Seleste, Then

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO

S creams rent the night.

The Sager Asylum rose before them like a gargoyle come up from Hades. Its towers and spires a thing of Gothic legend. Seleste wished she could have summoned Aggie to see it.

"Remind me why we came here at night?" Cal said, suppressing a shiver as they stared up at the looming building.

"Time." They hadn't much of it. Ominous clouds were rolling in to conceal the moon, and Seleste adjusted her cloak against the chill that was slowly beckoning in Autumn. "And because it took us nearly all of the day to procure our forged identities."

"What is it?" Cal caught her arm as she made to walk forward toward the spooky asylum. "Has the asylum unnerved you?" He stopped himself, studying her. "No. That's not it. What has your eyes so clouded?"

Bitterness was beginning to coat her. It was a feeling she'd never experienced, never having seen any profit in what it lent the soul. The opposite was true for such a sordid emotion. Alas, she was discovering bitterness crept in like a thief regardless of her knowledge that it could only corrupt.

Being near Cal was simply becoming too much.

And she snapped.

Turning toward him and ripping her arm free of his grasp, she stared down this man she loved. This man who would never be hers. She watched as his face fell, confusion parting his lips at the coldness of her stare.

"Seleste?"

"Why is your name not on that list?"

Cal swallowed, genuine shock alighting on his features. "I— Maybe it is." Fear crept into his eyes.

"No, it is not."

"We haven't decoded all of the names," he defended, but there was little conviction in his tone. He was growing nervous, for two reasons she knew.

He thought she suspected he was guilty of the murders, and he was worried he was a target.

Both were invalid.

"Seleste." He stepped forward to reach for her, and she backed away, but not for the reason he thought. He looked as if she'd struck him. "You can't think I'm the murderer… Please tell me you don't."

She stood in silence, searching his face. Memorising it. And decided to divulge as little as possible of what she suspected. If they were successful—if they caught the fiends responsible—none of her concerns would hold ground. But they had only one more chance to stop the murderer, or they would have an entirely different case on their hands.

"Please, Seleste. Please tell me you don't think that it's me."

"I don't," she finally answered, and Cal sagged with relief. He opened his mouth, presumably to question again what her stony demeanour was concerning, but she silenced him by walking toward the asylum.

They were greeted by more screams. Some of pain, others of madness, and still others of despair. It was a place of nightmares. Yet, someone had to care for the poor souls. Didn't they? It was not their fault their minds were fractured.

Cal strode with all the decorum dropped on him at his birth toward the front desk and its lopsided, woebegone attendant. The woman looked up at him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

"Inspector Henry Shelby," Cal said, thrusting his forged inspector's paper in her face by way of greeting and tossing a thumb in Seleste's direction. "And this is my assistant, Nadine."

The woman eyed Seleste up and down with barely concealed disgust but turned back to Cal.

"We need to speak with Lord Nicolas Fontaine."

Her eyes widened with alarm. "I'm afraid Lord Nicolas has…passed on to be with the goddess."

"Correct." Cal's response only further distressed her. "I find it curious word has not yet spread of his demise, Madame…"

"Durand," she answered around a gulp.

Their plan relied on the news not having been leaked to the rest of the peerage, a fact they'd spent most of the day proving while they'd had Cal's inspector papers forged.

"Madame Durand, who could we speak to about Lord Nicolas' unfortunate end, hm?"

"Doctor Auclair. I— I'll go and retrieve him for you," the woman stuttered.

"Please see that you do."

As soon as she was out of sight, Cal turned to Seleste with a child-like grin. "Convincing, yes?"

He waggled his eyebrows and Seleste couldn't help but chuckle, pushing away a modicum of her bitterness and worry. "Yes," she whispered. "Now stay in character."

He cleared his throat, a scowl sliding over his face as he straightened his waistcoat and jacket.

Madame Durand bustled back to the front long enough to wave them forward. "Dr. Auclair will see you."

They followed the woman down a long corridor, the moans and wails of the asylum's patients as their ballad. Chills pebbled Seleste's skin, shame coating her. It truly was not their fault they were broken. Their medical care was something untouched by Society, a sector of science most refused to deal with, let alone study in order to treat it more effectively.

Passing the first room that had no noise emitting from it, Seleste couldn't help but peer in the small window as she walked, catching brief sight of a woman with neatly combed tawny hair, her head bent peacefully over a book. She looked up as they passed, her eyes blue and clear.

Seleste's shame for being uncomfortable around these patients morphed into seething anger. There was a time when witches were shoved into asylums, particularly the one she walked the eerie corridors of before they were sent to hang from the trees. Still, over a century later, women were locked away for having minds and ambitions of their own, labelled mad by the men in their lives, for it was easier than dealing with them .

