A/N: What the heck? I'm actually putting up another chapter in less than three months since my last one? I'm gonna ruin my reputation for procrastination if I keep this up! ;)

UPDATE: This chapter was updated as of April 1, 2019

Favors

Chapter 8

In Absence of Light

The Twenty-fifth Day of the Fourth Month, the Month of Rain, 1837

The Tailors' District

The early hours before dawn.

…

…

-Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.-

The small clock on the mantle counted off the seconds.

The constant, sharp, monotonous clicks of the gears usually helped James fall asleep.

Usually.

The new information gained yesterday from young Adrienne, however, occupied his thoughts. The Azure Bloom Outfitters. He now had a name, a direction, a purpose. He had focus once more.

Too great of a focus it would seem.

Giving up on sleep, the navy man climbed out of bed dressed only in a pair of trousers. He made his way quietly to the lavatory and shut the door.

Though a plainly designed room with a simple chamber pot and wash basin, the lavatory at least had a more modern wooden tub with a drain attachment underneath. Stoppering the drain, James filled a bucket with hot water to pour into it. He had given serious thought to just running a pipe or hose directly to a tap on the tub itself, but as always he didn't think he'd remain here long enough to gain much benefit from it.

Four times since beginning his quest he had changed locations, to some little known side-street shop or an obscure back-alley apartment. Always on the move and never able to put down roots for too long, he seemed more a criminal on the run.

He was not, as far as he knew.

His chosen profession warranted a constant shift in venue; though his Undertakers and he had helped good, innocent folk, they also often crossed vile persons while doing so. Some of these were dispatched readily, or taken away by the Watch like Murlyn and his Merry Boyz. But others still roamed free, or had confidants that sought to avenge their confederates upon himself and his friends.

Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it.

Almost as soon as the errant thought formed in his mind, he dismissed it again.

"It is worth it," he said under his breath, angry at himself for even questioning his personal mission. It was for her, of course. All of this was for her. He swore it to her when he returned from his last voyage.

After the tub was sufficiently filled, he tested the temperature with his hand before removing the bandage from the wound on his arm. He then undressed and eased in. The warm water was inviting, offering comfort and relaxation. It was so unlike that dread chamber he found himself in seventeen months ago when last he disembarked from the Guardian…

O-O-O-O-O

Seventeen months ago James, Vivianna, and Albert had followed the Watch Officer to the cellar entrance and waited as he opened the metal cover built into the stonework. Steep stone steps ended in darkness. Their escort descended and momentarily vanished into shadow.

In this absence of light, a spark flared and a small candelabrum was lit.

"This way," the man called from below, "if you please."

Solemnly, the trio followed. Down into the grey-black labyrinth beneath the streets. Pale stone finished on the inside with pressed brick sealed them away from the residents of the city. Sealed them away from the living and brought them to the dead.

Within these confining walls lay, quite literally, the coldness of the grave.

James had experienced gelid temperatures before. On the high seas, in the vast Ocean northeast of Morley, with no land in sight. During the frigid months of High Cold and Ice. Hail pelting down upon the deck from the clouds overhead, freezing seawater crashing against the bow as the Guardian dipped between the massive waves of deep winter.

Men shivered and cursed. Limbs went numb. Bones ached and skin burned from the sheer brutality of it all. But it had at least been a living cold, like the hoary breath of some dread creature of frost from legends past. The cold of the Ocean's winters moved, breathed, fought, and howled.

Here, however, in this bleak place the coldness had none of those qualities. It became a damp, stagnant, palpable thing that clung and nipped at their shoulders and arms seeking to drain away the heat, the vitality, the very life from them. There was no movement here, save the echoing of their footsteps and the slight crunching of loose gravel beneath their shoes. The permeating darkness was barely kept at bay by the flickering candles, giving way only grudgingly, and then oozing back to eagerly fill the void behind them again. In essence, swallowing them alive within this tomb.

The squared contours of a large door slowly took shape as they proceeded along. The officer stopped at the metal barrier and pulled a large iron ring set in it. Well-oiled hinges lessened the sound of groaning metal and light from several whale oil-powered lanterns lit the large room beyond revealing two individuals waiting within. The darkness surrounding the visitors lessened as this light spilled forth, beckoning them closer.

"In here, please," their guide said, stepping aside to let them pass.

In this catacomb several wooden tables were set up. Each seemed to hold a different combination of bottles, jars, and beakers along with various metal and wooden tools. Chairs were placed at the far wall of the room and the center was dominated by a larger stone table fixed with a metal top.

Upon this central slab was a white sheet covering what was obviously a body.

