Chapter Text
Surrounded by the scent of dust and the faint aroma of melting wax, you lurk in the academy’s library. What was once a sanctuary of solace now fails to provide the comfort you so desperately seek. In your hands, an envelope rests—its paper crisp and unmoved, despite the wear of its long journey. The wax seal bears the mark of a sharp V, devoid of ornamentation, one corner slightly crumpled, though you are certain you are the only one to notice.
Hidden among the towering rows of books, you grasp a letter knife, its blade gleaming faintly in the light of the candelabras. You regard it as though it were a life you were about to claim— as if it were not merely paper that would yield to your blade, but something far darker, its insides spilling only words, no organs to be bled.
Wincing, expecting red to spill from its violently torn mouth, nevertheless, you open the letter, still unbelieving that the V might mean what your mind has conjured. The paper inside is equally crisp, as though it had arrived directly from the pocket it was kept in, folded neatly, and its bloody insides glare at you in sharp, elegant strokes of a fountain pen.
13th of October 1851
Greetings,
I trust this letter finds you in good health, though it is with some urgency that I extend my proposal to you. I have been made aware of your commendable accomplishments in the field of linguistics, and I am of the belief that your expertise would prove invaluable for a certain task that I currently undertake.
Should you be amenable, I wish to offer you a temporary contract under the following terms:
A fair monetary payment, the sum of which can be discussed upon your acceptance.
Provision of food and shelter for the duration of your engagement.
The understanding that your services will be required until the task at hand is resolved.
This offer shall remain valid for a period of ten days from the receipt of this letter. After this period, the proposition will no longer stand, and I shall seek other avenues to fulfil the task.
Should you accept, I expect you at your earliest convenience.
Yours sincerely,
Viktor Velesny
You read the letter thrice, your hands trembling ever so slightly as you unfurl its edges, the sharp, crisp folds of parchment yielding to your touch. The words blur, then sharpen in your vision, each stroke of ink etching itself deeper into your mind with every passing glance. The third reading is out loud, your voice sounding foreign to you, hoarse and thick from hours of silence in the library. You had feared opening it for seven days, dread mingling with an eagerness you could not wholly suppress. The envelope, now empty of its contents, still weighed heavily in your palm. With only three days left, you knew tonight was the last opportunity to make a decision. You could either close the book on it entirely or surrender yourself to whatever unknown awaited you at his mansion.
For days you had worked relentlessly, pushing your research on ancient Greek texts to its absolute limits, your fingers aching from the effort. But it had not been clairvoyance that drove you to finish; no, it was the whispers that travelled faster than any letter. Gossip—blistering, scalding gossip—had swept through the academic halls like wildfire, and the tale of Viktor Velesny seeking external aid, however vague and fleeting, had reached your ears before he’d even put ink to parchment. The notion of this strange request—coming from a man whose reputation already stirred both dread and intrigue—had made its way to you before you even realised it.
You pointed a figurative finger to three other colleagues, even though you knew, deep down, that this particular invitation would ultimately find its way to you. It had to. As it arrived, your heart quickened in a strange mixture of fear and excitement, your colleagues' inquisitive eyes watching, perhaps with the faintest trace of envy or disbelief. Some were astonished at your consideration, others appalled you hadn't immediately leapt at the opportunity. That look—the one that lingered long after they caught wind of this peculiar summons—reminded you of the well-known truth: people were intrigued by the unknown, yet they feared it just the same.
And Viktor Velesny? The subject of this gossip? His reputation preceded him like a ghost, each whisper darker than the last.
Some spoke of him as a conman, a trickster who built his name on the broken backs of others’ credulity. He was said to be a charlatan, one who sold illusions of grandeur, pretending at knowledge he did not possess, preying on those desperate enough to trust his word. He was known to swindle patrons with false promises, only to disappear as swiftly as he’d arrived, leaving behind a trail of victims too ashamed to speak of their losses. His name was tied to failed endeavours, to reputations destroyed, to whispered accusations of dishonesty that always seemed to vanish into thin air, just as quickly as they were spoken.