Witches or not, Sorscha and Aggie would have been imprisoned in an asylum for their headstrong ways, had anyone been able to hold them long enough to shackle them.

Her cunning pulled her from her disturbing thoughts when she noticed Madame Durand suddenly quicken her pace. Cal must have noticed it as well, for he turned to give Seleste a quick look of confusion.

A THUD jarred all three of them.

"Keep walking" Madame Durand urged, picking up her speed even more.

THUD, THUD, THUD

Just before the corridor cut off into another, the last door was rattling on its hinges with each thud .

"Hurry now," Madame Durand urged as she rounded the corner, Cal following.

Realising Seleste had paused in front of the suddenly still and silent door, he turned back. "Seleste," he pleaded, "don't stop."

But she couldn't move. Something in that room waited for her .

THUD

A form slammed against the door, a head of filthy, greasy hair visible through the window, obscuring the face.

Seleste peered in.

Waiting.

Cal tugged at her arm .

The head flung up, curtain of matted hair parting to reveal cracked and blackened teeth. " Tagattttttt ," the woman hissed in the ancient tongue Seleste's father used in his journals, and her breath caught.

Witch .

Cal's hand tightened around her bicep. The mad woman smiled, head tilting at odd angles, at disturbing intervals. "Beware the door.," she sang. "Do not let her through, tagat . She wants the blood. She wants to go home."

"Seleste!" Cal barked under his breath, tugging her fiercely until her feet unstuck from whatever enchantment held her captive."

In the next corridor, Madame Durand, visibly shaking, gestured toward an office. Cal and Seleste walked in, pushing the troubling incident in the hallway aside.

"Apologies, Inspector," Dr. Auclair said once the introductions were made and seats were taken, "but how did you know of Lord Nicolas' demise? He is resting in our on-site morgue, awaiting his family to be notified."

"Ah, yes. Well, it turns out Lord Nicolas is not in your morgue. He was found dead in a basement, and what he was awaiting was his turn to be wheeled out onto the platform of the Open Air Anatomical Symposium this morning."

They didn't know that Lord Nicolas was next to be experimented on in the open, but the half-truth had its intended effect.

Dr. Auclair sputtered a cough. "Pardon me," he said when he'd gathered his wits. "I'm afraid that cannot be."

"Our future Duke of Rochbury was to be slit right open, his heart pulled from his chest and used for unsanctioned and vile experimentation. Before a gathered public audience, no less."

"I say… I say…" the rotund doctor blubbered.

"Now," Cal scooted forward in his seat, eyeing Dr. Auclair across his desk, "I don't know what sort of arrangement you have with the Anatomical Society concerning the purchase of bodies from your morgue, but I assume it's a good one since you have so many unwanted patients here. However, I don't believe the peerage will be glad to know one of their own was bought and dissected like a lab rat for all of Merveille to see."

Sweat dotted the doctor's brow, and he mopped at it with a handkerchief. "I assure you, I had no knowledge of this."

"When did Lord Nicolas pass, Doctor?"

"Just this morning." The answer came too swiftly. A rehearsed lie.

"Mm. That seems very little time to sell him off, doesn't it? Did he perhaps die a day or two ago, and a new moon is arriving shortly, so you thought you could manage to eke out just one more payment from the Duke of Rochbury?"

"I– I–" Dr. Auclair was quite versed in stuttering, it would seem.

"It's not uncommon in asylums such as these," Cal said, reciting the information Seleste had shared on the way to Sager. "It is theft, of course, but unless you have already received such a payment, I see no harm in letting it slide as long as you tell us everything we need to know."

Dr. Auclair adjusted himself in his chair, a drop of sweat slipping down his temple "Yes. Yes, of course. No payment has yet been received."

"Fantastic." Cal clapped his hands together. "There was something else peculiar about the body, Dr. Auclair. He was rather emaciated. Now, that is not so very uncommon here, I'm sure. But I would like to know the full nature of Lord Nicolas' death, medically speaking."

"Of course. I can pull his paperwork for you."

Dr. Auclair jumped from his chair as swiftly as his rotund belly would allow and bustled out of the office shouting for Madame Durand.

When the door shut, Cal turned to Seleste with wide eyes. "My goddess, I'm shaking!" he whispered.

Seleste pushed his shoulder. "You're unbelievable! He's terrified!"

Adjusting his collar, Cal blew out a breath. "Keep it together old boy," he said to himself and Seleste chuckled.

"You're doing just fine."

Dr. Auclair waddled back into the room then, handing Cal a thick file.

Seleste tried to peer at it over his shoulder with no luck.

"And did you see to him yourself?" Cal finally asked, looking up.

