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In the doorway as the telegram boy departs, Van Zieks looks over the little slip of paper. He heaves a sigh. “God in heaven.”
Kazuma had twisted around to watch. Urgent news is often worth it, in their field. “A case?”
“Not a criminal one.” Van Zieks sweeps his cloak off the rack. “Just Albert.”
“Oh, Professor Harebrayne’s arrived, has he?”
“To the chagrin of the Great Waterloo Hotel, yes he has.”
As the current resident of the second bedroom in Van Zieks’s house, Kazuma knows he had specifically prepared the third for his visiting friend. “What is he doing there?”
“Running up a monstrous dining tab he has no way of paying.” Van Zieks shakes his head. “I’ve been requested to come to his rescue. Mind the office while I’m gone, Mr. Asogi.”
“Could I come along?” asks Kazuma. He’s been making an effort these last few weeks to make sure all the new acquaintances he’d made in London are introduced to him once more, as a human being with a face. “I’ve never actually spoken to him before. I’d like a chance to, if he won’t be staying with us.”
An odd expression passes over the prosecutor’s face. Kazuma gets the sense Van Zieks wants to forget his previous apprenticeship entirely.
“If you like,” he says, stiffly.
Kazuma gets to his feet and follows him down to the street to hail a carriage.
The Great Waterloo Hotel is far too opulent for him to imagine Albert Harebrayne affording so much as a glass of water in—and Kazuma would know. He and Van Zieks had spent a good amount of time scanning the man’s finances. Now they scan the lobby for the man himself.
“Barok!”
They turn and catch sight of Professor Harebrayne’s distinctive pouf of hair bobbing toward them. “Thank goodness you’re here!” he exclaims, grasping Van Zieks’s hands. “It was a dreadful misunderstanding, all my fault, I promise I’ll pay you back when I’m able—"
“Don’t worry about it, Albert,” says Van Zieks, wearily. “If you learn from your mistakes that’s repayment enough.” And it's obvious to him, surely, that there is little hope of his friend being able at any point in the near future.
He leaves to have a word with the front desk, leaving Kazuma and Professor Harebrayne alone.
“Hello,” says Harebrayne brightly. “I’m Barok’s friend, Albert.”
“We’ve met, actually,” replies Kazuma. “I’m—"
“Ah!” Vigorously, Harebrayne nods. “You’re the quiet fellow with the cloak! Yes?”
“Er, yes,” says Kazuma, extending a hand. “Kazuma Asogi."
“Yes, of course, Mr. Naruhodo’s friend!” Harebrayne shakes Kazuma’s hand enthusiastically with both of his own. “Barok’s written of you. What a positively bizarre situation you two found yourselves mixed up in, isn’t it?”
Kazuma’s eyes slide back over to the prosecutor. “He hasn’t written bad things, I hope.”
He would certainly have been justified.
“Oh, of course not, good things! Well, not much of any things, but you know how Barok is these days. Being nice is like pulling teeth with him.”
Kazuma chuckles. He has seen thoughtfulness from Van Zieks, he’s seen respect and sacrifice and an uncommon amount of care, but none of that is the same as being nice.
The prosecutor returns then, a distinctly non-nice expression on his face.
“Tell me, Albert,” he says, “did you eat all four of your ice creams, or did you just request so many for the novelty?”
“Of course I ate them all,” Harebrayne replies. “It’s impossible to make an informed decision without understanding all the options.”
“And the steaks?”
“Those I didn’t finish,” he admits. “They had gotten too tough, by the time I’d finished the ice cream…”
“Were you not aware, then, that dining service wasn’t included in the price of the room?"
“I’m sorry!” cries Harebrayne helplessly. “You know I don’t do a great deal of traveling, Barok.” He turns to Kazuma, perhaps sensing him as a more willing conversation partner. “I dislike the waiting so! Even if instantaneous kinesis isn’t the answer, I will discover a way to get places faster if it’s the last thing I do.”
Kazuma suspects he’d faint to learn how long it took to get here from Japan.
“Why were you planning to stay here in the first place?” Van Zieks asks. “God’s sake, Albert, just stay with me. I’d been expecting you to.”
