Chapter Text
Simon Reinhold died this afternoon.
To be more accurate, Simon Reinhold was murdered. Or so the rumor said. Gossip spread fast: the walls heard it from the unfortunate butler who had discovered the body, and whispered it to a rolling pebble by the river, which itself carried the rumor along the dusty pavements; and now everyone in Saint Mystere knew of the crime. Not that the town was not accustomed to mysteries. In that sense, the name suited it quite well. One did not need to be a keeper to feel the Riddles all around, in the empty houses stretching out of sight, far beyond the watery limits of the village, in the old clock tower long silenced with grief, in the shadows of its smaller inhabitants running over the walls. And, of course, she could not ignore why it was the way it was. Its very foundations—its physical foundations—had been built over a Riddle, after all; one could have seen the ghost of the late baroness Violet Reinhold, the sorrow that had overtaken her husband’s heart, had turned Saint Mystere from a magnificent gift to her daughter, to her most cruel prison. In spite of all that, it was probably the first time the strange town had to face a mystery as real, as mundane, as murder.
A machine like Simon could not have truly died. Not in the way her precious Riddles did, once they finally found the adequate Riddler to solve them; no, its body just needed to be put back together. But, as far as the other citizens of Saint Mystere were concerned, he was under the daisies now. Succumbed to whatever curse seemed to afflict the Reinhold lineage. Now that the rumor was out, their maker could hardly make everyone forget about the baron’s brother’s demise. This engineer, Bruno … He was getting old, too.
Perhaps she could have offered him a cup of Radiance Blend. She could have suggested he take some vacation. She knew fantastic thermal baths in the isles that would do his skin wonders. But…
Nah. Saint Mystere’s engineer might have been made of the same mold her mother had been. Proud and hard-working. The mere idea of a break would probably kill him on the spot.
Who was she, you might ask?
Well, she was only the beautiful, clairvoyant Elizabeth Riddleton, of course! Fourth-generation and current saint keeper of lost Riddles! She had taken on her mother’s mantle, who had taken it from her husband’s own mom, traveling all around the world with the family shack to give a safe haven for forgotten Riddles. In only a few years, after a century on the job, she would hand over the sacred duty to her lovely granddaughter, Puzzlette, to enjoy a well-deserved retirement. But in the meantime… Here she was! In Saint Mystere. Arguably the best town to find unresolved Riddles in need of a foster home.
Unfortunately, there was not much this Granny could do for Simon, when the rumor reached her ears. Not that she could have—or would have—done much, had she known about the murder beforehand. She was just a keeper, not a solver, and even less so a crime investigator. As intrigued as she was, she only whispered a small prayer for the Reinhold family, out of principle—machines they might have been, they must have been aware enough to feel the grief that once again plagued their family—and got back to work. She still had her shack to tend to.
Elizabeth always worked most at the back, where her oldest bottles were stored, carefully cleaning the dust and the cobwebs. Those were the Riddles which demanded the most care from her—the Riddles whose originators had long left this world, with no one to remember them, and the Riddles that no one wanted to solve.
Mind you, how long a Riddle would remain in her shack had hardly anything to do with how complex it was. The opposite, actually. Complex Riddles—for example, the kind of Riddles large enough to, oh, build on an entire town, its inhabitants, and its mice—found a solver very quickly. Humans liked the challenge they posed. In the dustier bottles lingered the simpler Riddles. The childish ones. The forgotten plush under the sink waiting for its owner, the nameless melody heard on television on a rainy Saturday afternoon… Even though, for some, she doubted they would ever find someone in her lifetime, Elizabeth did not want them to feel neglected—
“Oh?”
She turned away from her bottles.
A keeper needed to have a keen eye to notice Riddles. They were sensitive little things, after all, especially the small ones. And, at her age, while she prided herself in having near-perfect vision, such acuity would have been useless had she not wanted to see. Elizabeth only had to bend down to catch it, ignoring the pain she felt in her knees like twisted rubber bands. Mammy Riddleton would have been ashamed of her, had she let this old body stop her from welcoming a Riddle in need of a home.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”
Elizabeth marveled at it for a moment. What a beautiful little Riddle! It must have slithered under the door. Even in its most primeval aspect, she could feel its entire history through her fingers. A tragic, yet lovely combination of fragments. It was the cooling freshwater of a river, in the middle of summer. It was a curl of mist, from a faraway town. It was a child’s long lost laugh. It was…
“... Already belonging to someone.” She felt the Riddle in her palm coil in embarrassment, and her smile only grew wider. “Tsk, tsk. Your solver must be very worried about you, sonny.”