James hesitated.

In the Ocean, on the deck of the Guardian, on his ship, sailors considered him a hero. Against pirates and other miscreants he had led charge after charge with the men beneath him. He had fought on blood-soaked decks of enemy vessels, looked down the barrels of pistols held by traitorous brigands, dove headlong into shark-infested waters to save a cabin boy. Never once had he given pause.

Yet now, he froze.

Something twisted in his gut. His limbs felt strangely heavy, unwilling to move. He didn't know what to do.

As he stood in the doorway, a light touch appeared on his arm as Vivianna snaked her hand beneath his elbow, wrapped her fingers around his forearm, and gripped him gently.

"I'm here," she whispered up to him. "I'm with you, my darling. Always."

Those few words were enough. With her by his side, he could proceed. With her here he could do anything, even this.

He nodded, laid his other hand across her fingers on his arm, and then advanced.

One of the two men already occupying the room stepped forward. He, too, was dressed as an officer of the Watch.

"I am First Lieutenant Roger Landon of Dunwall's Fourth Division," he said in a reserved tone. "I appreciate your time in coming here."

At five-foot-ten, Landon was clean-shaven with black, curly hair and long sideburns. He seemed young, but his dark eyes held a deeper wisdom, his movements were certain, and his mannerisms respectful.

"Doctor Collier, if you would."

The room's other inhabitant, a thin, shorter man in his late forties with a receding hairline and a thick white mustache, nodded once, stepped to the large, covered table, and pulled back the sheet. Vivianna's fingers clenched into James' arm as the figure upon the table was revealed.

It was her.

Constance Dartley.

She lay in silence like some unblemished porcelain sculpture, calm and serene. Her beauty had not been marred – the bluish-tinted light shed from the whale oil lamps disguised any pallor from death's embrace. At any moment, James expected her to sit up, to open those pale blue eyes of hers and look upon him again, perhaps even playfully berating him for his tardiness to her missive.

"It was the storm," he muttered, his voice barely over a whisper, more to her than anyone else in the room.

"I'm sorry, sir?" Lieutenant Landon asked.

"It was the storm," he repeated, steadying his voice as he stared at her. "She sent for me, by letter. The storm south of Dunwall kept us away. I am three days late."

"So this is-?" the lieutenant's question trailed off.

Why was she here? How could this have happened? It made no sense.

"Sir?"

Always the strategist, the thinker, the planner, his brain decided at this crucial moment to cease functioning. He sought answers, but barely knew what questions to ask. Thoughts eluded him as he stood there unable to focus on anything but her unmoving form, on the soft features of her still face.

"Master Dartley?"

He'd told her - assured her - that he'd always be there for her. That nothing would deter him from her summons, but nature itself conspired against him, in the form of a maddening storm that ravaged the southern coast of Gristol. The Guardian had barely crept through it, and made land three days behind schedule.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Vivianna's grip tightened on his arm again and then she addressed the lieutenant.

"Yes, this is Constance Dartley, his cousin. I was well acquainted with her." She tugged on his arm and moved him away from the center table. "Here now, James, let's sit you over there." She guided him to the row of chairs by the far wall, where he took a seat.

She leaned down and gently brushed her fingers along the edge of his face, drawing his attention to her. Her gaze locked with his.

"I'll reply to their inquiries while you just stay here, alright now?"

He nodded sullenly.

"Right then," she replied in a low tone, keeping her eyes fixed upon him. "Albert, be a dear and sit with James, won't you?"

"Immediately, my Lady Grey," Tuddleston said, his usually merry voice subdued as he moved into the chair next to him.

There followed a series of brief movements and low dialogue as Vivianna answered the young Watch Officer's questions.

"Her age?"

"She has just recently turned twenty-three."

"Single?"

"Yes, but she had become recently engaged."

"Occupation?"

"She is, or was rather, the lead assistant at the Atherton Almshouse, on Framling Street, in the South Commons."

"Can you confirm her residence?"

"71 Tanger Way."

"That's on the western edge of the Tailors' District, is it not?"

"Correct. Just north of Silverkiel Groves."

"That would make sense if she were on her way home. She possessed no vehicle of her own?"

"No. She usually obtained the services of a late coach."

"You are aware, I assume, she has been accused of heresy by a branch of the Warfare Overseers?"

"I have heard such a rumor, yes." The tone in her voice indicated skepticism.

"You don't believe it, then?"

"That she was taken by members of the Abbey? Yes. That Constance was a heretic? No, I do not."

"And you had no contact with her during this time?"

