The iron gate creaked softly as it swung inward, revealing a gravel pathway lined with meticulously trimmed hedges. The scent of jasmine and fresh grass drifted over the carriage as Merlin stepped down and then held the door open for Master Wintrell. The scholar's polished boots crunched lightly on the gravel as he surveyed the estate with a practiced eye. Merlin followed half a step behind, keeping his posture respectful and alert.
They approached the house: a three-story structure built from creamy limestone blocks, each carefully fitted to form a symmetrical façade. Cornices adorned with carved floral motifs caught the sunlight, and tall, mullioned windows reflected the manicured gardens. A pair of broad steps led up to a double door of varnished oak, each panel carved with a scene of winged creatures circling a crescent moon. Polished brass handles gleamed, and next to them, a discreet plaque bore the owner's name: Marnell Viscounti, Antiquarian and Collector.
Wintrell adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal coat and glanced at Merlin. "Viscounti is said to have artifacts from half a hundred realms. Some claim he possesses fragments of old tablets that mention Eldara in ways the official histories never acknowledge." His voice was measured, but anticipation lurked beneath its calm surface.
Merlin nodded, recalling what he knew of collectors: they tended to be people of refined taste, their attires and manners reflecting wealth and erudition. They also guarded their knowledge fiercely. "Shall I remain silent unless spoken to, Master Wintrell?" he asked quietly.
The scholar considered the question. "For now, yes. Observe and learn. If I require your input, I'll let you know." With that, Wintrell raised a gloved hand and rapped the brass knocker—a stylized owl—twice.
Moments later, the door opened inward. A servant in a dark green waistcoat and immaculate white gloves greeted them. He was tall and slender, with neatly combed blond hair and a face free of expression save for polite welcome. "Master Viscounti awaits you in the main salon," he said in a voice that balanced deference and quiet confidence.
Inside, the entry hall spread out beneath a soaring ceiling painted in soft, muted frescoes: a sky of pastel blues and gold-kissed clouds. Marble floors gleamed, and tall potted ferns stood like sentinels at intervals. A subtle fragrance of sandalwood incense drifted through the space, mingling with the faint click of Wintrell's cane as he followed the servant. Merlin, trailing behind, took in every detail: the fineness of the polished banister on the curving staircase, the way light filtered through stained-glass panels set high in the walls, the subdued conversation that murmured behind distant doors.
They were led along a corridor lined with portraits—solemn-faced individuals in elegant attire. Merlin noted subtle details: one painting showed a figure holding a three-lobed artifact that might have been a ceremonial disk; another depicted an airship framed by crescent moons. Soft carpets muted their footsteps until the corridor ended at a pair of double doors slightly ajar, from which warm light and a low hum of voices emerged.
"Master Wintrell," announced the servant as he pushed open the doors, "your host awaits."
The salon was a spacious drawing room with tall windows overlooking a pond in the rear garden. Autumn leaves drifted across the water's surface, their reflection shifting gently. Inside, several chairs and settees, upholstered in subdued brocades, formed intimate seating areas. Tables of polished mahogany displayed small sculptures under glass domes, curious old instruments, and fragments of maps pinned under protective boards. Lamps with tasseled shades cast a soft glow, and a fireplace at one end burned with a slow, steady flame, imparting a comfortable warmth.
Marnell Viscounti stood near the center of the room, engaged in quiet conversation with another guest. The collector was a man in his fifties, with a neatly trimmed goatee and dark, wavy hair streaked lightly with silver. He wore a tailored frock coat of deep burgundy, embroidered at the cuffs and collar with subtle, twisting patterns. A silk cravat, pinned with a brooch carved into a stylized compass rose, added a touch of scholarly elegance. His posture conveyed ease and confidence, and when he turned to greet Wintrell, his dark eyes sparkled with polite curiosity.
"Master Wintrell," Viscounti said, extending a hand. His voice carried a gentle accent, each word pronounced as if savoring the language's texture. "A pleasure. I've heard you seek knowledge of obscure histories. Come, sit. May I offer you a cordial? I have a cranberry infusion that pairs well with contemplative discussion."
Wintrell shook the collector's hand, nodding smoothly. "You are most gracious. Yes, that would be welcome." He gestured for Merlin to stand by a side table, out of the direct conversation circle but within earshot. Merlin took his place quietly, hands clasped, eyes attentive.
Viscounti guided Wintrell to a pair of armchairs near a low table. Another guest—a woman dressed in a moss-green gown with intricate lace trim—drifted away, giving them privacy. She wore half-moon spectacles and carried a notebook pressed protectively to her chest, as if reluctant to share her thoughts. Merlin caught a glimpse of a faint scowl on her face as she departed toward the far end of the room.
