"So, none of you know where the lady has gone."
Jorgen tried to keep his tone in check. Under his gaze, the maids and guards stood rigidly, barely daring to breathe audibly.
"I've just returned from a murder scene. A blacksmith had his face smashed to pieces, his body torn into more than ten fragments. The person who did this is right here in the town, yet you let the lady go out alone like this. You're carrying out the tasks assigned by the council, treating this as a joke."
"The lady said she would be back soon..." one of the maids spoke up, "She just wanted to go out and get a sense of the town's atmosphere. She does this when she goes to other towns for fundraising events too."
She was the closest maid to Dalia. Although she couldn't meet Jorgen's eyes, she still stood straight, speaking from Dalia's perspective, nervously biting her lip.
"So, as her personal maid, you've allowed her to do this all along. Yes or no?"
"...Yes. But Lady Dalia told me to convey to you that she'll be fine and not to worry..."
"Very well, at least you remember to convey messages. When you return to Stormwind, your first task will be to pack your things and leave Lady Dalia's residence, and you won't be receiving a work recommendation letter. The others will also receive formal notices of punishment. I'm going to find Lady Dalia now. If she returns before I do, don't let her leave even half a step. Do you understand?"
Only the earlier maid didn't respond. She started crying softly.
Jorgen turned and walked downstairs. After delivering this reprimand, he found that what infuriated him the most was Dalia's own behavior. After the visit to Mistrmantle Manor, she couldn't possibly be unaware of Darkshire's danger or unaware that this would both anger him and greatly concern him. Messages like "I'll be fine, don't worry" were nothing short of dreamlike reassurances, sounding insincere and unrealistic, as if deceiving a child.
As Jorgen hurried down the stairs, the image of Bower's face, akin to the leftover scraps a butcher couldn't sell, the decorative fonts forming "lackey" and "nightmare" in the threatening letter, and the suspicious excitement in the eyes of the Darkshire townspeople who had followed and jeered the previous night, all these merged in his mind into a panoramic mural, and his consciousness became isolated within these wildly chaotic strokes. Jorgen realized he had also made a mistake, that of underestimating this place. It was a self-forced thought born out of such a state of mind, yet one he couldn't shake off.
He inquired at the inn's ground floor, asking the innkeeper and a few guests, but gained no information. He then proceeded to the stable, where he discovered Dalia had taken the horse meant for her. At the very least, Jorgen believed she hadn't been deceptive about the "coming back soon" part. He led his own horse out and was about to mount it when he saw Neralani approaching.
Unlike the previous night, she was dressed in simple, worn work clothes and carried a bucket of fodder in her right hand. She halted in front of Jorgen.
"Excuse me... Are you with the blonde lady?"
"I'm about to go find her. Do you have anything to tell me?"
"Indeed. I shouldn't have last night..."
Jorgen swung onto his horse. "I don't have time to discuss last night."
"...She asked me where Abercrombie lives."
"That alchemist who keeps a dog?"
"Yes. She instructed me not to tell anyone, but you seem rather anxious... I thought you were someone whose emotions wouldn't change, even last night."
Afterward, Jorgen asked her for Abercrombie's address.
"Thank you," Jorgen said, about to urge his horse forward when he suddenly remembered something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin, leaning down to hand it to Neralani. "This is what you deserve."
She hesitated. "It's too much."
"I don't have time. Take it."
Neralani set down the fodder bucket and used the two fingers of her left hand to pinch the bottom of the coin, but almost dropped it due to insufficient force. She quickly used her right hand to support it, letting the coin rest in her mud-streaked palm. After Jorgen left, she stood there for a while.
Before arriving at Abercrombie's house, Jorgen did his best not to think too much. As an investigator, he always had the habit of constantly asking "why" about various things, but he didn't want to approach Dalia's actions from that angle.
She had only met Abercrombie once before this, so why...
He forcibly stopped his thoughts at this point. If he continued thinking, he would attach the label "deception" to this matter according to his professional thinking, and decide whether to tear off or keep this label as more evidence emerged. He knew some people who didn't need labels attached to them, but all of them hadn't been involved in this journey. If he had to do this to Dalia, he would become utterly isolated in Darkshire Town. A chilly wind carrying the bewildered gazes of passersby stirred up a cloud of dust behind him.
Abercrombie's house sat atop a small mound on the outskirts of the town. From a distance, it looked like a wood and rusted tin shack in the midst of trees. Jorgen spotted Dalia's horse tied to a tree below the mound. After securing his own horse, he prepared to ascend the mound when an elderly woman from a neighboring house caught his hand.
"Wait, sir. Aren't you the gentleman from Stormwind? Are you here to arrest Abercrombie?"
In this situation, hindered but controlling his anger, Jorgen paid little attention to the elderly woman following behind him, muttering in disjointed syllables about how Abercrombie deserved to be taught a lesson and how her dog had gone missing last night, surely stolen by him. Because she received no response, she cursed under her breath and walked back.
As he reached the front of the house, Jorgen spotted Pick. The emaciated and scarred body of the dog lay on the ground, but upon noticing Jorgen, it stood up, emitting a hostile yet feeble growl. Jorgen couldn't understand what exactly Althea saw in this mongrel dog, constantly snatching away its care from Abercrombie.