"During her unjust and false incarceration, for that is what it was? No, I did not; I only just learned of this situation."

"So you do believe she was seized unfairly?"

"I believe a great many things, my dear Lieutenant Landon, chief among them at this moment is the lack of competency on the part of the Overseers of the Everyman. Their fanatic zest aside, I am not inclined to credit their skills when a slip of a girl can not only perpetrate her own escape from their holding cells, but can then make her way across nearly a whole district while evading them."

"We suspect Ms. Dartley was going back to her residence when this unfortunate circumstance befell her."

"Hmm," she replied, her skepticism still apparent.

The young man unfolded a parchment of some type and laid it out upon a side table. In his morose state, it took James a moment to realize it was a map. The officer placed one hand on the map and used the other to trace some sort of path.

"Might I examine her clothing?" Vivianna asked.

The officer nodded once and indicated for the doctor to hand the items over.

"Single sword mark there," the shorter man indicated the only stain upon the clothing: a red spot on the white shirt. "A strong blow I'd say, to pierce as far into her as it did. Death was quick, maybe a minute or two at most."

"Any other wounds?" Vivianna asked as she looked over the shirt and jacket, then examined the skirt, shoes, cord belt, and reticule with a clinical eye.

"Other wounds?" the doctor repeated. "No, nothing."

"No defensive wounds? Abrasions? Incidental marks?"

"She has only the single puncture in her chest," the doctor replied with a smug grin. "I am quite certain of it."

"Quite lucky for her assaulter then," she remarked. "To strike so quickly and with precision on my dear friend as she walked home."

"We believe she was knocked down during a robbery gone wrong," the officer called over as he continued looking at the map. "The angle seems to indicate that her attacker stood above her."

"Say again?"

"Yes," the doctor agreed. "The thrust goes through her chest and travels upward. She was either stabbed by someone the size of a child, or the attacker was above her, aiming downward."

"And where was this?"

"Here," the officer said, indicating a spot on the map. "Donner Street, near the Parkley Crossing."

"That seems a bit odd for her," she noted, doubt lingering in her voice. "The area isn't terribly well lit if memory serves."

"Ah," the doctor said as he glanced at the map parchment. "Mesh plant houses, just east of there. I've seen it before. Addiction is a common enough affliction for younger people. Especially if she wanted to calm herself after the Overseers' accusations."

Vivianna turned to the man.

"My dear friend was no partaker of such, I assure you."

"Then it was just poor and very foolish judgment brought on by her stress," he returned. "Too eager to get home."

The last struck something deep within James' damaged psyche; his eye twitched and suddenly he had focus again.

"What did you say?" the words came before he realized he'd spoken them, even as he rose from his seat and moved forward.

The others turned to look at him as he advanced towards the smaller man.

"I-I'm sorry?" the doctor asked with an uncertain tone.

"First you accuse my cousin of being an addict," his voice became an angry growl and then he was reaching out. "Next you question her common sense? All the while supporting the notion that she is somehow a heretic?"

He grabbed the man by the vest and yanked him bodily off his feet, years at sea and newfound anger fueling his strength.

"How dare you?"

Lieutenant Landon moved quickly and called to the other Watch Officer standing guard outside the room.

"Byers, swiftly!"

The summoned man entered immediately.

The two constables grabbed James then, one on either arm, as Tuddleston rushed to aid them. It took the three men combined to pull him away from the startled physician, and even then he was barely held in check. Finally, Vivianna interposed herself between him and the quivering doctor.

"James, James," she spoke to him calmly but firmly. "I need you to focus. Please, look over these accouterments. Make sure they are in order. For Constance, my darling."

The latter statement seemed to still him and he relented, allowing the men to guide him back.

"Doctor Collier, if you would be so kind to leave us for now," Lieutenant Landon ordered the stricken man who was only too happy to comply. "Byers, go with him."

The other officer glanced at James to make certain he had calmed down sufficiently before giving a sharp nod and then followed the shaken doctor out of the room.

Vivianna laid the clothing items before him, hesitating only when she set down the bloodstained shirt.

"Are these correct?" she asked. "Anything missing?"

He glanced down at the items, his gaze lingering on the reticule the longest. The name Constance Dartley was stitched onto it.

"I gave this to her," he muttered, as his thumb traced the letters.

He took a deep breath then, and shut his eyes with a sigh. He cleared his mind, collected his thoughts, and reopened his eyes once more.

"Her belt pouch is missing," he stated in a steady voice. "It was cream-colored I believe. Maybe a lighter tone?"

"We found this just a short distance from her," Landon said, snatching an item from the side table and presenting it to them. "We weren't certain it was hers."