Others, however, viewed him as a mad scientist, a delusional visionary whose fevered mind spun tales of grandiose ambition. The more extreme among his critics claimed he was a man who flirted with the very edge of reason, throwing his humanity aside for the sake of uncovering the forbidden knowledge that could undo the natural laws themselves. His obsession with the occult, with science, with all things esoteric and unnatural, bordered on madness. They spoke of experiments gone awry, of strange and twisted works that few dared to witness. Was he truly a genius, or was he simply a madman too lost in his own pursuit of the unknown?
And then there were the darker rumours—the faintest voices murmuring of a man of no honour, a man who would descend into the deepest circles of hell to fulfil his sickening ambitions. Dangerous. Delusional. A man who had supposedly sold his very soul to the devil in exchange for powers beyond mortal comprehension. Few dared to speak these words aloud, for to do so was to risk their reputation—or worse, their very sanity. Those who whispered of his brilliance did so in hushed tones, almost afraid that the mere utterance of his name would invite calamity. Some believed he was more than human, that he had crossed a threshold no one should ever cross, and that to aid him was to invite a curse upon oneself.
Your cheek is relentlessly chewed, your lips reddened from being constantly pressed together as you try to read this mysterious man’s intentions, deciphering them only from the curvature of the letters he’s bled in ink. From what you can comprehend, this is a linguistic investigation into something he cannot complete on his own. The unknown time frames for the endeavour unnerve you especially, but what excites you—this feeling crowns over all others—is the challenge.
An opportunity like that comes perhaps once in a lifetime, and the thought of spending another couple of decades—if you were so lucky—waiting for another after letting this one slip from your grasp fills you with no hope.
With trembling fingers, you dip the pen into the ink jar and scribble only a few words, the quiver in your hand preventing you from writing more.
20th of October 1851
Dear Mr. Velesny,
I accept.
Yours sincerely,
Jane Hathorne
Your name is signed with a flourish countering Viktor’s reserve with letters. Then, you blow out the candles and call for a messenger.
***
You spend the following day wrapping up last-minute errands and packing your trunk. The woman in you mourns all the garments you cannot fit, while the researcher side scolds her, insisting on taking as many books and papers as possible. They eventually reach a compromise by introducing another trunk to your previously planned, limited inventory.
It is only when you are about to step into the carriage that one of your colleagues comes running into the rain after you. The sound of your name echoes across the academy courtyard, and a few heads twist on their necks as eyes snap and ears perk up, eager to drink in the latest gossip.
“Have I forgotten something?” you ask, startled.
“No, I—” John, one of the few souls kind enough not to talk behind your back, stumbles out of the building’s mouth, chasing after you as if his life depends on it. “Are you certain you wish to go?”
“Oh. Yes, quite certain.”
“What if—” He hesitates, eyes darting with concern.
“What if? Do you fear for my health?”
“I’ve heard terrible things about him, you know,” he says, voice low but urgent.
“You and me both,” you reply with a sardonic smile. “And great things. And absolutely ridiculous things. So, if half of everything is true, he adds up to an utterly mediocre man.”
John looks unsure, wringing his hands as the rain soaks his coat. “Will you write?”
“Weekly. I will,” you promise, forcing a more reassuring smile. “You needn’t worry.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but finally nods, his concern still written across his face. “I’ll hold you to that.”
With a final nod, you step into the carriage, leaving behind the academy—and John’s worried gaze—just as the rain begins to fall heavier. In its warm cloister, you drown in what you do best—research.
The texts before you vary in nature, some profoundly enlightening, others more dubious in their claims. There are scientific treatises, dense and methodical, dissecting the latest advancements in physiology and human anatomy—works penned by Viktor himself, sharp and logical, written with a mind that had clearly observed and analysed the minutiae of life with a surgeon's precision. You find his approach to medicine both bold and exhilarating, especially in his attempts to bridge the gap between the known and the unknown.