"No," Dr. Auclair answered. "That was Dr. Orrin Pollock."

Cal's fingers stilled on the papers, but he recovered quickly. "I'd appreciate a word with him as well, then."

"I'm afraid Dr. Pollock perished two moons ago, Inspector."

"This doesn't make any damned sense ." Cal threw the notebook he'd taken from the society's basement onto the bed of their room at the inn. "It's gibberish. "

Seleste reached to grab it, rising from the bed and walking over to the table to hand Lord Nicolas' medical record to Cal along with her notes from the asylum. "It's time for a trade. Fresh eyes and all that."

Cal grumbled, and she took a moment to watch him. She'd never seen him quite so morose, not since before she came to truly know him. The situation warranted it, to be sure, but he'd always been light and laughter with her, even if he wasn't so with anyone else.

Considering prodding him for a moment, she thought better of it. It was best she slipped into the ‘everyone else' category of his life. He would have to find a way to be light and laughter with Catherine, or he would be a miserable man.

Instead, Seleste strode back to the bed and lowered herself onto it, opening the notebook on her lap. One look and she was stifling a gasp. It was gibberish to Cal because it was a spellbook. And the page she'd opened to was in the same language the lunatic—if she was one—in the asylum had spoken.

Tagat.

Witch.

The same language her father used for some entries in the journals she and her Sisters passed around every Solstice and Equinox—the only thing left of their parents.

Afer mahn sur, coreg ah lur, olren fahn bre ankhur . Bind the light, keep it from sight, to bring new life.

"Cal," she started, not knowing where her words were headed. Was it a mistake to reveal she knew this archaic language? She'd never even revealed that to her Sisters. They hadn't even bothered to translate some of the things he wrote, let alone learn the entire language .

"What is it?" Cal rose and came to sit next to her on the bed.

"I can read some of this."

His eyes widened, a smile finally stretching across his handsome face. "Is that so?" It was quick, but he glanced at her lips just long enough for heat to pool low in her stomach.

She nodded nervously and watched his throat bob as Cal swallowed.

"Goddess, you are astounding." His words were husky and full of so much he wasn't saying.

Suddenly, Seleste understood his sullenness. The conundrum of a man. The only person who puzzled her. But staring at her like that, his mood made perfect sense.

Agonisingly slowly, his eyes full of questions, he leaned in. His breath mingled with hers and her heart beat wildly behind her breastbone, her entire body begging her to give in. His betrothed wanted nothing to do with him, in many ways. Seleste could be with him, in some small way. They could have this moment.

His lips barely brushed hers when she pulled away, standing.

She was still a witch. And she was still no one's paramour .

"I'm sorry," Cal's breath escaped raggedly. "I'm so sorry." He reached out for her, but let his hand drop. "Seleste, please. I'm sorry."

"Can—" She wasn't thinking straight. She hated everything about their situation. "Can I just read it to you? I can't be near?—"

"Yes," he interrupted, saving her from having to complete her thought. "Please. "

Seleste sat at the table, as far from Cal as she could manage, and began reading. When she was done, they were both still and silent for a long time. Seleste because she didn't know what Cal would think, and Cal presumably because he had no idea the things in that spellbook existed. Both of them because of whose work the book followed.

" Société de Guerre has modelled their dark works after Morgana the Archane," Cal finally said, more to himself than anything. " Morgana the Archane ."

Seleste nodded with a grimace. "And not just any dark work. The last known case of necromancy that resulted in the Academy being shut down and alchemy outlawed."

He scrubbed at his chin. "Is it just me, or did some of that read like— No, it's ridiculous."

It wasn't ridiculous, at all. "Like what?"

A sheepish smile sent colour blooming on his cheeks. "A spellbook."

Because it was exactly that.

"You think I'm mad." He stood, fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat.

"I don't. I had the same thought."

"How can this be? Mages… Mages don't have magic any longer." He paced as he continued trying to convince himself. "They're simple men chosen by Hespa to run the Church. That's all."

"Clearly, that isn't the case," Seleste offered gently, steering clear of witchery. Though she was equally as confused. He was right, as far as she knew. Only witches had possessed magic for generations. "It's best if we simply accept what this text is saying as fact for the time being, to help with the case. "

"Does it?" He whirled toward her, face screwed up in confusion and thought. "Help, I mean. It didn't tie them to the murders like I thought it would."

"Well…" Seleste rose and held the book in front of him. "Maybe it does." She pointed to the bottom, where four names were scribbled, only three of them legible.

Orrin Pollock

Achilles Zavai

Nadja Rashad

"Pollock!" Cal exclaimed. "But he was killed before most of the others. Could these here have furthered his work? What's this last one?" He leaned in, eyes squinted.