“Had you really?” His eyes flick toward Kazuma, who blinks curiously. “I’d thought my presence might be—intrusive.”
“Nonsense,” snaps Van Zieks quickly, bristling. “I’ve plenty of room.”
“He’s made up a bedroom for you especially,” says Kazuma, who can't imagine Van Zieks had planned to let on that he’d gone to the trouble, but feels Harebrayne deserves to hear.
The professor wilts. “Oh, I’m sorry, Barok!” he says, placing an apologetic hand on the prosecutor’s arm. “Of course I’ll come stay with you; I should have known…”
“And I don’t mind at all, Professor Harebrayne,” says Kazuma as Van Zieks lifts his friend’s suitcase.
Harebrayne shakes his head. “Do call me Albert,” he says. “We’re going to have to get to know each other better now, aren’t we? Now that we’re to be roommates!”
When Kazuma comes down to Saturday breakfast, both of his fellow roommates are already seated.
“What were you hoping to see, precisely?” Van Zieks is asking from behind the newspaper. “The city hasn’t changed that much since you lived here.”
Albert is smoothing down a layer of marmalade that has nearly doubled his toast in thickness. “They’ve finished that bridge by the Tower of London, haven’t they?”
“Yes, Albert, but it’s just a bridge. You’ve seen everything with history.”
“Why don’t we go round it all again, then?” says Albert. “Reminisce? How’s old Mrs. Madden at Wimberley’s?”
At this Van Zieks sets down the paper. Kazuma is stunned to hear him laugh. “Bitterer by the year,” he says.
“Wimberley’s?” asks Kazuma as he spears an egg onto his plate.
“A tearoom by the Tower,” says Van Zieks. “Mainly caters to visitors.”
“We stopped in while Barok was showing me around London the first time,” says Albert. “I’d never left Devon before coming here, you see. I was dreadfully excited to see everything famous.”
A cold ache of memory curls around Kazuma’s chest. Ryunosuke had said something very similar to him after they’d met at their own university, when Kazuma had leapt at the chance to show the country boy his Tokyo.
“My friend and I had been planning to see the sights in London, before we left Japan,” he says. Planning is a term used loosely. Most of it had been wistful what-ifs, over tea at the university, sitting on the floor of his ship cabin leaning against the wardrobe. But Kazuma had fully intended to follow through before moving on to the murder and vengeance.
Had Ryunosuke toured the city in his absence? Perhaps he’d done with Susato. They’d had some time to themselves before Kazuma had finally arrived, before he’d brought all his troubles with him.
“Why didn’t you?” asks Albert.
“I had a head injury en route to England,” says Kazuma. “I was without my memory for some time.”
“Amnesia?” Albert drops his toast and leans over the seats between them to squint into his eyes. “How fascinating!”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yes! Of course, this isn’t at all my field, but you need a working knowledge of the human body to do almost any science—have you been examined?”
“Before I was placed with the prosecutor, Lord Stronghart had a doctor take a look at me,” says Kazuma. Presumably to assess whether his plight was genuine or he was trying to weasel out of his deal. “But I wasn’t apprised of the results myself.”
“Well I certainly hope you haven’t got permanent brain damage,” says Albert, cheerfully patting his shoulder.
“Albert!” hisses Van Zieks, scandalized. Kazuma can't help but laugh.
“As do I,” he says.
Albert shakes his head vigorously. “Anyways, Mr. Asogi, please do come with us! I’d hate for all your plans to come to naught.”
“Don’t badger him, Albert,” mutters Van Zieks.
Kazuma figures the last thing the prosecutor wants in the way of time with his only friend is the accuser-turned-apprentice he still hates to even look upon. “I don’t know—”
“Oh, please?”
He also figures the prosecutor has similar difficulty saying no to this man’s earnest face. “Alright,” he says, glancing toward Van Zieks before acquiescing. “if you’re sure.”
They spend the morning wandering. Most of the historical sights of London are little more than old stone architecture, which Kazuma would enjoy far more with Ryunosuke by his side. He is finding the hints of Van Zieks’ own history more interesting than the city’s.
“Have you really been coming here ever since, Barok?” Albert asks as they sit down in Wimberley’s tearoom.