Good. At the end of the day, as much as she loved the company of her Riddles, Elizabeth was supposed to find people to solve them.
Well, she could hazard a guess as to who was the lucky person. It was easy: there were only two other strangers in this town, herself excepted. The first one did not look even remotely capable of solving a Riddle, let alone willing to. The second was, would she dare say confess it, a fine-looking gentleman, with that fancy top hat and impeccably ironed coat; none of the long worn-out clothes that the inhabitants of Saint Mystere kept wearing every passing day. She had met him before, in the faraway Monte d’Or, though he would not have recognized her. Mind you, if she had been just a few decades younger…
“Hush,” she chastised the Riddle in her hand. “I’ll let you know, I was quite the looker back in my youth. I could still pull it off.” It tried to stretch away, clearly unimpressed by this affirmation. Oh well. Children.
The door creaked open.
Trying not to make a sound, but the old rotten wood gave away the presence regardless, and the person on the other side even stopped their movement midway, as if they had been surprised that it opened at all. Elizabeth, for one, was not; such reactions were only natural. She only allowed entrance to her house of puzzles for people who were looking for it, whether they knew it or not. To people with that sense of curiosity. To others, it would have remained closed, just a strangely white door hidden under the lichen.
“Why, hello there!” She waved at them, her free hand digging the air, engaging them to come in. “Don’t you just stand there, you’ll catch a cold!”
The man, Hershel Layton, took a step in, and under the fancy top hat, bright eyes scrutinized the room with wonder. Elizabeth could practically read his mind, trying to figure out where he had stumbled; neither a house nor a shop, but something he had never seen before.
“... Apologies, Miss. I didn’t mean to disturb.”
“You’re never,” Elizabeth cooed. “But what brings a fine gentleman like you to my little shack?”
“Right.” Layton quickly broke out of his stupor. “I’ve been looking for my young friend. He’s a young boy about this tall—” he leveled his hand above his abdomen— “has brown hair, blue eyes…?”
Such a simplistic description, Elizabeth thought. Not that she could blame him. He could not see past the basic aspect of his Riddle, but it was so much more than superficial things like that. Though, if she mentioned that out loud, she would break the code of conduct of a keeper: never solve a Riddle yourself.
“I fear I haven’t had many visitors today,” she answered, with a cat-like grin that definitely said otherwise. “And none fitting that description.”
“Well,” Layton tipped his hat, hoping to hide his disappointment. “Thank you for your help regardless. I won’t bother—”
“I wasn’t done,” she cut in. “I haven’t seen your boy, yes. But I have seen your friend. Open your hand,” she added, practically grabbing Layton’s wrist as soon as he had raised his arm. “Hop-hop!”
Carefully, she let the mist slip from her hand into the professor’s. It did not comply easily; it was certainly distressing, to be seen like this, its most primeval aspect, and Elizabeth could guess it was the first time for both Riddle and solver—but, for the record, it was its fault it broke, not hers, and so could not hide behind her. But as soon as it met Layton’s palm, it detached itself from the keeper.
She was not sure what the man was seeing at that very moment. Probably not much, judging by the way he swayed his hand, as if he was weighing a mere pebble. But she did not need to wonder long before his eyes widened in recognition.
“Luke!”
It was the best part of the job, the part that gave it meaning, and the reason Elizabeth would remain a keeper as long as her legs could carry her: seeing a Riddle find a solver.
That did not mean Layton knew what to do with his hand, and for a split second her smile faltered, afraid that he would carelessly crush the poor Riddle. Not that it would have done much harm—Puzzlette, as well-meaning as she was, had mishandled many of the precious bottles before she refined her vision, hardly controlling her strength—but it said a lot about her clients…
Fortunately, that did not happen. Instead, the man gently raised his hand at eye-level, ignoring the cold. “I’ve been worried about you!” In spite of the reprimand, he could not hide the small curve of his lips, and she had to wonder if this gentleman was even truly capable of being mad. Not towards the Riddle, at least. “You’ve disappeared from the manor so suddenly…”
Layton stopped himself, looking back at Elizabeth. “Thank you, Miss. You—”
“You should be more careful, both of you,” Elizabeth playfully chastized. “I’ve heard there’s a murderer loose in Saint Mystere.”
The man arched an eyebrow. “It seems you know more than we do.”
“Pshaw! Don’t flatter me. I just know my job, just like you should—” A gnarled finger pointed at Layton, “know yours.”
“... You’re right,” Layton admitted with a soft smile—ah, if only Elizabeth had been a few decades younger! “I shouldn’t have let you see that,” he continued, returning his attention to the Riddle coiled within his palm. “I apologize.”