Seleste shook her head. "Unfortunately, all I can make out is a C and I think that is an r there at the end of the surname."

He looked at her. "Do you think these are the true identities of those who put that corpse in the mechanism below the society, or simply the ones who wrote the teachings?"

Spellbook , Seleste corrected inwardly. But he wasn't ready for all that. "I'm not certain, but the link between Pollock and your father as well as Lord Nicolas is irrefutable. The lead we've been looking for."

"What are you thinking?"

"First, we need to attempt to match the next names with their poison on the list. Then, I'm afraid it's time to visit the good doctor's abandoned practice."

Cal picked up Lord Nicolas' medical file from the bed. "If he was killed via belladonna, which emaciates the appetite, and then the mind?—"

He set it back down and strode to the table again, finger running down their crumpled list of names and poisons. Seleste was frowning at him when he looked up. "What is it?"

"Cal, this only leaves the Duke of Rochbury before the Prince himself."

"That's right. We need to set someone in place to protect him, without alerting him to what's going on." Cal snatched his coat and was moving toward the door, but Seleste caught his arm.

"Cal. If the duke perishes…" She swallowed hard. "The king's son is a sickly boy."

His brows knit in the middle. "Yes, he was born sickly, but I don't see what that has to do with?—"

She watched as realisation hit him square in the stomach like a battering ram, his face draining of all colour. When he looked at her again, his eyes were glassy.

"Why is this happening?" he whispered. "Why wasn't I on that list?"

He sank onto the bed, jacket crumpled in his lap, and she rushed to sit next to him, taking his hand. "I don't know. I fear those involved are not good people. But you are ." She pushed him gently with her shoulder.

His face turned stony. "We protect the duke." Seleste nodded her agreement. "And pray to Hespa that the prince lives a long life."

Seleste's insides twisted with a coil of conflicting emotions.

"I don't understand this!" Cal put his head in his hands where he sat at Dr. Orrin Pollock's scattered desk .

Before they could even find someone and get them stationed at the Duke of Rochbury's townhome in Merveille, word had spread through the city that he'd perished. Asphyxiation was the official prognosis by the coroner. When Cal questioned him—as Inspector Shelby—he'd learned what they both already knew. The duke had been suffering from spasming muscles for half a year. Over the last two moons, the spasms had increased, until, finally, his lungs seized unto death.

Cal had wanted to sound the alarm, raise suspicion, alert the king. But Seleste no longer thought that was necessary. Instead, she'd convinced him to return to their room at the inn to rest. Exhausted, he had. And Seleste had wrapped herself in magic and snuck into the duke's townhome. There, she had found precisely what she knew she would: a large supply of crystalline sugar, reserved for the duke alone—his favourite addition to his tea. Crystalline sugar that was mixed with a crystalline poison. Strychnine.

She'd returned before Cal had roused from his nap. They'd broken into Pollock's abandoned medical practice immediately upon his waking.

Alas, most of the day had passed, and all they'd found of note were a few letters. Still, Seleste was uncertain she should tell Cal what she'd found at the duke's townhome. How would she explain? It didn't matter, anyway. The letters had confirmed what she already knew.

Cal gripped one of them in his hand, the paper crinkling as he shook it. "This Nadja person was clearly at odds with him. Maybe even Achilles, too. I just— Pollock died before the others. It doesn't make sense . "

It did, though, in a non-conclusive way that did conclude almost everything for her.

Throwing all caution and propriety to the wind, Seleste came forward and gently took the letter from Cal's hand. Slowly, she pushed his hair back from his face. It was always so neatly combed unless they were making love. The sight physically pained her.

Cal took her hips in his hands, resting his forehead against her stomach. And she let him.

"Seleste," he said, his voice muffled by her skirts. "Tell me what you're thinking."

That she needed to leave. That they were not going to solve this to his liking. That she loved him more than anything in all the realms. That, perhaps, this was his destiny.

"I think Nadja and Achilles poisoned Pollock," she said instead.

Cal looked up at her, still gripping her waist. How could she put this in a way that would help him lay it to rest?

"I can't know for certain, but Nadja's tone…" She shook her head, running her nails lightly up and down the back of Cal's neck. "Her letter held a lot she was not saying. What if she and Achilles poisoned Pollock to stop him, but he'd already been slowly poisoning the others?"

His blue eyes were like a cloudless Summer sky. She could die a happy woman to look into them every day.

"Why was I not there, Seleste?" His voice broke, the weight of everything bearing down on him. "Why was I not on the list?"

For that, she had no answer. So, she shifted in his arms and sat on his lap. Then she kissed him with everything she had in her.