MmMorning broke upon Storshallow with a quiet clarity, as if the city itself held its breath in anticipation. Merlin stood in the small courtyard behind Halewick's boarding house, breathing in the scent of damp earth and herbs. The enclosed space was modest: a trio of potted rosemary bushes, a climbing vine threaded along the old stone wall, and a clothesline where fresh linens fluttered gently. The bustle of the city's main thoroughfares seemed distant here. Only the faint hiss of a steam apparatus, somewhere out of sight, reminded Merlin of the world beyond this calm pocket.
He took a moment to center himself, adjusting the cuffs of his cream shirt and ensuring his vest lay flat. Today would be crucial. Tonight, Master Wintrell would view the fabled palimpsest in Viscounti's estate—a key moment, perhaps even a turning point. Merlin needed to be ready, both in the practical sense and in spirit. A single misstep could unravel the delicate trust he'd earned, or worse, draw scrutiny he could ill afford.
He returned inside through the kitchen door, exchanging a quiet nod with Bertha, who was kneading dough with determined vigor. The smells of yeast and baking bread drifted comfortingly, grounding him. Mistress Halewick paced the corridor, ensuring the hall's lanterns were dusted and that every guest's needs would be met for the day. She halted when Merlin approached. "Attend to Master Wintrell first thing," she said, her gray eyes flicking upward. "He left a note under his door asking for you."
Merlin bowed his head. "Yes, Mistress." He ascended the creaking staircase, considering what Wintrell might require so early.
Outside the scholar's door, he found the note pinned under a small decorative weight. In neat handwriting, it read: Merlin, join me as soon as you rise. We have preparations to discuss for tonight. Merlin knocked lightly and entered when summoned.
Wintrell stood by the window, dressed impeccably in a charcoal waistcoat and trousers, a crisp ivory shirt with a subdued cravat. On the desk lay several folded maps, a thin metal case, and a small packet sealed with wax. The scholar's iron-gray hair caught the morning light as he turned, his dark eyes focused. "Ah, Merlin. Close the door, if you please."
Merlin complied, stepping forward. The room's soft lamplight mingled with the pale sun through the window, illuminating the subtle worry lines at Wintrell's brow. He seemed calm, but a tension simmered beneath his composure.
"Tonight, I will view the palimpsest," Wintrell began, voice low and measured. "Viscounti will show it privately. I trust his discretion, but one can never be too cautious. I want you to be nearby—not in the room with us, but close enough that if something unexpected occurs, you can respond."
Merlin inclined his head. "Certainly, Master Wintrell. Do you anticipate trouble?"
Wintrell pressed his lips together briefly. "I cannot say for sure. But these are sensitive matters. Knowledge of old cults and cosmic whispers isn't something everyone wishes unearthed. Artifacts and texts that tie back to Eldara's hidden rites could attract… unwanted attention."
Merlin noted how Wintrell chose his words carefully, hinting at dangers without naming them. "How shall I prepare?" he asked.
The scholar gestured to the small metal case on the desk. "In here are a few items: a short-range signal device—think of it as a tiny runic flare that emits a distinct chime if activated. If I tap the floor three times in quick succession, I want you to trigger it. The sound might dissuade any interruption or summon help from the estate's guards."
Merlin approached the desk and opened the metal case. Inside lay a silver cylinder etched with tiny runes, no larger than a pen. It had a small lever on one side, likely the trigger. "Understood," Merlin said, handling it with care.
"Also, this sealed packet contains some notes I've compiled," Wintrell added, tapping the wax-sealed parcel. "If anything should happen to me, deliver this directly to the Eightfold Library archivist, Scribe Alderon. He'll know what to do." The scholar's eyes met Merlin's. "I do not expect disaster, but caution never hurts."
Merlin's chest tightened slightly. The notion of Wintrell's harm unsettled him. The scholar represented a bridge to understanding the mysteries swirling around Storshallow. "I understand, Master Wintrell."
Wintrell nodded, relieved. "Good. We'll depart after dusk. Until then, go about your duties as usual. Do not mention this to anyone. Discretion, Merlin."
Merlin slipped the signal device into an inner pocket of his vest. "As you say. I'll be ready."
With that settled, Merlin withdrew, leaving the scholar to his preparations. Downstairs, normalcy reasserted itself. Davren, the merchant, asked for directions to a local warehouse district. Annabelle replaced a centerpiece in the dining room with fresh daisies. Betram grumbled about a stuck latch on the second-floor window. Mistress Halewick supervised it all with calm efficiency, her brown dress swishing softly on the polished floors.