The keeper saw the Riddle writhe indignantly. She could have almost heard it protest: hey, I’m not a kid anymore! It would have been, evidently, a stubborn lie. Elizabeth did not think anyone could ever be prepared to see a dead body. It had nothing to do with her duty or the many ways the fae world intertwined with her own; it was just life experience talking.
“It’s been a while,” she hummed softly, turning her attention back to her bottles, “since I’ve seen a duo like yourself in Saint Mystere. Would you care to indulge a lonely ol’ lady and share your story? A tale for another,” she added. “Sounds like a fair deal to me!”
Layton looked at the Riddle in the palm of his hand, as if asking for its opinion. “I suppose I should start from the beginning…”
“That’s, um… Professor, how well do you know the author of this letter?”
The Professor kept his eyes focused on the road, unfazed by either the rocky terrain or the barely-concealed accusation in Emmy’s voice. “Clark and I go back a long way. I can’t imagine why he would fabricate such a story.”
“Still… I find it hard to believe. A giant specter?”
“It’s quite perplexing,” he agreed, as he steered the wheel in a hard curve.
“... Bu–ut you’ve already got something in mind.”
A short, modest laugh escaped his lips. “You’ve got a remarkable intuition, Miss Altava.”
“Oh! Well… Thank you! It means a lot, coming from you.” There was a strange warmth swelling in her stomach; pride, the young woman remembered, the word having grown foreign to her tongue. “But please, just call me Emmy!”
“Right… Emmy. I can’t be sure of anything yet, but there’s something about that letter that’s… For lack of a better word, wrong.”
“Really?” She looked at the letter in her hands again. Squinted her eyes at it, her nose close enough she could have drawn with the tip of it, looking for a hidden message between the lines. There was nothing of the sort, she knew; she had cracked enough codes when she had started her job—her first, real job, the one she could never resign from—that she would have noticed it already. It felt like this Clark Triton was personally spiting her.
“I’m not talking about the text,” the Professor nudged gently.
Not the text…? Emmy held the page at arm's length. If it was not for its curious subject, it would be a plain ordinary letter. Mister Triton wrote in narrow letters, with small skinny curves, neatly aligned to the left. Only the smudged ink trailing after every sentence betrayed the urgency that the author must have felt; otherwise, it looked very… well, academic, though she figured it was not something she should say with disdain in front of a professor at Gressenheller—
Wait! The young woman tilted the page, then her own head the other way. The smudges… If they’re trailing to the right, that would mean… “Is Mister Triton… left-handed?”
The Professor’s eyes did not leave the road, but his knowledgeable smile said it all. “He’s not. Good deduction, Miss– Emmy.”
“I knew it! So that means…” That someone had tried to impersonate Mister Triton, painstakingly trying to replicate every quirk of his handwriting so perfectly, forging a mystery about a giant specter terrorizing the inhabitants of his small rural town, just to drag the Professor there? “... What, exactly?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted. “But the events described in that letter are too depictive to be a prank.”
“Still, a specter…” Emmy was inclined to agree with the Professor, but a part of her mind could not settle on the idea of such a creature being real. “Do you have any idea… Where could it come from, I suppose?”
“Perhaps.” The car bounced as it took another hard turn against a rock, and the tip of his fingers gently readjusted his top hat over his head. “... Emmy, have you ever heard of Riddles?”
“Riddles,” she repeated. She had heard of these before, but she did not feel like interrupting the Professor’s presentation. There was a passion when he spoke, ever so subtle, one she had never heard in her Uncle’s voice—mind you, Leon only pretended to care, or he used to, and forgot how to over the years.
“Well,” he explained, “we don’t know exactly what they are. Some people say Riddles are akin to ghosts. Some say they’re fae. I, myself, like to think they’re… mysteries of the world, waiting for us to be understood and solved.”
Emmy knew full well she was not supposed to get too attached to her target—everyone knew, it was the first rule of the Undercover Agent Guidebook—, but she was starting to understand why Hershel Layton had such a success with the younger students of Gressenheller. He was just that captivating.
“And you’ve already… seen a Riddle?” Was that even the right word to use? Could these things, if they even existed, be seen?
“I haven’t,” the Professor admitted. “But there’s a Riddle…” The light in his eyes flickered, and for a second Emmy thought he was not looking at the road anymore, but at something beyond the country trail. “I’ve been searching for it for years now. I want to believe it exists. Do you think it’s odd?”
She would only understand years later—when she would have long stopped working for the Professor, grown too attached to the man to remain close to him. “… It’s certainly surprising,” she conceded. “I was expecting professors to be more… pragmatic. But it’s part of your Laytonesque charm!”