“On occasion,” replies Van Zieks, looking faintly embarrassed. Kazuma knows how difficult it is for him to admit to being sentimental. “They do serve good tea, even if the proprietress has a notorious disdain for humanity.”
“Our first time here, Barok got into a fight with her,” says Albert with a suppressed laugh.
“Don’t be dramatic,” mutters Van Zieks. “You simply deserved to receive what you’d asked for.”
“If only you’d have built my machine,” muses Albert. “You’d have made sure it worked.”
There is an uncomfortable silence.
“How did you meet the prosecutor?” Kazuma asks. “At London University, wasn’t it?”
Albert looks up from stirring sugar into his tea. “Oh, yes,” he replies. “He happened to be passing by when I dropped my toolbox, and he picked up Andrew for me.”
It takes Kazuma a very confused second to remember. “Oh—yes, your screwdriver.” He wonders whether Albert had gotten a new one, after the murder. He wonders what its name would be.
Albert nods. “Barok was always a lot of help when I was building things. What with how tall he is, you know. I’ve never been good with ladders.”
“By which he means he can’t keep his balance on them,” says Van Zieks, tone laced with amusement.
With a sheepish laugh, Albert rubs the back of his neck. “There’s always something important just out of reach.”
Kazuma sips his tea as Van Zieks and Albert fall into conversation, a strangely fond reminiscence about a ladder-related broken arm. The ease with which the prosecutor is speaking now is fascinating. The more he observes it, Kazuma is finding himself less surprised by their friendship. They do, after all, share a certain weirdness. They're both distinctly odd men, in a similar type of way, though they go in very different directions with it. He can see them standing out to each other in a crowd.
After tea they cross the bridge and walk along the other side of the Thames. At the foot of a different bridge Albert pauses to look back across toward Westminster.
“Good old Ben,” he says fondly. “Big as ever.”
Kazuma pauses beside him, heart hammering. It isn’t as if he’d never seen this city before. He can see it from the window of their office every single day. But here—he’d never seen it from here.
“I had a postcard when I was a boy,” says Kazuma quietly. Still has it, in fact, but safely back in Japan. “It must have been painted from this exact spot. I used to look at it and imagine standing here.” As a child, with his father. As a teenager, avenging him.
As an adult?
He’s been feeling unmoored lately. So long he’d spent on a singular goal that moving on to a more nebulous one has left him lost. Is that all he feels now?
Van Zieks is looking at him. Kazuma straightens his back and pretends not to notice as he stares across the river.
“I know this means a lot to you,” says Albert as he peers down into his wineglass, "but I must admit, Barok, they all taste the same to me.”
“Albert, your palate is an atrocity.” Barok sniffs. “You have to broaden your horizons.”
“My palate is perfectly happy being unadventurous.”
They sit in two adjacent parlor armchairs before the low fire. Unrefined as Albert’s palate is, he hadn't seemed to find any of the wines objectionable. Barok hasn’t drunk so much in months.
He’d done his best to explain his entire trial, and in addition all of the related trials, and by extension the last ten years. In letters it had been impossible. In person it is still proving difficult.
“What I can’t understand is why you didn’t protest any of this,” says Albert, cross-legged in his socks on the chair cushion. “You let it drive you into retirement, but you wouldn’t put the rumors to rest?”
From his low slump in his seat Barok narrows his eyes at him. Bold words from a man who had confessed on the stand to a murder he hadn’t committed. But it isn't an invalid question. It's a question that Barok, in fact, had spent many years mulling over.
“Klint,” he says eventually. “Even when I was unable to do anything in court, there was clearly someone watching over me. If I believed it were a man I’d have brought that man to justice, but if I believed it were a spirit…” He’d have kept the rumor alive, just for an excuse to keep believing it. He’d have felt the wind knocked out of him when Lord Stronghart had admitted that he’d known as much. That he’d chosen him for that specific reason.
Albert looks torn between heartfelt sympathy and calling him a fool, but says nothing and just puts a hand on his arm. Barok almost wishes he’d give him some admonishment. The thought of his brother’s ghost committing serial murder in the name of justice has recently taken on a quite different tone.
“And the nonsense with Asogi and the mask?” Albert asks. “You didn’t question it?”
