Twilight crept into Storshallow like a cautious traveler, its dim purple light slanting in through half-drawn curtains and stained-glass panels, leaving odd geometries of shadow and color across the boarding house walls. Merlin had spent the afternoon busily pretending that all was perfectly normal, that he belonged here, and that he did not harbor the memory of having once died in an entirely different world. Now, as the sun slipped lower, the city's aura shifted—workers returned home along cobblestone streets, lamplighters began their rounds, and the hush of anticipation settled over the old quarters like a woven shawl.
Inside Halewick's boarding house, Merlin placed a steaming kettle on a low wooden table in the first-floor parlor. The parlor was cramped and a touch austere—no lavish carpets or plush sofas, only a few simple chairs and a crooked grandfather clock ticking softly in a corner. The newcomers expected this evening included a scholar from Rimvail, someone said to be serious-minded and particular about his lodgings. Mistress Halewick insisted everything be in order: linens crisp, lanterns bright, and no suspicious drafts. Merlin had polished the brass fittings that morning, and now every lantern burned with a steady, even glow.
He dared a glance at himself in a tarnished mirror above the mantel. A neat-but-worn vest, a decent shirt with an old-fashioned collar, and trousers just shy of threadbare. He tugged at the collar. He looked like a young man trying very hard to be unobtrusive—and that suited him fine. The best way to keep his secret was to blend in seamlessly. Let them see only a mild youth of nineteen, diligent and unremarkable, a cog in the machine of this house and this city. No one must ever suspect the strangeness beneath his calm exterior.
From the hall came the click of boots and the rustle of skirts. Annabelle drifted in, arms full of fresh linen. She wore a modest gown of pale blue and an apron that bore the faint scent of lavender soap. Her voice was soft as always, "I've fresh towels for the guest room upstairs. Has Betram fixed the lantern on the second-floor landing?"
Merlin nodded. "Yes, he did. It's burning steadily now." He kept his tone even, his words measured—precisely how this body's memories suggested he speak. Annabelle gave a small, approving dip of her chin and disappeared into the hallway, humming some half-remembered lullaby. In her wake, he caught the fragrance of chamomile and rose hips drying somewhere nearby.
He lingered, adjusting the kettle's position and listening. He could make out the muffled sound of Mistress Halewick issuing orders in the kitchen, her tone as sharp as a snapped twig. The boarding house stood in a district not far from the city's central thoroughfares, where elegant streets met warren-like alleys. Merlin's memories of this place were oddly vivid and yet incomplete. He knew the layout of the immediate neighborhood: the old clock tower to the east, the corner bakery with saffron buns, the tinker's shop reeking of hot metal. He recalled the sound of distant airship horns at dawn and the gentle churn of the canal waters beneath iron bridges. But what lay beyond these familiar corners was a haze of guesswork. There were places he had never visited, concepts he had never fully understood, fragments of rumor and legend lingering at the edges of his mind.
He found himself drawn to the window. Outside, lanterns were being lit by a lanky figure in a peaked cap. The lamp-lighter worked methodically, touching each streetlamp with a slender wand tipped with a shimmering stone. The flame ignited with an airy whoosh, casting golden halos onto damp pavement. Curiously, Merlin realized that this simple, everyday magic was as much a part of this world as electricity had been in his old life. It struck him that he had yet to see anything truly impossible—no tentacled horrors or whispering spirits—merely a different kind of ordinary. But the memory of overheard rumors crawled at the back of his mind: strange cults who prayed to gods older than the paved streets, artifacts that seeped madness into those who held them, and libraries that stored more than just ink and parchment. It was all out there, waiting.
A tap at the door startled him out of his reverie. Mistress Halewick entered the parlor, her posture rigid, her eyes keener than a hawk's. "Merlin," she began, her voice clipped. "Our guest, Master Wintrell of Rimvail, is expected at any moment. Fetch two glasses and a bottle of clover wine from the cellar. He specified that he dislikes beer. Make certain there's no dust on the bottle."
He bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Mistress." He slipped past her, noticing the fine lines around her mouth and the deliberate tightness of her posture. She was a woman who ran her establishment with military precision and did not suffer incompetence gladly. He suspected that Mistress Halewick knew every servant's mood by the angle of their shoulders, every boarder's temperament by the scuff on their boots. She had seen Merlin this afternoon, a bit pale, a bit off-kilter, and accepted his excuse readily enough—but he felt certain that too many oddities would stir her suspicions. He would remain careful and conventional.
In the cellar, the air turned musty and cool. A single candle burned on a sconce, illuminating rows of bottles and crates. His eyes adjusted quickly. He traced a finger along the racks, reading hand-scrawled labels: mulberry cordial, elderberry liquor, honeyed mead. At last he found what he needed: a green-glass bottle stamped with a clover motif, rimmed with dull gold. Perfect. He dusted it gently with his sleeve and retrieved two glasses of thin, fragile crystal. As he straightened, something moved in the dimness beyond the candle's reach—a slight rustle, like parchment sliding over wood. He froze, peering into the gloom.
"Betram?" he asked quietly, though he doubted the handyman would stand so quietly in the dark. Another faint sound emerged—perhaps just a shift in the old building's bones, or a rat scurrying among the crates. He frowned. The memories told him the cellar stored old ledgers, spare linens, jars of pickled vegetables, and a few oddities—the master's old trunk, an out-of-tune harpsichord. No mention of anything that would whisper or rustle. Still, old houses had their own personalities, and the hour was growing late. He could almost convince himself it was nothing. Almost.
With a careful step, he inched toward the sound. At the back of the cellar were dusty shelves and a locked cabinet. On the cabinet's door, he noticed a strange mark—three crescents arranged in a triangular pattern. It stirred another stray recollection: Eldara's sign, the goddess of the moon. He knew her symbol typically adorned shrines and amulets, but what was it doing down here in the boarding house cellar? He leaned closer, heart thumping. Was it the house's previous owner's doing? Did Mistress Halewick have some private devotion? Or maybe it was just old graffiti, meaningless now.
The air felt suddenly heavy, like a room too small for the secrets it held. He made a note to return another time, perhaps with a candle or a lantern, and inspect this mark more closely. For now, there were no footsteps, no voices—only a lingering hush and the faint tang of mold. Merlin exhaled and carefully made his way back upstairs.
The parlor felt warmer and more welcoming after the cellar's hush. Annabelle, now arranging a vase of autumn flowers, shot him a curious look as he re-entered. He kept his own expression neutral, setting the bottle and glasses on the sideboard. A moment later, the bell at the front door sounded—a delicate chime, nothing like the buzzers of his old world.
Annabelle disappeared into the front hall. Merlin heard low voices, the scrape of a suitcase on wood, and then footsteps approaching. In stepped Master Wintrell of Rimvail: a slender man with iron-grey hair swept back neatly, spectacles perched on a slightly hooked nose, and a cloak dripping with evening drizzle. He carried himself with a certain reserved dignity, his gaze assessing every detail of the room as if cataloging imperfections. He wore dark trousers, a crisp shirt, and a coat that hinted at foreign fashions—subtle embroideries and cuffs turned at an unusual angle.
Mistress Halewick followed him inside, her posture formal. "Master Wintrell, welcome. We have your room prepared as requested. Clover wine awaits, should you care for a glass."
He inclined his head, removing his spectacles and wiping them with a handkerchief. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and measured, as if each word had to meet a standard of exactness. "You are most kind, Mistress Halewick. I trust this establishment is as quiet and orderly as advertised."
She pressed her lips together, her eyes gleaming with pride. "Quiet, yes, and orderly, certainly. My staff are attentive and discreet. Allow me to introduce Merlin, one of my assistants."
Merlin bowed slightly. "Good evening, Master Wintrell," he said softly, choosing words that felt appropriately deferential. "Shall I pour you a glass?"
The scholar's eyes flicked over Merlin, as if appraising an artifact. "Yes, please. Just a half measure. I've come a long way, and I prefer to keep my head clear."
Merlin did as asked, pouring a modest amount of pale, sweet-smelling wine into a glass and handing it to Wintrell, who sipped delicately. The scholar's gaze roamed the room again, settling on the grandfather clock, the modest curtains, the brass lantern. At last, he nodded approvingly. "Functional. Unassuming. Good." He raised an eyebrow at Mistress Halewick. "I trust you can direct me to the city's libraries tomorrow? I have research to conduct."