Interspersed with these are his more obscure writings, some of which veer into the realms of the occult. One text, On the Nature of the Soul and Its Astral Travels, delves into theories of spiritual manifestations and possession—strange, perhaps, but compelling in its rational structure. Another, The Resurrection of the Dead: The Theory of Reanimation, blends pseudoscience with arcane knowledge, positing that the key to immortality lies in unlocking the hidden potentials of the human body, a claim that strains credulity, yet has an undeniable allure.
Alongside these, you pore over an assortment of occult texts that were allegedly penned under Viktor’s tutelage or at least influenced by his growing fascination with the supernatural. The Aether and Its Influence on the Material World, written in florid prose, is far less scientific than his medical texts, but nonetheless an intoxicating read. You find yourself drawn to the rhythm of the language, and even as you question the plausibility of the claims within, you cannot help but be captivated by the intensity of the author's convictions.
And then there are the darker ones—tales of demonology, possession, and the dead who walk amongst us. The Unseen World: The Threshold Between Life and Death is a chilling account of the various occult practices that Viktor had reportedly studied, exploring ghostly apparitions and the interaction between the living and the dead. Some of it makes sense, neatly fitting into the framework of what you know of the natural world. But others… well, they stretch the boundaries of reason so far that they threaten to snap.
What connects them all, however, is their sheer passion. The fervour with which they are written grips you, pulling you deeper into the labyrinth of Viktor's thoughts and obsessions. Whether grounded in science or swirling in the more dubious realms of the supernatural, each text is a window into a mind that pursues knowledge with an almost feverish determination, unafraid to venture into realms others might consider madness. You find yourself lost in them, turning page after page, unable to pull away from the intense, consuming brilliance that flows through every sentence.
Impressed, is what you are at first. As a linguist, of course, most of all, you admire his ability with words, drawing his reader right into the realms of his mind. Intimidated, comes second, as Viktor begins to grow in your thoughts into a man who will indeed stop at nothing to satiate his passion and curiosity.
One of the treaties bears a picture—it is a portrait of Viktor, you presume. His expression is intense, almost ferocious in its focus, the kind of look that suggests he is not just observing the world, but dissecting it with a hunger that goes beyond simple understanding. His eyes are bright, sharp, as if they could see straight through to the very marrow of things, and they stare out of the page with an unsettling intensity. His features are aristocratic—high cheekbones, a square jaw, and sharply defined nose with a slight curve to it. His dark hair is neatly combed back, but there is a wildness to the way it catches the light, as if it rebels against being tamed, much like its owner. Two dark spots mark his face, decorating his undereye, and oh—his lips. Those you don’t dare to look at for too long.
The portrait captures him in an almost unnatural stillness, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. His posture is upright, rigid, a man of discipline. Yet, his hands—gloved, resting on a cane—seem poised on the verge of motion. The background is dimly lit, offering no distractions, leaving Viktor’s imposing figure to dominate the frame. The entire picture is bathed in shadow, except for a faint light that seems to follow the contour of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features and the gleam in his eyes.
It's a haunting image. An impression of a man driven by something darker, deeper—an insatiable desire for knowledge, perhaps, or something far more dangerous. There is an undeniable allure in the way he is depicted, a magnetic pull that you cannot put a finger on.
You trace a gloved touch through the paper, trying to read more into it. Your heart flutters when the carriage jolts over a cat’s head, and the parchment falls from your hand. With your mind full of ideas and presumptions, you decide to lean against the window and spend the rest of your journey memorizing the images flashing past.
And those, too, grow progressively more unfamiliar. The landscape outside the window unfolds like a painting, drenched in the muted light of the fading afternoon. The sky, heavy with brooding clouds, casts a pallor over the earth, as though the very air trembles in anticipation of something inevitable. The fields roll in endless waves of withered grass, their once-vibrant green now a weary brown, hanging on to life with a final breath before the frost comes to claim them. The hills, distant and indifferent, stretch out like weary bones, sloping gently, only to fall into a vast, oppressive nothingness—a barren, lifeless expanse that stretches endlessly before you. The land seems to sag under its own weight, as if the very earth itself has given up hope, awaiting the final kiss of winter's cold embrace.
