, the scene was already arranged without her input. Adrian leaned against an armchair, eyes closed, the very picture of apathy, as though this meeting concerned him no more than the changing of the weather. The wolf-man was busy rifling through her trinkets on the side table, lifting up her magnifying glass, peering at the world upside down, then setting it down with exaggerated care—only to immediately pick up the next object. The boy, at least, sat neatly on the sofa, back straight, hands folded, the very image of a polite guest.
Klara pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to sigh. I really must start charging a door fee. Even a penny would make this less insulting.
She sat herself down beside Adrian—because what better torture is there than proximity to the one man who seems engineered to gnaw on her patience?—and crossed one leg over the other.
Her eyes swept the trio, then narrowed. "...How should I address you gentlemen?"
Ronan shot his hand up like a schoolboy eager to be called on. "Ronan!" he barked cheerfully. "The Judge's right-hand man, the best sidekick, and the most handsome man! Said by who? Me, of course!" His laugh rang out like a hyena let loose at a funeral.
Klara resisted the urge to cover her face. This is what I get for asking polite questions. Foolish woman.
The boy spared her. "Ian," he said simply, with the quiet dignity of someone determined to balance out his companion's chaos.
"Mm." Klara leaned her cheek into her palm, tapping her cane idly against the floor. "Why are you here?"
Ian parted his lips to answer, but Adrian beat him to it, his eyes still closed.
"The boy works for a man named Zreal Viktor Lee, who has gone missing."
Klara arched a brow, leaning back. "A missing man. Interesting." Her tone shifted toward dry mockery. "Why not take this to the authorities, Mr. Bellacorte? Or better yet—why not take it upon yourself to fix it? Surely you've accomplished greater things than finding am an."
Silence. Adrian gave no answer. He didn't even flinch.
Instead, Ronan threw his head back and cackled. "You want the Judge to look for someone insignificant like that?" His laughter rattled the glassware on her shelves. "Hah! Haaa! As if!"
Ian visibly deflated beside him, shoulders curving inward. Klara, however, felt her temper prickle. She turned a glare on Ronan so sharp it could've cut stone. If this man makes the boy any smaller than he already feels, I'll strangle him with his own bowtie.
Finally, Adrian spoke, his voice flat as iron. "It hasn't passed the necessary threshold for the authorities to investigate. And for me—it is far too minor to waste my time on."
Klara tilted her head, studying him. "Yet here you sit. In my parlor. Speaking of thresholds while drinking my air."
Adrian's eyes opened at last. Those calm, cold irises met hers. "Simply because the boy is under my jurisdiction. And I am seeing his wish through."
Klara snorted softly. "How noble of you."
Her cane tapped once, sharp against the floorboards. "Why me then? Surely you know other detectives. Some with reputations grander than mine. Or is this just another one of your—" her lips curved wryly—"charming pranks?"
Adrian didn't answer at first. Instead, he inclined his head toward Ian. The boy straightened, then spoke carefully.
"I tried to get help from other detectives I knew. But all of them turned me down—on the grounds that they had just seen Mr. Zreal at a party hosted by a fellow detective." Ian's voice trembled, but he pressed on. "That surprised me because Mr. Zreal never responded when I contacted him through the method we'd agreed upon."
His hands twisted in his lap. "I still trusted my judgment. I wanted to find a detective whom Mr. Zreal didn't know, so there wouldn't be… conflicts. But since I don't know anyone outside that circle… I had no idea who to look for."
"Which leads us to where we are," Adrian cut in smoothly, his eyes opening fully now.
The air in the room shifted. He reached into his coat, drew something from within, and placed it gently on the table.
Klara's heart lurched.
A mirror.
Her gaze darkened instantly, lips pressing thin. She knew it at once—the Fool's mark should've been etched across that surface. That tiny pocket mirror, symbol of secrets far greater than this room, than this city, than even this age.
And Adrian had the audacity to set it down between them like it was nothing but a trinket.
Her expression soured, gloom settling like stormclouds across her face. She forced her fingers to remain still against the armrest, though inside she wanted to snatch the mirror away and hide it where no eyes could pry.
Adrian's gaze flickered to her, sharp and measuring, catching every twitch of her reaction.
Then, just as smoothly, he slid the mirror back into his coat. "My apologies," he said, tone utterly neutral. "The wrong thing."
In its place, he set down a small bag of pounds. The soft jingle of coin was almost obscene in its mundanity after what had just passed.
"Forty pounds for this case, Detective."
Klara stared at the bag, her chin still resting in her palm.
Forty pounds. Enough to keep her comfortably fed for weeks, to buy the little tools she lacked, to grant her freedom from scraping for scraps.
But the weight of that mirror lingered heavier than any coin.
She flicked her eyes at Adrian. He had already closed his own again, leaning back with the quiet air of a man who knew she would accept. Ronan was too busy spinning her paperweight in one palm to notice the tension. Ian watched her with cautious hope.
Klara's lips curled faintly.
You bastard, she thought at Adrian. You're playing a game I don't know the rules of. And worse—you're winning it.
But aloud, she said only:
"…Tell me everything you know about Zreal Viktor Lee."