“My—” Oops! “Emmy, have we already—”
“So! You think the specter could be one of these Riddles?”
An odd frown appeared on the Professor’s face; either he had not noticed her quick save, or he was too polite to point it out, saving her the embarrassment. “Misthallery has been on the news recently…” When Emmy did not recognize what he was talking about—when she feigned to not recognize it—he quickly tipped his chin over his shoulder. “Can you take the newspaper, please?”
She did as asked, twisting her body for her arm to reach behind her seat. Her eyes lingered on the headline for what felt to her like an eternity, or at least longer than even a young airheaded intern was supposed to be; she made a mental note of the clean fold of the Times, as if it had just been printed, and another of the smudged ink rings where a teacup had been left too long, betraying that it had been read too many times to count. She had only been told to follow the Professor during his investigations; she had never been told why. Uncle Leon could not blame her for growing curious.
“Ah, yes! I remember now,” she said at last, looking up. “Archaeologists claimed the fabled Golden Garden might have been found in Misthallery! And now, this same Misthallery fell prey to a specter… Linked to a mysterious letter…” She could not hide it too long. “It must all be linked together, right? How exciting!”
The Professor chuckled. “I admire your enthusiasm, Emmy. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The Laytonmobile shook and coughed, as it hit a rock bigger than the others. In spite of the terrible state of the country roads, the car showed no sign of slowing down. “First, we need to pay the real Clark a visit.”
Emmy was not sure what she had expected Clark Triton to look like.
Perhaps, because of the dupery, she had started to build a mental picture quite different from someone who would have been the Professor’s old friend. The inhabitants of Misthallery had not helped her imagination; when they talked about their mayor and where he lived, they spoke with that hushed voice people reserved for bad people, as if the mere mention of his name was a curse. She would only learn later that, one, they were a superstitious lot; not unreasonably so, but even talking about Riddles did not prepare her for the amount of specters and witches that plagued the town’s local tales. Two, that they genuinely, truly feared the wrath of Evan Barde’s ghost.
If anything, the letter was quite flattering, faithful to Mister Triton’s real appearance. He was a proper man, barely taller than the Professor, with a well-furnished beard and that awkward loose tie of a husband who never undid the knot made by his wife.
“Hershel!” When he saw them standing at the fireplace his face positively brightened, and he almost ran through the room to meet them. He extended a hand; Emmy half-suspected it was only her presence that had prevented Mister Triton from leaping into the Professor’s arms. “I can’t believe my eyes! How long has it been?”
The latter chuckled as they shook hands. “Oh, far too long, my good friend. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in contact.”
“Please, Hershel, you don’t have to apologize. If anything, I should be…” Mister Triton stopped dead in his tracks. “I’m just glad to see you.” His eyes turned towards her. “And who might this be?”
“Ah, I’m forgetting my manners. Clark, this is—”
“I’m the Professor’s assistant,” she proudly proclaimed. “Emmy Altava! It’s an honor to meet you, Mister Triton.”
“Likewise, Emmy.”
But as he shook her own hand, she could not help but notice the little things that betrayed the facade. The roughnesses on his fingers, not unlike her own, of course, but also the way his shoulders sunk into the ill-suited vest, the premature strands of gray hair. And, most importantly, behind the smile, the tired, sunken eyes.
While the letter might have been a fake, there was no doubt now that something terrible was happening in Misthallery.
“So you have an assistant now, Hershel,” Clark said, either unaware or unwilling to bring up the issue first. “You seem to have moved up in the world!”
“Hardly,” the Professor hand-waved humbly. “I’d much rather consider Emmy an equal.”
It was something that said equal would both adore and despise in him: how easily he could trust his fellow.
“But tell me.” Clark’s smile dropped from his face. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I came as soon as I received… well.” The Professor turned his head towards Emmy, “This.”
She understood immediately, fishing in her pouch for the mysterious letter, before handing it to Clark. They both remained silent as they watched the man read through it. It should not have taken this long—especially not to a Gressenheller graduate—and Emmy was able to know where he was skipping lines whenever his brows furrowed and raised in confusion, to meet perfectly in the middle.
If there had been any doubt about its authenticity, it would have been obvious Clark was effectively seeing the paper for the first time. “I could have written this,” she heard him whisper, a confession aimed at no one in particular, as his body sank into the nearest armchair, “and yet, how could he miss…”
“I take it,” the Professor quietly pressed, “you’re really not the author?”
“No!” Clark almost shouted the word, and when he realized it, he repeated, more quietly: “No. I’ve never…”
“But,” Emmy interjected, “is there any truth to it? The real author can’t have gone through the trouble of imitating your handwriting just to prank the Professor, right?”
