The heavy doors of Ravencraft Manor, standing near Edinburgh Castle, groaned in the first frost of morning. Last year, by my own decision, I had begun attending the medical school at Teviot Place / Surgeons' Square. As someone who bore the title of Baron, I was met with great praise by society. Frankly, their ability to occasionally make the correct judgment with those scarcely folded brains of theirs never ceased to surprise me. In any case, I now possessed all the comfort, desired; ever since last year, my life had settled into a certain order—an order that moved with the calm ebb and flow of a small boat drifting in still water. Winters were always like this, of course. The summer nights of Edinburgh were the city's true marvel.
As I lifted the collar of my black coat, I stepped out from the manor's shadowy northern wing, inhaling the old stone scent that clung to the corridors; cold left over from the night trembled along the walls.
When I descended to the lower floor, a gray light seeped through the large window of the sitting room. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air while, fireplace crackled exactly as I had expected.
My two younger siblings were already awake:
Elora, seated at the table, her hurried fingers struggling to braid her hair;
and Laurence, holding a thin page of poetry so close to his face one would think he meant to step into it.
"You're up early again," Elora said, without lifting her eyes.
I smiled faintly at her little face, no larger than my palm. "As always."
A smile was a wonderful tool for establishing sincerity—a form of communication that allowed facial muscles to work for something other than chewing. I had searched for my ideal smile in the mirror many times, and one I chose never looked artificial; on the contrary, it was quite acceptable.
Laurence turned his head toward me. "You have a dissection lesson today, don't you? I still have nightmares because of what you told us before."
Shrugged. I didn't consider it something grand enough to provoke nightmares.
"Reality is calmer than things the mind believes it can't bear, Laurence."
Elora drew in a nervous breath, as though my words had darkened the shadows of the house even further. I found her reaction unnecessary, but she was only fifteen—a girl spoiled by her older brothers. I ignored it.
At the end of the hall, butler Sebastian Thornwick appeared; with a stern face marked by the years, he arrived precisely on time.
"Master Adrian," he said, bowing respectfully, "I have had your carriage prepared. The morning documents for the barony have also been placed in your northern study for your return."
"Thank you, Thornwick."
Looked at my siblings one last time; in my eyes lingered both a protective instinct and an unnamed distance.
I straightened my coat and stepped out through the heavy front door.
October wind was cold enough to cut at my chin. Sky was leaden, the streets silent.
As I climbed into the carriage, only one thought echoed in my mind:
Should I examine a female cadaver today, or would a male body satisfy my hunger for knowledge?
Dampness of the morning fog had already seeped into my clothes. Moment I stepped inside the carriage, I noticed Jasper sitting there.
"You're early."
Jasper adjusted, dark cloak on his shoulder and leaned against the window. His slender fingers parted the curtain; outside was barely visible. Blackford in the mornings resembled a monochrome land of ghosts.
"Weather is foggy today. Our journey will take forty minutes."
His eyes scanned the unseen world beyond glass, then, as if nothing were amiss, he continued speaking:
"I have some tools and supplies to purchase from city center."
Jasper was the cheerful, restless one of the twins. At times, I thought it entirely possible for him to become the subject of a scandal, yet he never had.
"You could have sent a servant."
Jasper turned his head from window and flashed me a faint smile.
"I need to choose them myself. You know I hate leaving my decisions to others."
He was fascinated by machines—clockwork mechanisms, steam engines, and small inventions. To him, smaller things held more detail. I knew he was intelligent, so he wasn't a difficult person to converse with.
A brief silence fell; the sound of the wheels clattering over the stone road filled the carriage.
Then Jasper picked up a crumpled newspaper from the seat beside him and held it out to me.
"Have you seen this?"
Unfolded the paper. On the front page, in large, bold letters, a loud headline declared:
"NIGHTLY MURDERS TERRIFYING EDINBURGH CONTINUE"
Beneath it, a drawing of a crow on a wall.
The black-feathered bird's beak was tilted as if pointing to a specific spot.
I read the lines quietly:
"…last night, near Cowgate, another body was found precisely at the spot indicated by the blood-drawn crow's beak on a wall. In the corpse's palm lay an ink-stained crow feather, and witnesses reported a strange scent of herbs. The police remain helpless against this mysterious killer—or killers—haunting the darkest corners of the city… Crow's Father never stops..."
My eyes lingered on the words.
The newspaper sheet trembled faintly between my fingers; the fog outside stretched toward the carriage like a cold breath. Crow's Father was name they gave the serial killer.