The gloom thickens, devouring what little warmth remains in the air, until the world outside becomes a blank canvas—void, desolate, and endless. In the midst of this eerie silence, a dark shape slowly begins to emerge on the horizon, its form rising like a spectre from the desolation. A shadow, strong and commanding, breaks the monotony of the emptiness—the shape of Viktor’s home. Its silhouette looms against the darkening sky, an imposing presence rising out of the desolation, a dark monument to something unknown. Its walls, heavy with the weight of secrets, stand like a watchful sentry, ready to consume you whole.
It stands alone—a place that seems to absorb the very light around it, as if it exists in a perpetual twilight. The closer it draws, the more foreboding it becomes, pulling you into its vast, dark heart. And as the carriage moves ever closer, you wonder if the land itself, stretching out in weary despair, is simply a reflection of what lies within.
Your chin slides off your hand as the carriage approaches the main gates. A tall, stiff butler steps out, holding a black umbrella, ready to escort you the ten steps that part you from your future. He keeps his gaze lowered as he walks toward the vehicle, opens the door for you, and—before greeting you—swings the umbrella open.
“My lady,” he says, bowing his head. “Allow me to escort you. Master Velesny awaits you.”
“Oh, I take it the messenger got here safely?” you ask, taking his hand as you step out of the carriage onto the muddy ground.
“Yes, and he arrived with haste, for which Master Velesny is grateful,” the butler replies with practiced politeness and signals to two young footmen to take care of your bags. “I see you come prepared, my lady. Allow the boys to handle your luggage.”
“Ah, yes, forgive me—I couldn’t decide which books would be useful,” you say, neglecting to mention that one trunk is, in fact, full of velvets, not books. “May I ask your name?” you say, craning your neck, trying to take the house in.
Beyond the rim, the mansion looms—a stark silhouette against the slate-grey sky. Its façade, once grand, is softened by time; ivy clings to the stone, withered by autumn’s touch, its skeletal tendrils retreating from the ornate window frames. The first floor boasts tall, pointed arch windows, their leaded glass darkened by the overcast day. Above, a row of smaller lancet windows punctuates the steeply pitched roofline, lending the structure a solemn air. At its highest point, a narrow tower rises—a third level in miniature—its presence lending the house an air of quiet vigilance rather than menace. A pair of weathered statues flank the entrance, their faces softened by rain and years, watching as you step forward.
“Certainly, my lady. My name is Algernon Griffiths, and I have been in Master Velesny’s service for many years.” Butler’s voice makes your head snap back. He talks with pride as the rain drums against the stretched black membrane, and ensures you remain completely shielded from the drops, though his own shoulder is undoubtedly gathering dampness. “I am at your service whenever you may need me as well.”
“Thank you, Algernon, that’s—” You pause as you both step through the main door.
The hall is… intimidating and impressive at once. Something vaguely unsettling nestles in your throat at the strange shadows cast by the flickering candelabras, and you notice that not all of them are lit. Some remain empty of candles, while others hold fresh, unused wax, presumably reserved for the evening hours. Yet even in the husky daylight of this gloomy day, the space remains dark.
The ceiling stretches high above your head, where a wrought-iron chandelier hangs, its spiked ornamentation promising a clean kill to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing beneath it should it fall from its hook.
A curved double staircase straddles the far end of the hall, its dark wooden steps worn down at the edges near the winding handrail. The floor beneath your feet is polished to such a gloss that every sound bounces off it. And indeed, it is not the beauty of this space that has made you gasp, but the suffocating silence that presses against your ribs like a held breath.
“Master awaits you in the study, my lady,” Algernon urges gently, noticing your hesitation. “I assure you that you will be given a proper tour of the house and introduced to all the staff, but I’m afraid Mr. Velesny has insisted on escorting you upstairs as soon as you arrive.”