“I did know that was a mind game of some kind,” says Barok. He isn't that stupid. “Stronghart was always fond of those, in his mentorship. But I couldn’t tell how so. I’d learned by then it was most prudent to play along until I could.”
Good God. Barok had considered Albert foolish and naïve, for allowing investors to take advantage of him, but in truth… He's just the same himself.
He laughs softly, to offset his self-consciousness. “At first I almost thought he had discovered my—other predilections.”
“Ah,” says Albert. “Those.”
“…That he’d placed a vulnerable young man in my care to... I don’t know... Tempt me into indecency. So of course I had to prove him wrong. Only later did I realize his true purpose, and by then...”
“Come to Berlin, Barok,” urges Albert, moving his hand atop his. “There’s a lot of that sort of thing going on there. Enough that even I’m aware of it, at any rate.”
Albert has no predilections to Barok’s knowledge, natural or otherwise. Its own hassle, surely—but he still can't help his jealousy. He delicately lifts his friend’s hand off his own. “I’ve no desire to be tempted into indecency, Albert, here or anywhere else.”
“You’re still being that way about it then, are you?” says Albert. He rests his chin in his hand and peers down at him owlishly. “That can’t be healthy.”
Prison can’t be healthy, Albert. Barok sighs. He really should have known better than to bring all of this up. Scientists were always far too open-minded a lot for his taste.
He takes a long sip and changes the subject. “Initially I had planned to move abroad, after the trial finished. I’d considered asking you about it.”
“What?” Albert straightens up. “Whyever didn’t you? We could have had great fun; there’s so much of my city I’d like to show you…”
“I have responsibilities to England.” Barok hesitates. “…And to Mr. Asogi. He made sure I couldn’t abandon them.”
“Mr. Asogi’s a good lad,” says Albert. He smiles. “I’m glad there’s finally someone keeping an eye on you.”
“I’m a grown man, Albert.”
“Grown or not, I know you need it.”
Barok looks back into his gentle face. “Is there anyone keeping an eye on you?”
“Of course! My colleagues, my lab assistants, even some of my former students…” Albert shakes his head. “I don’t make friends easily, that’s true, but I’m not as resistant to the concept as you are.”
Sighing again, Barok finishes his glass of wine.
“…I wish I’d written to you, in these last ten years,” he says thickly. “There’s been no one in that time that I could speak to so openly.” It was a shame that criminal court, of all things, had to reunite them. It was a shame he’d wasted so much of his life so stubbornly devoted to solitude.
“Oh, Barok…”
He shakes his head. “I’d forgotten how nice it is to allow myself a friend.”
“I could have written to you too, you know,” says Albert. “We’ve both always been dreadful at it, the pair of us. We get so lost in our own heads.” He chuckles lightly. “Perhaps I should find myself my own Mr. Asogi, to make sure I can’t abandon anything important.”
“As long as he’s tall,” replies Barok, the edge of his lips curling into a smile. “So you don’t have to climb as many ladders.”
Albert dissolves into tipsy laughter.
“Someone else will have to review the applications,” he says, the self-deprecatory tone in his voice growing stronger. “I’m obviously no use at reading people.”
“And what of me?” replies Barok, seriously. “You seem to have me read rather well. And not many do.”
“You didn’t preclude yourself from being read so insistently, back when I met you,” says Albert. “Had we met now… Barok, I don’t know that you’d be as dear to me.”
Sickened, Barok looks away.
“I’m sorry,” says Albert. He reaches for Barok’s hand again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said something like that—”
“I’m just glad there’s anyone left that knew me then,” he says. Klint, Gregson, Genshin… All gone, with all their memories of his happier youth. But Albert Harebrayne remains to believe in him. This time Barok turns his hand over to give his friend’s a brief squeeze.
“This is why I’ve been trying not to drink so much,” he mutters. “I get horribly grim.” People who found fun in the practice had long stirred his envy.
Albert smiles at him. “Well, I’m right here, if you get any grimmer.”
“I really do need someone to keep an eye on me,” says Barok. "Don't I?”
“You’re in good hands,” replies Albert. “As well as an illiterate like me can tell, anyway.”
Barok laughs quietly. “I’m as illiterate as you are,” he says. “But as well as I can tell, I think you’re right.”