With a subtle command, Viscounti summoned a servant who poured two glasses of a ruby-colored cordial from a crystal decanter. Wintrell accepted one, inhaling its aroma thoughtfully before taking a sip. Then he leaned forward, posture engaged but controlled. "I'm told you have relics and documents that outstrip even the official collections of the Eightfold Library. I'm particularly interested in anything relating to lunar cults, artifacts associated with Eldara, or the old shrines that once dotted Storshallow's landscape."
At the mention of such topics, Viscounti's expression grew more guarded, though still cordial. "One hears rumors, Master Wintrell. Artifacts passed down through clandestine lineages, manuscripts that survived purges and wars. These things do not parade themselves openly. They demand trust and discretion."
Wintrell smiled thinly, meeting the collector's gaze steadily. "I am not a man who seeks attention. My aim is purely scholarly. Should I locate an item of interest, I would pay well for access. Knowledge is precious, and I understand the value of privacy."
Viscounti swirled his cordial, eyes drifting momentarily to Merlin as if to gauge the assistant's presence. Merlin remained impassive, a living statue carved from politeness. Satisfied, the collector nodded. "I may have something that intrigues you: a partial palimpsest, said to contain fragments of a liturgy once recited by Eldara's devotees. It's incomplete and difficult to interpret, but… fascinating."
Wintrell leaned forward. "A liturgy? Could it mention the triple-crescent symbol, or rituals linked to lunar phases?"
Viscounti's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Oh, it does indeed mention crescents and phases—though in cryptic terms. Words like 'Ethereal Veil' and 'Silent Chorus' appear. The language is archaic, blending dialects I haven't fully deciphered. I've tried to have it studied by linguists, but they cannot agree on a complete translation."
Merlin's pulse quickened at these hints. The Ethereal Veil—something he had begun to sense lurking behind the city's ordinary façade. He wondered if this palimpsest could shed light on the missing manuscript at the library, or the strange noises in the boarding house cellar. Still, he said nothing, keeping his features serene.
Wintrell set his glass down, eyes bright with scholarly hunger. "I must see it. Name your conditions."
Viscounti tapped a finger against the arm of his chair thoughtfully. "You understand, this is not something I show every guest. I would require a demonstration of your seriousness—perhaps a deposit, or an item of equal rarity you might trade. I'm not merely a custodian of curiosities, Master Wintrell; I am their guardian, ensuring they do not fall into unworthy hands."
Wintrell dipped his chin, considering. "I can provide a suitable guarantee. Also, if you need references, I maintain correspondences with reputable scholars in Rimvail and beyond."
Viscounti inclined his head. "Very well. We shall arrange a private viewing tomorrow evening. Until then, rest assured that what I hold may answer some of your questions—or pose new ones."
At that, the two men fell into lighter conversation, each probing the other's knowledge gently, like fencers testing an opponent's stance. Merlin observed the shifting glances, the careful smiles. This was a dance of intellect and secrecy. He had no doubt that both men understood the stakes.
As the meeting wound down, Viscounti rose, and Wintrell followed. The collector glanced once more at Merlin, perhaps curious about the silent presence at Wintrell's side. "Your assistant is quite disciplined," he remarked. "That is good. In these circles, discretion is more than a virtue; it's a currency."
Merlin offered a slight bow. "I am here to serve, sir."
The collector smiled faintly. "Of course." Then, addressing Wintrell again, "I shall send a messenger with details of tomorrow's arrangements. Until then, Master Wintrell."
Wintrell thanked him, and Merlin trailed behind as they departed the salon. The servant escorted them back to the foyer and out onto the gravel path. The mechanical carriage waited silently, the driver adjusting a gear with a small brass wrench as they approached.
Once inside the carriage, rolling back toward the heart of Storshallow, Wintrell closed his eyes, his expression thoughtful. "A palimpsest," he murmured. "If genuine, it might contain keys to understanding not just the city's past, but the nature of these artifacts that unsettle the present. We must be careful, Merlin."
Merlin nodded. "Of course, Master Wintrell. Caution is my watchword."
They traveled in relative silence. Through the window, Merlin watched the city's tapestry of life unfold: busy markets, children chasing each other in a narrow alley, a tinker repairing a clockwork automaton. All these ordinary scenes continued under a sky unchanged, yet beneath them something else churned—an undercurrent of cosmic tension, old rites whispering in forgotten tongues, and relics that might reveal or distort the truth.
Merlin wondered what tomorrow's viewing would bring. And in the hush of the carriage, he resolved to be ready—to watch for every subtle clue and weigh each revelation carefully. He had died once, in another world; here, in this life, he had a chance to understand mysteries that transcended mere survival. If he could do so without anyone discovering his past, so much the better.
Storshallow's streets rolled by, the mechanical carriage whirring softly, carrying them both toward a future entangled with secrets and, perhaps, fragile revelations.