Jasper watched me for a while.
"They should give the public more details, shouldn't they? Why hide everything?"
As Edinburgh disappeared beneath shroud of mist, I folded newspaper and set it on the seat beside me. I crossed my arms and gazed out the window at the world I could no longer see.
"We shouldn't interfere with the police, Jasper. That matter doesn't concern us."
Jasper let out a mischievous snicker, sinking deeper into fabric of his seat.
"Laurence had a nightmare last night—because of the dissection."
Whatever my reaction might have been, Jasper was ready to laugh; he found it amusing that his twin brother feared something so trivial. He generally enjoyed provoking him, perhaps believing it would force Laurence to voice his thoughts. The only thing I was certain of was that Jasper, too, was afraid of subjects that interested me.
My lips curved into a thin smile.
"I didn't mean to frighten him. Answering his question was my mistake."
"You're far too humble, brother."
"I am."
At the carriage's sudden jolt, Jasper parted curtain again. Narrow streets of the city center began to emerge through the mist; Edinburgh's mornings were always gray, always somewhat sorrowful. When the coachman opened the door, Jasper straightened his cloak and placed a foot on the pavement.
As he descended, he turned to me:
"May the new school term be auspicious, brother. I wish you… a good day."
His smile remained present.
I responded only with a slight bow of my head — a reserved, measured gesture that revealed nothing of my feelings.
Closed the door, and the carriage rolled away. I was alone for the rest of the journey. I found that I didn't enjoy the ride, precisely because Jasper's presence distracted me from my thoughts.
Finally, through the mist, I saw the broad silhouette of the medical school rising: the Surgeons' Hall and adjoining academic buildings.
When carriage door opened and cold air struck my face, I stepped out. One hand slipped into my coat pocket, and my eyes fixed on the entrance gate of the school:
A tall, stone-built gate, marvelous yet carrying not only the scent of knowledge but also the scent of death within.
I drew a deep breath.
For a moment, the coldness within my heart stirred. Then I took my steps toward the school. As I climbed the stairs, the inside of the building felt dim and cool, as if the outside mist had seeped in.
I passed many faces I recognized from last year: some clutching their books in haste, some still shaking off the morning cold, some gripping the stairs with sleepless, blood-shot eyes.
A few bowed their heads in greeting when they saw me. I returned their acknowledgment with a measured tilt of my head.
When I reached the long corridor leading to the dissection hall, a faint metallic scent brushed against my nose—
the stale, residual smell of blood.
The sign above the door was pale, worn:
ANATOMY HALL
Pushed the door open.
The inside was spacious—rows of descending seats like an amphitheater, and at the center, a cold marble dissection table.
A clean linen sheet had been draped over it, yet the contours beneath revealed the shape of a body.
Freshly brought in, untouched.
I slowly reached my hand toward the sheet.
Wondered whether the corpse was a woman or a man; from the way the fabric rested, I could tell it was male.
Around twenty to twenty-five years old, roughly 175 cm tall, ideal weight.
A voice standing beside the table turned toward me.
It was Professor William, whom I remembered from last year—
a well-bred man, a little too talkative.
"Ah, Ravencroft! I wasn't entirely sure you'd return."
As he approached with a smile, I withdrew my hand from the sheet, though he had already noticed my interest.
"You seem eager for the new term."
Removed my black coat and placed it on a chair.
My eyes kept examining the sheet on the table as I replied, in a cold tone.
"Knowledge is always appetizing, Professor."
Mr. William attempted to laugh, but a faint unease lingered in his voice. After a brief exchange, and with the arrival of the students, I took my place.
Professor William stood at the head of the marble table, which groaned under the wheels that had brought it in. Heavy scent of formalin, filling the room and mingling with the old anatomical drawings hanging on the walls, cast a cold solemnity over the air. Students had settled into the crescent-shaped benches; whispers had already died away.
Man lifted the white sheet on the table with tips of his fingers.
"Today's lesson," he said in a firm yet gentle tone, "is an introduction to the anatomical structures of the human lower abdomen."
He slowly pulled back the cloth.
Beneath it lay exactly what I had expected: the body of a man in his twenties, his skin a pale gray tone of death, lying in silence, awaiting the scalpel's work.
Without hesitation, I drew from the inner pocket of my coat my small, black leather-bound notebook. Coiled like the intestines themselves, the notebook was my talisman; I hid within it my thoughts, discoveries, and every question that arose. The scratch of my pen pierced the heavy silence of the classroom.