It was a rumpled belt pouch of a light beige color. The strap and buckle were intact, and aside from its unkempt condition it seemed functional.

"Yes, that's the one."

"It was discarded and empty," the officer explained. "Near the edge of the alley."

James sighed. "So, it was a robbery after all. A simple, stupid bit of chance."

"Hm, I wonder," Vivianna mused, still examining the items before her. "Why go through the trouble of untying the cord belt, when her assaulter obviously had a blade?"

"It wasn't," Landon said.

"I'm sorry, what?" the young woman turned to him. "You mean to say the belt was still tied about her waist?"

"Yes, it was, and the pouch wasn't cut away either," the lieutenant replied and a peculiar look formed on his face. "Wait. That doesn't make sense."

He paused in consideration then spoke again.

"And something else you mentioned earlier, my Lady… Grey, was it?"

She nodded.

"There were no other wounds," he said. "Not even bruising when she was struck down, or even as she fell. The jacket could have shielded some of that, but not all."

Vivianna smiled. "You are a clever one, my dear Lieutenant Landon."

"And the jacket, the skirt," he went on as he looked over the pair of items. "There is some dirt, yes, but only where she laid upon the stonework. Would not such an assault have gotten more upon her? Ground it in? Oh, damn me for not seeing this earlier."

James blinked in confusion. There was obviously something his distraught mind wasn't quite piecing together. "I don't understand," he said.

Vivianna turned to him, grief mixed with a hint of revulsion upon her face. "The scene appears to have been staged for our convenience. Perhaps to dissuade any further inquiries."

"Staged? What does this mean?"

"The worst possible case, my darling James. Constance was taken from us, not by some whim or sad happenstance, but with focused determination." She leaned forward then and her words stabbed through him as surely as any blade. "Someone wanted her dead."

O-O-O-O-O

A gentle rap upon the lavatory door startled him, breaking him from his sad revelry.

He'd almost been asleep. Apparently solace was to be found in soothing waters and cheerless remembrances. As he got out of the tub and toweled himself off, an odd thought occurred. What if he had fallen asleep, slipped down further in the tub, and then perhaps drowned? A navy man, perishing not at sea amongst the rolling waves during some Void-spawned storm, but in a calm bath less than four-and-a-half feet long.

The Outsider would surely snatch his spirit away for such a chaotically dim-witted death, he thought with a wry smirk.

The light knock repeated itself upon the door as he put his trousers back on.

"Master James?" the hushed voice of young Otto inquired. "Are you up then, sir?"

"A moment, lad," James returned as he grabbed some fresh linen strips and rewrapped the wound on his arm. It was well on the mend; he didn't need it to get infected now, especially with the Rat Plague running rampant as ever.

Finally he opened the door, outside of which stood young Otto.

"Just the two of us up at this dark hour then, eh?" he asked.

"Yessir," came the boy's quick reply. "Mr. Tuddleston's asleep at 'is desk."

James scoffed lightly.

"Again?"

"I fear so, sir."

"Very well," he said, exiting the lavatory . "It's five in the morning, correct?"

"Nearly 'alf past by now, sir."

"Ah. Come with me then."

He led Otto back to his own room where the young lad paused and waited respectfully just outside the doorway, training from his years aboard ship forbidding him from ever entering an officer's quarters without permission. James grabbed up a key and unlocked a small strongbox set upon a low counter. Sorting through the various coins, he selected some and then relocked the coffer.

"I need flowers for my cousin," he said as he approached Otto once again. "I'm going to visit her today. Please choose something appropriate from your friend, Rosalie. Tell her to keep the rest."

He handed over two gold coins, each worth ten, to the boy.

Otto's eyes lit up.

"Yessir! Right away, sir!"

"Good lad," James said, as the youth went back to the main room and retrieved his black bowler, scarf, and grey jacket before slipping quietly through the front door, locking it behind him.

James put on a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of boots before going to find Mr. Tuddleston. True to Otto's word, the large scribe was at his desk, leaned back in his comfortable chair.

Eyes closed and breathing lightly, Albert sat clutching a small book against his chest. Similar tomes were spread upon his desk in various stages of disarray, some open, some set neatly in stacks. The candles in the candelabrum atop the desk were burnt down nearly to stubs and did little to illuminate the area.

With a shake of his head, James went to a large freestanding iron stove positioned against the northern wall. He opened the grill and used a poker to stir the dying cinders within. Using the tongs that hung on the wall, he refilled the cavity with fresh coal, coaxing the embers a bit higher. Closing the grill again, he next grabbed the lid lifter from the same rack on the wall, hooked one of the round lids on the stovetop, then lifted and loudly dropped the heavy piece of iron. Twice.