“The Prof—” Clark stopped himself, and she could have sworn she was hearing the gears clicking together inside the man’s brain. “Of course. I apologize for that outburst, I wasn’t expecting—”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” the Professor kindly dismissed. “From what we know, you must have been facing a lot of stress.”
“We’re here to help, Mister Triton,” Emmy added.
“... Thank you.” Clark threw his head back and let a sigh escape his lips, almost out of relief. She would only figure out why later—it was for the same reason he chose not to undo his ties anymore.
“You already know I didn’t write this…” He straightened on the armchair, but instead had to put his elbow on one thigh. “But I should have.”
Emmy looked at the Professor, who was looking at her. Were they thinking the same thing? “Mister Triton, is there really a specter in Misthallery?”
“... I’ve never seen it myself,” Clark admitted. “However, the destruction it brought is proof enough to me.”
That made sense. While she was not sure she believed in the specter’s existence yet, she remembered Brock’s house. Or rather, the ruins, the door branded with a curse like red hot iron on a cow’s flank off to the butchery, as the only sign that it had once been Brock’s house.
“Besides,” Clark went on, “something else convinced me.” He held the letter away with the tip of his fingers, as if mere contact with the paper could burn his skin.
“The Riddle,” the Professor asked—no, affirmed.
This assertion did not seem to surprise his old friend as much as it should have. “I should have contacted you, but it felt… wrong. After the accident…”
A million questions emerged in Emmy’s mind; but when she turned her head again, the Professor was keeping his head low as he reached for the letter, the rim of his hat covering his eyes, his expression unreadable. She would have thought he felt… remorseful, if she could ever imagine such a kind gentleman doing anything that was worthy of remorse. She considered herself a bit of an expert in that field.
It seemed like Clark had no intention of clarifying either. “I should’ve listened to Brenda.” He only drew out a small half-hearted laugh.
“Wait,” Emmy interrupted, putting her foot in. “So you know who wrote that?”
The Professor removed the hat from his face, recovering his usual composure. “Would you be willing to introduce us, Clark?”
“Of course.” The man stood up. “Doland?”
“Sir?”
Emmy felt her shoulders tense hearing the voice at the doorway. Doland was a quiet man, but had he really been standing there the whole time? Of course, she should have known then something was wrong with him. She should have been more careful.
“Is the boy with you, by any chance?”
The boy? The Professor had never mentioned Clark having a child.
“He’s been lingering here since Mister Layton and Miss Altava arrived.” The butler awkwardly pushed his glasses, too far back on the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your conversation, Sir.”
Clark forced a smile. “I’m glad you did. Well, let him come in.”
Doland nodded, taking a step aside, as a smaller head peeked from behind the door frame.
Emmy knew instantly he was not an ordinary boy. Even though, at first glance, he looked exactly like what she would have pictured a kid from a rural British town to look like. Short brown curly hair under a blue baker boy cap, matching blue eyes and blue overalls, rosy cheeks and that little turned-up nose like a trumpet: he would not have been more familiar to her had someone cut his picture straight out of a book. Someone even bothered to leave a small bruise on one of his knees, to add to the authenticity.
And yet Emmy knew. The moment he walked inside the room, and he looked at them, she saw the unnatural yellow glow within his eyes.
She was about to speak up again—she had several questions to ask, but what are you seemed like a fair starter—; in spite of that, she bit her lip, stopping the words from escaping. Neither the Professor nor Clark had made a single sound either, and while she was very tempted to look at the former, she did not. She could have thought they were trying not to scare away a wild animal, as if any wrong move would break the charm and make the boy vanish into thin air.
Though, while it was in the Riddle’s very aspect, as they would later learn, they did not have to worry about that. As soon as his eyes landed on the Professor, he walked towards him, almost enraptured. Curious. Emmy thought it should have been the other way around. She certainly was.
Clark was the first to break the silence. “Hershel, Emmy, this is… Luke.”
“Luke,” the Professor repeated, and his smile was different, though the young woman could not pinpoint how or why. She supposed, from what he had told her on their way to Misthallery, it was his excitement to see a true Riddle, that he was modestly trying to mask. She wondered if she would see that same smile on her Uncle’s face one day.
The Professor squatted, one knee on the ground, meeting the boy at eye level. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Luke.” He held the letter forward. “Would you like to take this back?”
Luke stared at the paper, lips popping in an O of surprise.
It was only now Emmy noticed the small wet rings on the carpet, right under the boy’s feet, and decided that she could no longer contain her words. “Sorry, Mister Triton, but I’m lost. This kid here—” she briefly turned her head, her chin pointing— “is one of those Riddles?”