“Oh, certainly. Forgive me, it’s all very—” You gulp down the stale air and force a smile. “Enchanting.”
He nods, unimpressed, passes the umbrella to a footman, and extends his hand, motioning you up the staircase.
Your footsteps echo as you ascend, the creak of the worn wooden steps swallowed by the hush of the house. The balustrade curves beneath your gloved fingertips, polished but old, its edges softened by time and touch. The hall above yawns before you, lined with closed doors and dim sconces casting long, flickering shadows against the wallpaper—dark green, its pattern faded, some places curling at the seams.
The air is scented with books, wax and smoke, as if the house itself has been holding its breath for years. Your skirt brushes against the wooden floor, and the fabric's whisper is the only sound apart from the occasional groan of the planks beneath your feet.
At last, you reach a heavy wooden door, already ajar. Inside, dim afternoon light filters through the tall window, throwing pale, skeletal patterns across the floor. The scent of parchment and ink lingers here, richer, untainted by the cold draft of the corridor.
Algernon knocks anyway, his knuckles rapping lightly against the wood. “Master Velesny,” he announces, “your guest has arrived.”
Viktor stands by the window, his back to the door, gazing out into the grey afternoon. He does not turn fully, only angles his head, revealing his profile—sharp, as you’ve expected.
“Thank you, Algernon. That will be all for now.”
It is the sound that catches you off guard—something neither his writings nor the picture you studied in the carriage could have prepared you for. Heavy, thick, a slow roll of his tongue as it wraps around the vowels, his accent settling into the room tangibly. It complements his visage perfectly, and suddenly, you are grateful for the house’s silence, allowing his voice to echo undisturbed.
With a polite nod, Algernon steps back, retreating down the hall. The door closes with a soft click, sealing you inside the study.
As soon as it does, his shoulders slacken, and he turns to face you. His hands, bare, rest atop the handle of a cane. His stance is uneven, weight shifted onto one leg, his hips set at an angle beneath a pair of tightly fitted high-waisted trousers. A ruby velvet vest, its surface pressed with winding patterns, hugs his chest, and beneath it, a crisp white shirt peeks through. No cravat, you note—his high collar instead nudges against the sharp line of his jaw.
His throat peaks from thick material—a long, pale column, crowned by a chin that hangs low from his cheeks. His face is all sharp planes and hollowed angles, the skin stretched over pronounced bones beneath deep, sunken eyes. His brows, thick and furrowed, lend him an air of permanent concentration as he studies you—or, at least, you presume that he does.
And his eyes—oh. No picture, dulled in shades of grey, could have prepared you for them. Two rings of amber glide over your body, sharp and bright, like mead set aflame. Embarrassed, you drop your gaze, and it lands on his leg, hugged tightly by a contraption of metal and leather.
You shift, rid yourself of your cape, and wrap it around your forearms, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his gaze. If there are thoughts stirring behind those eyes, he does not betray them. His expression remains unreadable, sculpted into something close to stone.
"You took your time to reply," he says finally, blinking as slowly as an owl would. His voice curls around each syllable, daring.
"I... I had to run some errands before accepting," you reply, forcing yourself to maintain his gaze. Then, steadying your breath, you add, "I have met the deadline, have I not?"
"You have, for which I am grateful," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower. He takes a few measured steps toward you, graceful, you notice. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for your hand, fingers cool as they close around yours. He lifts it to his lips, the warmth of his breath pressing through the fabric of your glove.
"It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, my lady," he mutters against your knuckles, eyes still locked onto yours when lips come to press against the thin leather.
"Have we met in the spirit, then, without my knowledge?" you ask, your voice lighter than you intend, a thread of uncertainty winding through it.
His lips curl into the shadow of a smirk. "Ah, if you wish to go that far," he muses, rising and tilting his head, yet not letting go of your palm. "I am familiar with your work. And if I allow myself some presumptions"—his thumb brushes briefly along the side of your hand—"such as this: if you are as meticulous in your spirit as you are in your craft, then I would expect you have done your share of research on me." His eyes glint. "Therefore, our spirits have met. Metaphorically, of course."