Merlin performed his tasks quietly, ensuring every chore was done well. He brought Davren a simple map, helping him trace a route with a slender finger. He assisted Annabelle by carrying a new cushion for a lounge chair. He nodded encouragingly to Betram, offering a spare tool. Each action reinforced his place here: the reliable assistant, part of the boarding house's daily rhythm.
As the afternoon waned, Merlin took a moment in the courtyard again. The vine on the wall trembled lightly in a rising breeze. Beyond the enclosure, the city murmured—distant voices, the soft hum of mechanical vehicles, the chime of a distant bell tower. He thought of the palimpsest: old ink hidden beneath scraped parchment, fragile testimony of ancient rites. He pictured its half-deciphered words, perhaps describing ceremonies that once took place under strange moons, chanting cultists invoking Eldara, or worse things that lurked behind that celestial veil.
Dusk settled slowly, painting the sky in bands of violet and rose. Merlin prepared himself as instructed: he adjusted his attire, checked that the signal device was secure, and waited until Wintrell descended the stairs, cane tapping lightly. The scholar had donned a long, fitted coat of midnight blue and a black scarf. He looked like a man going to a formal dinner, not a secretive meeting with a collector of forbidden lore.
They left the boarding house, Mistress Halewick offering a polite farewell and reminding Merlin to return before the hour grew too late. Annabelle watched them go, worry flickering in her gaze, though she said nothing. A different mechanical carriage awaited this time—sleeker, with tinted glass in the small windows. The driver, a different person than before, wore a narrow-brimmed hat and kept her face half in shadow.
As they traveled through the nighttime streets, lanterns cast golden pools on cobblestones. Citizens in evening attire strolled arm in arm. A few airships drifted overhead like silent leviathans, their running lights winking in the gloom. The city's hush at night was different: it felt more secretive, as though every alley contained a whispered story.
When they reached Viscounti's estate, the iron gates parted without delay. The gravel path gleamed faintly under lanterns hung from artfully sculpted poles. The mansion's windows glowed softly, drawing them into its circle of secrecy. Inside, Merlin expected hushed servants, carefully curated décor, and a closed-door meeting.
Wintrell turned to Merlin before they entered. "You'll wait in the antechamber adjacent to the salon. The door will be partially open. Remember: if I tap three times, trigger the device."
Merlin nodded, placing a steadying hand against the small bulge in his vest pocket. He would not fail. He followed Wintrell into the foyer, where a servant in green waistcoat greeted them silently and led them down corridors lit by sconces of subdued crystal light.
At the salon's threshold, Wintrell paused, smoothing his cravat. His posture spoke of readiness, but Merlin caught a hint of tension in the scholar's eyes. Viscounti appeared from behind a curtain, wearing a coat of deep forest green tonight, a golden chain glinting at his collar. He inclined his head politely at Wintrell. "Welcome. The palimpsest awaits."
Merlin slipped into the adjacent antechamber as instructed. It was a small room with a single armchair, a side table, and a curtained window. Light filtered in from the salon, casting soft shadows on the parquet floor. Through the partially open door, Merlin glimpsed a table where a large, leather-bound folio lay. Next to it, a locked case of dark wood and brass fittings—likely holding the precious parchment.
Voices in the salon drifted to Merlin's ears: Wintrell's low tones, Viscounti's cultured murmur. The faint clink of a key turning in a lock. He imagined the palimpsest revealed—the scratchy, ancient ink, the overlapping texts, the half-faded runes. He could almost feel the weight of old secrets pressing against these walls.
Minutes passed. The subdued conversation continued, punctuated by Wintrell's thoughtful hums and Viscounti's careful explanations. Merlin stood near the door, poised as if he were a statue placed there to balance the décor. Outside, he heard a distant shuffle of servants' shoes on polished floors. The world had narrowed to this waiting, this vigilant silence.
Then came a soft sound, unexpected yet subtle: something sliding or scraping. Merlin listened closely, heart quickening. The conversation inside paused. Viscounti's voice lowered, tense. Wintrell asked a sharp question. Merlin leaned in, trying not to be seen, but ready. If three taps came, he must act instantly.
He flexed his fingers around the signal device in his vest. The atmosphere seemed to thicken. Would the palimpsest reveal something shocking? Would an intruder appear? Or was this merely the tension of confronting old mysteries, rising like phantom music in an empty room?
For now, he could only wait. The night stretched out like a taut string, and Merlin stood ready to play his note if the scholar called for it.