A light stirring came from the direction of the desk and James turned to his friend.

"Oh, you're awake. How nice."

A low groan from the scribe was his response.

"You know," the navy man continued as he indicated the untended candles. "…we needn't worry about enemies attacking if the shop burns down about us."

"Ah mother," Tuddleston murmured blearily as he sat upright. "Your spirit has returned from the Void to visit your poor son only to berate him." He looked up at James. "And you've taken on a quite disconcerting form."

The navy man chuckled at the remark.

"Your obnoxious behavior aside," the scribe went on as he sat upright and replaced the small book back amongst its fellows, "…I've learned nothing about the supplier."

Seeing the uncertain look upon James' face, he explained.

"Drendem's Financials. Bower's Guide to Business Essentials. The Gristol Venture References, years 1832 to 1836. None bear any mention of this Azure Bloom Outfitters," he groused. "I have completely failed."

"It's alright, my friend," James replied. "We will find the answers we need. Seventeen months of work and patience have given us this opportunity." Though his voice remained steady, an anxious glimmer shown in his eyes before discipline took control once again. "We will find where this leads, but first, I wish to share the news."

Tuddleston leaned forward with a smile.

"Ah! We are to see Lady Grey and Master William then?" He nodded with enthusiasm. "I daresay some good news to spread about is definitely in order. Since her visit at the beginning of this month I have thought much of our dear Vivianna. Her absence is felt most keenly."

"Um, not yet." James pursed his lips as he glanced at the floor. "I will tell Constance first. I feel she should know. I would ask that you go with me."

"Quite so, quite so!" the redheaded man exclaimed as he stood and began snuffing the candle stubs. "Then we're off across the Wrenhaven! Lady Grey should be told next, I would think. Then a visit to William Averling afterwards. Capital idea. Capital idea indeed!"

"No."

Tuddleston blinked and looked over at his companion.

"I'm sorry?" he asked. "Why would we not?"

James flicked his eyes up and stared at the man.

"The information is very obscure at the moment," he said, matter-of-factly. "We should follow it up first. Make sure it pans out properly before we alert anyone else. No reason to offer what may simply be false hopes just yet."

"I see," Tuddleston replied in a flat tone void of his usual joviality.

"Besides-"

"Besides," the scribe interrupted, "…that would require you to make time for those still with us. As opposed to dwelling solely amongst the-"

"Do not finish that sentence, Mr. Tuddleston. Let's not argue. Not today."

The heavyset man paused then his eyes narrowed just a bit.

"Quite so. I will make preparations to accompany you. I take it I will be allowed at least enough time to freshen up a bit?"

"Yes. It's quarter of six now. I have a few more things to prepare. Let's leave at seven."

"Very well."

The sound of the front door opening then closing interrupted the pair. Furtive noises followed, then young Otto appeared at Tuddleston's door.

"Mornin', Mr. Tuddleston," the boy greeted quickly, his hat in his hand.

"To you as well, my good lad. Do come in. Do come in."

The boy did as he was bid, moving over to James. He held out a large bouquet of flowers, the stems wrapped in green wax paper.

"Master James, Rosalie said to tell you," the boy began, putting effort into relaying the message properly, "she didn't 'ave any orchids which would 'ave been most proper. She apologized, and then made up this, uh, arrangement she called it, of daisies and white carnations."

He pointed to the white flowers set amongst the red, yellow, and blue.

"Those ones are the carnations, she said, and the freshest of her lot," he explained, quite proud to have remembered.

A light smile played upon the seaman's lips as he said, "Well done, Otto."

He took the bouquet then signaled for the boy to follow him as he left Tuddleston's room.

"I need you to go out again. Find the others. Rollo, Ademar, Erin and Etiennette. I will have a message for them each."

"Yessir. Anything you need."

Despite the bumpy ride, the motorized carriage made decent time along the cobblestone streets. James and Albert soon left the Tailors' District behind, and the wider avenues of the Old Patricians Estates opened up before them.

One of the southernmost districts of the city, the Old Patricians Estates held the residences of some of the first nobility to call Dunwall home, as well as those families that had served them faithfully. Along with the neighboring Silverkiel Groves District immediately to the west, the Old Patricians Estates was where the old money lay, where the purest lineages dwelt, and from where the heart of the noble houses had once sprung. Many of the newer, richer, and more influential noble families moved north of the Wrenhaven to the Estates District, but there were still prominent families to be found here, both aristocratic and otherwise.