"Bold of you to presume this much, Mr. Velesny," you counter, though there is no denying the way his words have wound their way beneath your skin. Presumptuous and cunning, this man has your curiosity piqued.
"Have you expected me to be anything but?" His lips quirk at one corner, the ghost of amusement there before it fades into something gentler. "And please—call me Viktor."
You speak your name in response, and the moment it leaves your lips, his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours. A slow squeeze. He smiles then, small but certain, as if tasting victory in the syllables.
Then, your hand is free, and Viktor turns toward the desk. Only now do you take in the room as it is—a cavernous space, dim, just as the rest of the house. Heavy drapes of deep burgundy frame mullioned windows, drawn back just enough to let in a reluctant sliver of day.
To your left, a fireplace yawns, unlit, its carved mantel adorned with a single brass candelabrum and a clock that ticks with an unsettling steadiness. The dark wood panelling along the walls bears the weight of countless bookshelves, their spines pressed tightly together, some worn to near illegibility, others pristine, their gilt titles catching what little light the room allows.
Viktor’s desk, positioned near the window, is a grand but cluttered thing—an ocean of scattered papers, maps, and instruments of his trade, the chaos strangely at odds with the meticulousness of the man himself. An oil lamp with a green glass shade casts a dull glow over the mess, illuminating the glint of a letter opener resting atop a half-folded letter.
A chair sits across from his own, clearly set for you. “Take a seat, please. This won’t take long,” Viktor says, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “You must be weary from your travels. I will leave the debrief for tomorrow, but I would like you to take a look at what we are dealing with.”
The we rings pleasantly in your ears—infuriatingly so—as you gather your skirts and lower yourself onto the chair. The leather creaks softly beneath you. Viktor does not sit. Instead, he leans over you, one hand braced on the cane, the other pointing a long, precise finger at the papers sprawled before you. His proximity is unexpected, his scent even more so—fresh, unadorned, untouched by perfume or powder. Like moss in an undisturbed forest. Freshwater drawn from a deep spring. Skin sunbathed and warm.
An insistent tap of his finger against the desk pulls you from your daze. You blink and focus on the papers. Letters—familiar yet unplaceable—are scrawled across countless sheets, some rough and uncertain, others more refined, as if Viktor had been attempting to capture them with increasing accuracy.
“This… looks like some proto-Slavic dialect,” you say slowly, tracing the edge of a page with your fingertip. Your brow furrows. “Forgive my bluntness, but have I wrongly assumed your accent to be Slavic?”
“Not at all. I am,” Viktor confirms, his voice smooth and clipped. His gaze flicks to the documents. “But this is no known language to me. I am at my wit’s end. Otherwise, I would not be calling for aid, as you may know.”
You nod, intrigued. “I have brought some books with me. We could compare sources tomorrow?”
“That would be perfect,” he says dryly, as if he’s expected you to do exactly that.
“How did you come across this?” you ask, glancing up at him.
“I was called upon for a job. Usual business. Seemed like a mediocre haunting at first.”
“Mediocre?” You tilt your head. “Are you truly this well-versed in ghosts, Viktor?”
His lips twitch, but it is not quite a smile. “Ah. By mediocre, I mean possibly a con,” he corrects. He shifts, standing upright again, his hands folding over the handle of his cane. “A family member trying to scare their relatives. A neighbour hoping to chase people away from valuable land. Hauntings of that sort are what I usually come across.”
“Usually, but not always?” you ask, studying him.
“Not always,” he replies offering nothing more.
“So… are you a myth buster, then?” you tease, watching him closely.
“No,” he says without hesitation, his golden eyes locking onto yours. “I am a truth seeker.”
His gaze is sharp—challenging—but something beneath it feels measured, a shield. You sense a restraint in him, a man who has learned to temper his own excitement, to speak in careful tones that reveal nothing. And you wonder—when was the last time he had the opportunity to speak with someone as an equal?