“Trust me, Emmy,” Clark said sympathetically, “I was just as surprised as you are. I suppose living in a town like Misthallery gets you used to stranger things.”
True. Misthallery seemed to have no shortage of supernatural creatures.
“How long has it been?” The Professor had not moved from his spot, and it was difficult to say to whom he was asking the question.
“... A few months.” Clark nervously stroked his beard. “After the specter’s first appearances, I recall.” Emmy clued in that the newly-elected mayor of Misthallery knew precisely when he had met Luke for the first time… and yet could not figure out why he remained so evasive on the topic. Yet.
“I know you’ve been researching Riddles.” His attention was back on the Professor. “Luke just sent the letter I was meant to send you long ago.”
“Well,” the Professor countered with indulgence, “if you’ve feared requesting my help, it means I haven’t been a good friend to you. Or Brenda.”
Emmy bit inside her cheek. It would not be very ladylike to voice her thoughts out loud, but… Are all men this emotionally costive?
“Mister Layton?”
All three heads turned towards Luke. His voice was higher-pitched than Emmy would have expected, considering his apparent age—he looked, what, ten? Eleven?—and yet soft and unexercised; it came to her that she did not know how aware of their nature Riddles were supposed to be. Like changelings. “You’re really going to help us?”
“Of course.” There was no hesitation in the Professor’s voice. “After all, a gentleman always helps a friend in need.”
“A friend…”
“But first.” The Professor stood up. “I’d like to learn more about you, Luke.”
Luke did not remember anything before Misthallery.
Though he could not imagine there was anything worth remembering. He was certainly not missing his memories. He knew lots of things! Like the direction where the sun travels, from east to west, and all the major capitals in Europe. The full name of the current Queen, and his own name. A voice had called for him with it, a hopeful whisper carried by the mist like a bottle in the Thames. Luke felt that this name, even more than his aspect, the traits of his own face, was a super-important thing to hold onto.
He must have followed that voice, and before he knew it, he found himself in Misthallery. Or, to be more precise: in a damp alley of the east district of Misthallery, in the middle of the night. He could not see much, and when he tried to walk towards the main avenue, his leg—oh, yes, he had one of those, good to know!—hit something, and he fell with all his weight against a trash can. The loud clack of metal loudly rippled in the empty streets.
Too loudly, Luke realized, an uneasy feeling sinking into his chest.
All around him, there was nothing but mist… no, not mist. Mist was supposed to feel light, comforting. This was something darker, thick and heavy like oil, that tried to grab his ankles. And he did not like that. At all.
Where was he? Where was the voice that called for him? Luke needed him.
Ting!
From the main avenue, a cat slowly approached, as if sensing his distress. A cat with faded purplish fur, curled whiskers and long limbs that seemed they had been stretched again and again, like a plush washed too many times; weird, but charming, in its own way. As Luke cautiously extended his hand, it pushed its head against the palm, purring softly, as if requesting to be pet. On closer look, it had a collar: a red one, with a coin hanging, almost as big as its face. The golden glow felt… reassuring, somehow.
Not a stray, then. That explained why the cat was so comfortable with his presence—another thing he knew naturally, from the moment his fragment left the mist in search of the voice.
Don’t move, kiddo.
Luke froze.
It never seemed strange to him that he could understand its tongue. Or other animals, for that matter, even if fishes were often too loud, unaware of their number and always speaking at the same time, and if bees spoke for two. Any other kid his age would have loved to have that gift. It was another kind of gift to know when to listen, though, and he understood right away that he needed to.
You’re safe here, the cat kept purring gently, ears twitching. But don’t move. It won’t see you here.
It?
Before Luke could ponder what it was, a loud noise erupted over their heads, shaking the ground. Something like a bang, or a crack, or the both together, that shook him from the tip of his hair to the end of his toes. As he reflexively cupped the cat in his arms, he raised his head, trying to see where it was coming from…
Two red eyes looking over the town, a lamppost dying between its claws like a mere matchstick, stood in the fog.
Also known as the specter of Misthallery.
Riddles are not meant to linger in that world, girl.
It was what the old lady in the woods had told Emmy. Riddles were numerous in shapes and sizes, she had said; she would have soon understood what she meant, seeing Luke effortlessly walk through Misthallery’s mist, unaffected by the cold or the darkness trying to grab their ankles, that his aspect of simple British kid was a matter of convenience. Yet no matter their appearance, they shared the same role: to be temporary guides for their solvers to navigate this world. Emphasis on temporary. In spite of the rather… curious behavior of her host—Granny had explained all this while dumping a sack of food on her, appointing her, a perfect stranger, the sacred keeper of her cat—, she believed her. After all, the Targent agent was in the best possible position to recognize how an unsolved mystery could completely rot someone’s mind.