As Tuddleston piloted the vehicle, James looked about the area, noting the grand manors and estates scattered throughout the district and the smaller, lesser properties surrounding them.

The Dartley line had once held a modest position here. Not nobility themselves, the Dartleys had always been looked upon favorably by those of higher stations. Usually retaining positions as administrators, seneschals, stewards, officers and the like, James' clan had always been seen as loyal supporters of Gristian ideals. Many of their daughters married into wealthier families, and many of their sons were known to have keen prospects ahead of them.

Despite this, wars took heavy tolls upon the line's numbers throughout the years. In 1801, during the Morley Insurrection, the Dartleys had come close to being snuffed out entirely. Now, thirty-six years later, James alone represented the entire future of his family.

A family that may soon become extinct, he thought grimly to himself.

"Here we are," Tuddleston called out, stirring him from his dour reflections.

Coldorness Cemetery.

A two hundred acre rural cemetery near the heart of the district, Coldorness held several mausoleums for noble lines, abundant columbaria to house the cinerary urns of the faithful fallen soldiers of the Empire, and numerous sarcophagi and standing vaults for lesser families. Established over one hundred seventy years ago and protected by an eight foot wall of alabaster stone blocks taken from a quarry near Whitecliff, Coldorness was still a place of peaceful serenity in a city being ravaged by the Rat Plague. A dedicated arboretum in its center evoked a sense of quiet tranquility. The numerous trees and shrubs were well-maintained, and the lots were respectfully cared for.

Exiting their coach, the two men walked along the quiet paths, moving through history carved in stone and captured upon small metal placards. Names, dates, and bas-reliefs all reflecting bygone eras, friends lost to time, and ages past surrounded the pair. Statues of cloaked figures, protective Overseers, playful children, and even watchful beasts inhabited the grounds, all caught in mid-movement or solemn stance, frozen forever and silent to keep company with the equally quiet departed.

Even now in the dead of winter, Coldorness was not some grim reminder of loss, nor an austere site of unforgiving strictures. Rather, it was a garden locale that acknowledged the circle of life and death, considerate to both and allowing visitors the opportunity to sit with their loved ones and not bring judgment upon them.

It was a setting worthy of his cousin.

She had almost not been interred though, as rumors of her being a heretic unjustly followed her. However, it was Vivianna Grey who had stepped forward to deal with those that opposed her burial here. Being an important scion of a constituency loyal to House Carmine, Vivianna was able to persuade the naysayers, through means both diplomatic and otherwise, that it would be best to allow the girl to rest peacefully alongside the other fallen members of her household. She had aided him in one of his darkest moments.

On the southeastern edge, near a backdrop of pines and flowering bushes dormant now during these cold months was the Dartley Vault. Of grey marble, the roofed but open structure was lined on the inside with various receptacles, each with an engraved brass plaque displaying the name of the occupant within. At the end of the far right side, sealed with a heavy marble cap was his cousin's final resting place.

The commemorative inscription, not yet worn by the weather, read:

O.O.O

Constance Dartley

Born the 22nd Day of the Month of Songs, 1812

Died the 4th Day of the Month of Earth, 1836

A Light extinguished too soon.

O.O.O

There was tightness in James' cheeks and a slight pinch in his throat. He took a quick, sharp breath and brushed his fingertips against the letters of her name.

"Hello, Constance," he said simply. "It's been a bit, I'm sorry to say. I have no real excuse."

He placed the bouquet within the holder mounted to the cap.

"Albert is here as well," he said, indicating the heavyset man standing reverently behind him. "He's doing his best to keep me out of trouble."

"And failing spectacularly, it should be noted," the large man announced.

James chuckled wryly.

"Yes, that's about the extent of it." His head bowed low. "Vivianna recently visited at a request I made. She is as lovely as ever, and misses you as much as I."

He voice caught for a moment and he swallowed before continuing.

"I've never stopped. We've never stopped. The others who have been helping me. Been helping us. They're good people. Loyal. Decent."

He raised his head again and gazed for a while upon her name.

Finally he said, "We have a lead. From a young girl we aided. We may be able to press on. We may be able to find justice finally. For you."

He closed his eyes then wrung his hands together.

"We're close, Constance. Close. We'll do this right. We'll find who is responsible."

He sighed and then opened his eyes.

"I wish you were still here. I miss you so."

"James?" a new voice called suddenly from just outside the building. "James Dartley? Is it really you? And Albert as well?"