Professor William raised the stainless steel scalpel toward the light.
"Body," he said, "is a miracle in life, a map awaiting to be read in death."
As he lowered the scalpel toward the chest, I didn't blink once. Every word, every motion, every incision I recorded in my notebook, marking with lines the new worlds that unfolded in the depths of body.
Mr. William's words suddenly stuck in my mind—had he really said a miracle in life? How could he know? Did he know the one lying before him? Or was it, once again, his "the soul is valuable" nonsense? I allowed none of the words I deemed unnecessary to enter my ears for the remainder of the lesson.
When lesson ended, the classroom was thick with solemnity. Professor William laid the scalpel back on the table, and students slowly rose from their seats. I closed my own notebook; notes, sketches, and markings in the corners of its pages had encoded every detail of the corpse into my mind—every incision, every bruise, every irregularity in the veins.
Stood. As I passed by the cadaver, I gave it one final glance: meticulously separated tissue layers, the rough lines left by the scalpel… all etched into my memory. I drew a breath and, with a deep sense of control, exited the classroom without glancing at my notebook.
I descended the stone stairs quietly and made my way along the long corridor toward the room where the botany class was held. To be honest, the effects of plants on human health scarcely interested me. Yes, some were deadly, but death came in such variety already—this was merely one among many. Last year, it had hardly mattered to me either, yet when I had explained it to Elora, her eyes had lit up. Since then, the only reason I endured lessons on plant morphology was to inform my little sister.
I paused briefly at the door, pushed it open, and stepped into the warm air inside. Students were settled in their benches; the room was bathed in a slightly softer light, and the high-ceilinged space featured window ledges adorned with pots, hanging dried plants. The air was lightly humid, carrying the scent of soil and dried herbs.
Alexander Wood, a prominent and elegant member of high society whose wife I knew intimately, was the nephew of the botany instructor. He noticed me and offered a faint smile.
"I wasn't expecting to see you here this year," he said, his voice colder and more measured than usual, yet carrying an involuntary stir beneath.
"I feel the irony of hearing that for the second time today, Mr. Wood,"
"Other classes aside, I know you have little interest in plants or literature," he said.
I took my seat with a slight smile. "Your observations are impressive. Are you studying only me, or does this apply to everyone?"
I watched the subtle choices in his words, dozen random gestures, and the way he seated himself beside me. Wealthy, yet ordinary. He was wasting his time trying to draw my attention, though by the end of the day all that awaited me was a cold body.
Opened my second notebook with his permission. This time, it wouldn't be cadavers I recorded—but plants… at least, that's what it seemed. Once I returned to the manor, I would bring this notebook to Elora. I could already imagine her flipping through it on the western terrace.
The door opened, and Professor John Forsythe entered the classroom, sliding his delicate wire-rimmed glasses down to the tip of his nose. From the pockets of his long coat, produced dried plant specimens; writing the names of fresh plants on the board, he launched straight into the lesson. The students' notebooks quickly filled with the scratch of pens.
Just as he began speaking for the lesson, the door clicked twice. Whispers rose from the back rows. The door clicked again, and someone entered.
Shirt, trousers, and shoes rendered them the picture of a gentleman. Beneath the hat, their black hair gleamed, skin pale as death. I could feel the chill of their hands, yet their genuine smile—far from false—instantly drew my attention; a tone both innocent and strong. A truly natural smile? I had to admit, I had underestimated their innocence. But how were they entering the lesson? They might have been dressed as a man, yet the slight frame, soft facial features, sharp eyes, and even, I thought, their height and weight betrayed that they were a woman. Female students were strictly forbidden. Were they risking themselves by attending a class that I found oppressive enough to dread?
Professor Forsythe turned to the woman, directing his glasses like a magnifying lens:
"Mr. MacLeod, you may take a seat."
Mr. MacLeod? I recognized the surname, but not the face.
The woman glided quietly to the back of the classroom and seated herself in an empty row. I couldn't take my eyes off Ms. MacLeod. My disinterest in the lesson only fueled my curiosity about this stranger—at least for three minutes—before I returned my attention to the lesson.
"Today, we will study the vascular structures of plants and their medicinal uses…"
Yes, I was listening to the lesson. When a shiver ran down my neck, my head reflexively turned to the back left, and my ears seemed to stop hearing. In my sight was Ms. MacLeod, diligently taking notes, appearing quite eager. I rubbed my neck, certain that I had been watched just moments before. Of course, at that time, I could not have known that the woman—disguised as a late-arriving young man—would become a formidable adversary.