So, when they stood at the bridge, she was clueless as to why they were still at their side. The feline, and the very-much-present Luke.
“I’m not trying to be rude,” Emmy started, “but he’s supposed to be gone, right? Or…” Is there still a mystery left unsolved?
The Professor frowned, as clueless as she was. “No, I’m quite sure Misthallery is at peace now.”
In front of them, the fog was slowly lifting, leaving the town to wake up from its first real slumber in months. The Professor was right: the specter was no more.
“Perhaps,” the Professor pursued, “my theories regarding Luke have been incomplete. Say, my boy, are you feeling any different?”
Emmy did not doubt for a second that the Professor had figured everything out. She had to admit she was still a skeptic, as far as Riddles were involved; so when her mentor had professed, with the same serious voice he must have used for his lectures, that Luke was an incarnation of the children of Misthallery, she had had a hard time picturing what that even meant. But she had met the Black Ravens. She had seen how much Crow, Marylin and the others worked to make ends meet—so much that just buying a piece of candy was a luxury. And she had met Arianna Barde, the so-called Witch of Misthallery. She had heard her laugh, playing with Loosha, Tony and Luke, inexperienced, cautious; as if it was too big for her frail body to bear.
Perhaps she had started to understand because, if her circumstances had been just a little bit different, she could have ended up in their spot.
She suspected that it was also the Professor’s case, though she never asked. It would have been too risky.
Luke looked at the Professor, then turned around. He extended his arm, carefully stretching each finger of his left hand against that invisible border between Misthallery and the rest of the world.
“... No, I don’t,” he proclaimed at last. “Is it bad?”
“I’m afraid you’re the only one who could know,” the Professor admitted, cupping one hand under his chin.
It would probably take longer than a few days to fix what had allowed it to come and Misthallery in the first place—it may not have been a Riddle at the end, just a mad scientist’s sinister excavator, yet it found its roots in the same superstition and paranoia—but it would rebuild itself. Clark had gladly given the hall to Greppe, getting rid of Evan Barde’s lingering ghost once and for all. The factories would be opened again. Arianna would heal, even with the painful memories of Loosha and of her father intact.
But as for Luke? He was not bound to Misthallery, as the Professor had suspected. So, what was the twist?
Since she was clearly out of her field, Emmy decided to occupy her mind with more pragmatic matters. Like the Professor’s car still parked at the other end of the bridge. Misthallery’s weather had not been kind to the Laytonmobile: it was covered in mud and sandy rain, so much it would have been hard to believe it had once been red. She supposed taking care of it was in her job description too…
She looked at the cat, trying to gain his sympathy, but only earned a lazy yawn. Clearly, it could not care less.
“Well, since Clark and Brenda are moving back to London,” the Professor pondered, “where do you want to go?”
Luke blinked once, twice. “You mean… If I stay in Misthallery?”
“Of course. If that’s where you were born, so to speak—”
“But I want to stay with you,” the boy interrupted.
The Professor was taken aback. He opened his mouth and, when no counter-argument came out, turned towards Emmy, as if asking for her help. She could only offer a shrug and a gentle smile. He’s all yours.
“It’s… a lot to ask of me,” he answered, as diplomatic as possible. “Besides, my daily life at Gressenheller wouldn’t be—”
“I can help you,” Luke insisted stubbornly. “I could be your…” His mouth contorted, as if struggling to find the right word for a brief second. “Your…”
“If you want to hang out with the Professor,” Emmy stepped in. “You’ll have to settle for being the second assistant, you know!”
She instantly felt the sickly glow of the boy’s eyes bore into her, with what she usually shook off as jealousy.
Luke’s request did not surprise Emmy. She was more surprised that the Professor had not seen it coming. The Riddle-boy had remained by his side during their entire investigation, following his every step more faithfully than his own shadow ever would. Of course, she did not understand why—after all, it was for Clark he had appeared first… And she would probably never have the time to.
“... Apprentice?” Ah, so that was the word Luke had been looking for—he was looking at the Professor intently, probably trying to guess from the gentleman’s expression if it was the correct one. “I could be your apprentice!”
“I don’t think you’re going to change his mind,” Emmy commented at last, and she could have sworn she saw the Professor’s eyebrows furrow, mouth still agape, in a rare expression of… Well, the word anger itself seemed foreign to her mentor. Annoyance. As if she had been supposed to be on her side.