Surprised at the noise, the navy man spun on his heel and nearly drew his sword. Tuddleston turned as well as the new arrival entered. They both recognized him immediately.

He was William Averling, the young man who had been Constance's fiancé.

"I'm so glad to finally see you again," the nervous young man repeated from his seat across from them. "It has been too long. Yes, yes, too long." He looked at his pocket-watch before closing it and putting it in his vest pocket. "Thirty past eight."

William Averling was twenty-six years old, flaxen-haired and handsome, if a bit thin, with pensive blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, thin nervous lips and the dress and bearing of a professional barrister. As was often the situation, he bore a thick sheaf of loose documents and had a habitual worrying tendency of checking his pocket-watch every few minutes.

Hailing from the Estates District, he had an appointment today to meet with a client living in the Old Patricians Estates and had decided to arrive early so that he might visit Constance's grave. Finding James and Albert there was mere happenstance. After leaving a white lily alongside the bouquet brought by James, he asked if the pair might enjoy a quick refreshment before going back about their way. Hesitant at first, James finally relented under Tuddleston's reproachful stare.

They went to a Tea Room, a small establishment where teas and small cakes were served, that was located close to Coldorness Cemetery and found a table near the front.

"I read about your exploits in the Gentlemen's Chronicle, of course. Against that vicious gang of Merry Boyz." He tittered for a moment before taking a sip of his tea. "Well done, yes. Well done, indeed."

"We were only able to remove such a vile gang because you put us upon the scent to begin with," Tuddleston returned. "You did well in sending over that particular client, truth be told."

"Mm, yes, yes," the young man said with a quick nod of his head before taking another sip. He then looked up at James. "And now, if I heard correctly, you have a link? A clue? To the case of this whole maddening affair?"

"We have a lead finally," James admitted. "A girl we rescued during that incident with the Merry Boyz had seen the symbol before. The blue rose upon the silver field."

The young man went wide-eyed and then tittered again.

"So, it may be over soon, then, yes? The entire miserable situation. Shelved away like some wretched dream. Forgotten and alone."

"It's just a minor lead so far, William," James said carefully. "There may still be much to do."

"Ah, true, true." The young barrister sat quietly for a moment, pondering. After a few seconds, he retrieved his pocket-watch, clicked it open and glanced at the time. "Forty past eight," he muttered to no one in particular before closing it again.

William Averling had not always been this way. Once, he was a promising barrister with many prospects before him. He'd met Constance three years ago at an art showing in the South Commons of all places and fell in love with her soon after. To his credit, the young man was able to gain her affections as well.

Admittedly, James had not been overly impressed with the young man when he first met him shortly after the couple began courting. He was too slight and obviously had no martial training. James doubted he had ever held a sword save as a curiosity. Despite this, William was good to Constance, appreciated her, treated her respectfully, and most importantly of all, he made her happy, something that eventually won over the stern navy officer.

However, while her passing had wounded James sorely, it had very nearly destroyed the young, excitable barrister. He became gravely ill and nearly catatonic, requiring supervision for a time. Finally regaining some slight semblance of his old self again, William nonetheless was distraught by the fact that he could do nothing to help. Bound by the tenants of the law, his whole life and beliefs entwined with it, he found that the thing he had the greatest passion for now hampered his efforts to bring some measure of justice for his beloved fiancé.

The effect was maddening. Had James not offered to have him 'interview' potential candidates for the Undertakers to assist, William may well have relapsed into his catatonic state. As it was, the young man developed some odd nervous tendencies that affected him occasionally.

"You are well, otherwise?" James put forth.

"Yes, yes. Quite well." The young man nodded, his gaze lingering on the dinnerware before them. "The plague seems good for business, I am sad to say. Accounts being adjusted, wills rewritten, deeds amended. I've been kept busy. Very busy, yes."

"I suppose men with knowledge of a legal bent are most needed these days," Tuddleston agreed.

"Indeed. Rudshore's flooding sent the lot of the stuffier ones packing." He tittered again. "There is the newer position of the City Barrister given to Arnold Timsh in the Legal District. He seems an amiable old fellow. I have thought of applying there myself. Even if I don't get a position with him, I am sure there will be openings vacated by those he does accept."

"That does sound like a grand scheme," Tuddleston said in approval.

"It does, yes." William took another small sip of his tea then his face lit up and he glanced at James. "Ah, I had the pleasure of a visit from Vivianna. Most recently, yes. It was on the tenth of this month. She said she had just been to see you the week before."

"That is true," James confirmed.

William smiled.