Just as Jorgen was about to step over Pick and approach the entrance, Dalia emerged from the house, her right hand clutching her usual small handbag. Abercrombie followed, stooped, his hands rubbing together, his eyes showing a smile mixed with bloodshot purple veins.
"Thank you, thank you so much, my lady," he said. "I knew how kind-hearted you are. Please take care."
Dalia turned around and saw Jorgen, her eyes widening. Her hair and shoulders were dusted with some of the indoor grime. Before Dalia could speak, Jorgen approached and took her hand, leading her to the horses below the mound. After letting go of her hand, he left red marks on her wrist.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, I should have told you first, but..."
"Don't apologize to me. It never works, and I've heard that phrase way too many times lately. I'm asking, why are you here?"
"Do you remember what he said about his research? I gave him some money... his research is related to his wife's illness, and I've seen his wife, Eliza." Dalia seemed to recall something unpleasant, "Jorgen, I have to help. That woman is so pitiable."
"Is that all?"
"Right. Why would I lie to you? Let's go back now and not talk about this anymore, okay?"
As Dalia finished speaking, she moved to untie the reins of her horse.
This action made Jorgen start to think about why. This time, he couldn't interrupt his thoughts.
"If you want to help him, having the guards or servants send the money would be sufficient. Why come here alone and keep it a secret from everyone?"
"Because..."
She couldn't continue.
"Give me your handbag," Jorgen said. "I want to see what's inside."
Why did I say that?
"You don't have the right to do this." She stepped back.
"You traded something with him. Isn't that right?"
Wasn't I supposed to say I felt better knowing she was safe?
"No."
"Then let me check the handbag."
"I said no!"
Dalia's body almost leaned against the tree where the reins were tied. She held the handbag behind her with her right hand, and though her gaze was somewhat unstable, she didn't flinch from meeting Jorgen's eyes. Jorgen saw an undisguised defensive expression in her eyes—as if she were facing a stranger.
"Wait here," he left these words and went back to the front of the house, grabbing Abaklonby by the collar. Pick started barking.
"Mr. Jorgen, please let go of me," Abaklonby said. "What have I done wrong?"
"Dalia bought something from you. What was it?"
"It's, it's nothing... Don't make a big deal out of it..."
"It's better if you tell me yourself before I take action. It's for your own good."
"It's just... some extra alchemical materials and herbs. Cough, I'm already quite old, please don't do this... I won't be able to handle it."
Jorgen released his grip, and Abaklonby coughed a few times, deep purple veins appearing on his forehead.
"Dalia gave me ten gold coins, that's all, not more, Mr. Jorgen. Really. Am I being too greedy? Should I return some? But I really need this money... my wife... ah," he widened his eyes. "Eliza is calling me. Did you hear that, Mr. Jorgen? She's calling me 'Abby' over and over. I need to go back and take care of her."
Jorgen couldn't hear anything.
"Eliza, stop shouting! I'm talking to Mr. Jorgen!" Abaklonby turned back and shouted a few times into the dark corridor, then turned back to face Jorgen. "I'm really sorry, she's always like this... never knows the appropriate time. But I have to take care of her, Mr. Jorgen. Listen, she's shouting again..."
Jorgen still couldn't hear anything. He could only smell a damp, heavy stench coming from the corridor.
"It's none of your business anymore."
He walked down the hill and returned to Dalia's side. Her right hand propped up her cheek, she twisted her upper body, not looking at him.
"He said it was alchemical materials and herbs. Is that true?"
Silence.
"Answer me."
"Yes. Are you still going to search me?"
"No need, I believe you. Since he's the only alchemist in town... I also figured that these are probably the only things worth trading with him."
She didn't answer.
"Dalia." For a long time, Jorgen had never felt a sentence so difficult to utter. "Are you still working on creating poison?"
She finally turned to him, looking at him. From her expression, Jorgen couldn't detect a denial. Or rather, it was an acknowledgment that her denial wouldn't work, a gesture of giving up the right to argue.
For the first time, the woman who had always brought vibrancy and color to his surroundings in Jorgen's eyes fell into silence like a rock in a dormant volcano. This silence wasn't because she didn't want to communicate with him, but because she was afraid to communicate with him.
She's afraid. Afraid that I'll see her as a criminal. But I won't. Dalia, I won't.
"What's wrong?" she said. "Why aren't you pressing on? Isn't that what you're best at?"
"Dalia, you..." Jorgen felt as though a wisp of smoke had congealed in his throat and was churning. "I don't intend to ask you about your motives. Just... you shouldn't touch those things again. You really shouldn't. Dean wouldn't want to see these things. It's been almost ten years by next year..."
"Don't mention his name. Don't pretend that you're the only one who remembers how long the past has been, and don't use Dean as a shield."
"I didn't..."
Jorgen wanted to continue, but he saw a tear welling up in Dalia's right eye.
"You must think that saying this is for my good," Dalia's voice was like an ice cube clenched in a fist, slowly melting and dripping onto the uneven sand. "But using his name only makes your words sound pleasant. So, I won't allow you to say it. You've changed, Jorgen. I'm all too familiar with these tactics of control. No one can hold onto their own lives in your presence. Everyone has to open up their hearts and let you manipulate them as you please. You always say that the elderly have given up their control, but now I'm starting to believe you. Because," she said, "you're slowly replacing him."
This was the last thing Dalia said to Jorgen for a very long time.
He had no response.