“But I suppose you have heard many names granted to me,” he continues, tone even. “A con man. A devil worshiper. A mad scientist.”
“I’ve also heard of your brilliance,” you offer quietly
“Ah,” his lips curve, knowing. You hope he doesn’t read it as a pity. “And which one do you think to be true?”
“I do not know yet.” You hold his gaze. “I suppose I will have to find out for myself?”
“That you will, hopefully.” He exhales, straightening, the flicker of an expression unknown to you vanishing as he retreats behind composure once more. “I shall keep you no longer. Algernon will give you a short tour and escort you to your rooms. Your luggage should already be there.”
It’s a gentle but firm dismissal, and soon after, Algernon returns, inclining his head and ushering you politely through the study door.
As he guides you down the dimly lit corridor, his steps are even, his voice smooth and practiced. “I shall show you the most necessary rooms first. There will be time for a proper exploration tomorrow, but for tonight, I believe you will wish to settle in, my lady.”
The first door he gestures toward reveals a vast library, lined floor to ceiling with shelves of aged leather-bound tomes. A single chandelier sways faintly above, its candlelight flickering against dark wood and gold filigree. A sturdy desk sits by the window, and near the hearth, two deep armchairs face one another, waiting for occupants who never came. The scent of dust fills the air.
Next is the music room. Though smaller than the library, it holds an air of quiet grandeur. A grand piano dominates the centre, its polished surface reflecting the dim light. A violin and cello rest nearby, their strings long untouched, and in the corner, a harp stands draped with a fine sheet, as if to protect it from time itself.
“The guest quarters are also on this floor,” Algernon notes, leading you past a series of doors. “Though I do not expect they will be occupied anytime soon.” He moves along without pausing.
Descending the staircase, the house’s shadows stretch in strange ways, the flickering sconces offering little comfort against the vastness of the halls. The dining room is stately yet stark—long enough to seat far more than its apparent master keeps for company. The drawing room, in contrast, is lived-in, with a decanter of dark amber liquid resting on a side table, books left slightly out of place on a chaise, and a few logs stacked beside the fireplace.
At last, Algernon stops by a set of wide glass doors leading into the winter garden. The panes are fogged, obscuring what lies beyond, but the skeletal shapes of vines press against the glass. “You may visit the garden tomorrow during daylight,” he says, his voice lowering slightly. “But not tonight. The day has been especially dark.”
His words are peculiar, but you say nothing.
When you come back one storey, Algernon points to another set of stairs, far less impressive than the main staircase. “The master’s chambers are upstairs,” he states simply, and you wonder why on earth Viktor would choose to climb two stories daily when he clearly uses the cane not only as an accessory.
As you continue, one door remains conspicuously closed, and Algernon makes no mention of it, his stride never faltering.
Instead, he turns to you. “The household staff is minimal but sufficient. A maid will attend to you in the mornings and evenings, should you require assistance.”
At last, he stops before your own quarters and steps aside, allowing you to enter first.
Your bedroom is unexpectedly inviting, with a large canopy bed draped in heavy fabric, its dark wood carved with intricate detailing. A fireplace rests along one wall, unlit, but stacked with fresh logs. A writing desk sits beneath a wide window, its curtains drawn, and across from it, a modest yet elegant wardrobe stands ready for use. A faint scent of lavender lingers in the air—perhaps a lingering touch from the maid who prepared it for you.
Algernon lingers just outside. “Dinner is served at six. If you require anything further, do not hesitate to ring.” A pause, then with a slight bow, he departs, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality.
And for the first time since your arrival, you are alone.
Wasting no time, you sit on the bed and kick your shoes off. You sigh deeply and heavily, stacking the events of today in your head. Viktor is... nothing and everything you expected. Driven, yes. Eager, even more than you anticipated. And still, he manages to remain reserved, as if torn between reaching out and closing in on himself. A sadness of some kind lingers around him, but you try to withhold your pity. Is he the demon they paint him to be, or the genius you wish him to be? You do not know, but you itch to find out.