"Good, good indeed. When she visited, I had just finished drafting some tedious billing rights. I had the rest of the afternoon free and we made nearly a day of it!" A genuine smile formed on his lips. "We talked of things, of Constance, of the city, the current state of the people here, and even the sad affair of the Empress. Not the brightest of subjects, but I enjoyed the company. It was quite nice, yes."

He set his cup down then went to his sheaf of papers and began rifling through them.

"She gave me something. Something she had written shortly after her visit to you. She wished me to have it. Oh confound it, where is- AHA!"

With a flourish of victory he withdrew a single paper from the bundled mess and set it down before them.

"Here it is, yes! One of her little poems."

"She's writing again?" James asked, a hint of pleasant surprise in his voice. "It has been a long time since she has done so."

He gently took up the paper and read what had been written upon it:

…

In Absence of Light,

an elegy by Vivianna Grey

…

In Absence of Light, where shadows lengthen and delight does wane, a dreary numbness unfolds.

In this lightless landscape, hope becomes a half-dreamt remembrance, an evasive, baleful thing…

… forever leading desperate seekers astray.

In Absence of Light, life appears grey, colors become ashen. Existence becomes habitual, a shallow swale of fetid seclusion.

The dearth of your presence fuels this, leaving hollowness within, where heartbeats echo in dwindling tone…

… until their resonance is muted and still.

In Absence of Light, lonesomeness abounds, and though not tethered here, wretchedly I find myself at home.

…

He tilted the paper so Tuddleston could read it as well.

"Interesting," the scribe said. "I've always preferred perfect rhyme, meter, and form in poetry, but her free-verse style can be quite fascinating."

James furrowed his brow.

"It seems so sad. Lonely."

"Mm, yes, yes!" William cut in suddenly. "I am by no means an authority, but I believe I have deduced its meaning!" He giggled in excitement.

"Oh?"

"Indeed!" William retrieved the paper. "It's a warning, see? She wrote it after her visit to you, and gifted it to me! She worries, I think, that this business with Constance will consume me. That I can, as the poem says, leave the lightless realm, that I am 'not tethered here ' but seek to stay on my own accord. That I will never see the light again."

"Perhaps," James said quietly.

William looked particularly proud of his deductive achievement, then clicked open his watch once again.

"Oh my. Ten minutes to nine. I do need to get going if I am to keep my appointment." He frowned, then looked at his company. "We should do this another time. I would like to see you again, if that is alright. Maybe my offices next time? Vivianna has extended a gracious invitation to her family home up north but I was never one for the open country. Secluded offices, small libraries, and the like are more my style."

"I understand completely, my dear fellow," Tuddleston said with a chuckle. "Such are my preferences as well."

William smiled again then glanced at James, a quiet desperation in his eyes.

"That would be fine," the seaman agreed. "On my word, we shall meet again soon."

"Good then, yes, yes," he said in an elated tone. "Quite good. Maybe we could even take in the theatre or an art show." The young man rose, then graciously bid his company goodbye before rushing out of the front of the restaurant.

The two men sat in silence for a moment as James pondered the day so far. He had held a grudge against Vivianna for leaving the Undertakers those months ago. At the time, he'd seen it as abandoning them, as abandoning him.

But truly, a good deal of what had been accomplished was due to her. It was her doing that allowed Constance to be interred with the rest of their family. It had been her deduction of the circumstances of Constance's attack that set him on his path from the beginning. She'd even helped him stay focused in the early stages of his desperate plan.

Maybe the poem was a warning. Not only to William but James as well, for the navy man also seemed to dwell within that lightless landscape at the moment. Perhaps, he thought grimly, it had been a warning to herself. She had come immediately when he called upon her to examine Adrienne. Though she had tried to leave the dour business he had aligned himself with, Vivianna plunged headlong into it once more for him with little thought for herself.

He began to realize that he owed her much more than he had thought.

"I will say this, regardless of any argument it may cause," Tuddleston interrupted, as if he could read his thoughts, "I still believe Lady Grey has the right to know we have found some lead even if it is a slight one. William seemed to find some peace from the knowledge. I think it may be good for our lady as well."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, what? You actually agree?"

James turned to his large friend and nodded once.

"We will tell her, Mr. Tuddleston. Not at this moment, but we will, you have my word. I owe her that much."

"Ah, then good." The scribe seemed satisfied then a curious look crossed his face. "What, might I ask, will we be doing beforehand though?"

"We need to get some answers from Lucretia Dent. But as Rollo warned, she won't be easy to talk to."

"So we are to pursue that line of inquiry then?"

"Soon. There is someone else I wish to consult with first. I need you to take me to Fhavre Square."