"Certainly," she replied. "We can arrange a guide if you wish. Merlin here knows the streets well enough."
Merlin's heart fluttered—becoming this man's guide might mean discovering more of the city's secrets. Knowledge was what he needed most if he was to navigate this world. "I'd be honored," he said simply.
Wintrell sipped again, closing his eyes as if savoring the moment. "Rimvail's ports were stormy when I departed. Airship delays, mechanical failures… it's refreshing to find a place as steady as this boarding house. I trust I will not be disturbed by any… unusual occurrences?"
The way he said "unusual" caught Merlin's ear. It was as if Wintrell had encountered strange happenings before and was weary of them. Merlin imagined a scholar traveling through lands where whispers in old ruins grew too real, or tomes revealed truths best left hidden. The spark of curiosity flared within him. He was supposed to be nothing more than a helpful servant, but he couldn't help storing away each subtle hint of the world's darker corners.
Mistress Halewick, never one to indulge in oddities, stiffened slightly. "We pride ourselves on a calm environment, Master Wintrell. If you find anything amiss, do let me know immediately. Merlin, show him to his room."
Merlin took a candle from the sideboard and led the scholar upstairs. The footsteps resonated softly on the old steps. He could feel Wintrell's scrutiny on his back, like a scholar dissecting a text. On the landing, the newly fixed lantern glowed steadily, free from flicker. Merlin noticed a faint scent of machine oil and char, evidence of Betram's recent handiwork.
The guest room was tidy, if spartan: a narrow bed, a writing desk, a single chair, and a small window overlooking the adjacent rooftops. Wintrell set his valise down and moved immediately to the desk, sliding a hand across its surface to test for dust. Satisfied, he gave a curt nod. "This will do. I shall retire early, and I'll want breakfast at dawn—light but hot, with black tea if you have it."
"We do," Merlin replied. "I will see that it's prepared to your liking."
"Excellent." The scholar stood by the window now, peering at the night sky, where a single moon—the largest, silver and full—gleamed like an eye. After a moment, he spoke quietly, almost to himself, "It is always strange, returning to a place that feels old yet not ancient. Storshallow… I recall a distant rumor that beneath its cobblestones lie relics of forgotten eras. But then, every city claims such stories." His tone turned wry. "I trust we'll have no ghosts knocking about, yes?"
Merlin managed a polite smile. "I've never seen any, Master Wintrell."
Wintrell's lips curved faintly, as if amused by Merlin's careful reply. "Indeed. Good night, then." He turned away, dismissing Merlin with a subtle lift of his chin.
Merlin stepped back into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him. He paused for a moment, listening. The house had grown quieter—only the tick of the grandfather clock downstairs and the distant murmur of Annabelle and Mistress Halewick preparing for tomorrow's tasks.
As he made his way back down, he passed the lamp that Betram had fixed. Its steady glow offered reassurance, but Merlin's mind drifted back to the cellar and that odd mark on the cabinet door. He felt certain he would return there soon. Something about this world—this city—lurched in the depths, unseen. He should be content playing the part of a dutiful servant, but he was not. He had died once; now he lived anew in a place of subtle magics and hidden gods. He could not resist the pull of the unknown.
Before slipping into bed that night, Merlin stood at the window of his small room under the eaves and looked at the moon. It hung low and pale, casting a thin light over the rooftops. Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded softly—perhaps an airship signaling its arrival. He let his gaze wander, imagining what secrets lay in Storshallow's libraries, what Master Wintrell might uncover, what those cellar markings might mean.
Yes, he would keep his new life a secret. But he would also seek knowledge, quietly, patiently. Every candlelit corridor, every hushed whisper, every glimmer of arcane script might bring him closer to understanding this world's deeper currents. Outside, a gentle rain began to fall, pattering against the windowpane. Merlin smiled faintly, feeling strangely at peace in this unfamiliar body, in this unfamiliar place, as if fate had cast him into a grand story whose shape he could not yet discern.
He would watch. He would learn. And someday, perhaps, he would dare to lift the veil and see what lurked behind it.