“I… would need to make accommodations with the University,” the Professor attempted to justify. “And my house is not… suited for a child.”
From what information she had gathered from Delmona, Emmy could imagine it was because his house had become second to his office at Gressenheller.
But now, she felt her own annoyance rise on Luke’s behalf. “Come on, Professor! Didn’t you say you were looking for a Riddle? Who could help you better than another one? Riddles are meant to be solved, remember?”
Besides, she was starting to feel a strange cold creeping through her limbs from her boots, as if she needed another reminder of the boy’s otherworldly nature. The Professor might not have even been able to stop him from following him to London; asking was a matter of principles. A true future gentleman, that kid.
“That’s… Yes, that’s correct, however…”
The cat was to be the last to intervene, as it lightly—but stubbornly—bonked its head against the Professor’s leg. Emmy did not hide her victorious smile. “Three against one, Professor.”
A sigh escaped the gentleman’s lips, before his attention turned back towards the Riddle. “Forgive me, Luke. I didn’t mean to make you believe I didn’t want you to come with us. It’s just…” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I hope you can forgive my failures. Taking care of a child is new to me.” The young woman refrained from adding that, to her, he had seemed a natural. She had seen him with Arianna and Tony Barde.
“Does that mean,” Luke asked, “you’ll let me come with you?”
“...Yes.”
He did not seem to notice or care about the Professor’s hesitation.
It was like someone had flipped a switch, and before anyone knew it, the boy had his face buried against the man’s chest. A “thank you, Professah’” came out, muffled through the fabric. Emmy felt the misty cold retreat from her limbs; she could not see it, but she started to imagine it, a perfect extension of Luke himself, grabbing her mentor’s body as if its life, or its existence, depended on it.
If he felt it, the Professor made no mention of it. It was just after the first second of surprise that he reached for Luke’s head, fingers gently running through the curls on his neck. Emmy swallowed that feeling of longing that was building up in her throat. Had her Uncle ever been like this? Ever been capable of this?
“... Alright, boys!” She shook herself up, making the first step across the bridge. “If we need to talk to Delmona, we better be back in London in the afternoon! I’ll be driving!”
“It’s going to be a, ah, delicate situation to approach,” the Professor said behind her back, accompanied by two steps on the wooden planks—he had managed to push Luke away from him, somehow.
“You mean,” Emmy teased, “the fact that you’ve gained custody of a child while you were away? Or that you’ll have to compensate for the last few days you missed?”
The Professor forced a curt laugh, as the last bit dawned on him. “Both, I’d say.”
Talking about Luke… Emmy turned around, as soon as she was back on solid ground. The boy had not followed them yet—for a second, she remembered how fuzzy he had felt walking on the bridges of Misthallery, though she was not quite sure if it was one of those Riddle-things or if he was just afraid of heights—, instead looking down at the cat and apparently in deep conversation. Or so she assumed: the only hint that the pet was contributing was the slow metronome of its tail.
The Professor called. “Luke?”
“One second, Professah’!” Emmy saw him bend down through the light fog—was it only because of Luke’s presence that it lingered still? Or was it a fragment? And what would happen if Misthallery was robbed of its trademark mist?—and pat the cat’s head. “Thank you, Keats!”
With that, Luke ran towards them, skipping over the old wooden bridge without a care or a fear in the world.
The cat remained at the other end of the bridge, looking at them driving away inside the coughing red car, before it turned around. Its nose twitched with just the tiniest tingle.
Oh, Granny’s going to love that story.
Oh, yes, Misthallery. Elizabeth remembered that town fondly. She had left Mama’s pear tree there, the shack of her mother too big for her shoulders to carry. She had made the right choice, requesting Keats to stay with that girl, Emmy Altava. From the moment he had told her about the boy with the wet feet—as good as he was guiding lost Riddles, he was still just a cat, with his cat thinking—she knew she had found something very special.
“Hm, hm.” Elizabeth casually extended a finger to a spider. “A Riddle shaped like a boy…”
“Ah, that’s right. Luke, could you…?”
It sounded like Layton was asking if he could, really, not if he would, please; and the keeper kept her back turned, figuring Luke would not want her to see. Mind you, she had already witnessed Riddles change their aspect, enough that the grossness did not faze her anymore, but it was a first for them, and did she already mention Riddles were sensitive? Besides, she had to make sure to apologize to the spider on her nail, before her duster destroyed its well-woven home. Not doing so would bring her bad luck… and one never knows when you’ll need help from the bug kingdom.
Elizabeth just heard another voice. It must have been Layton speaking, physically; but in a quieter, more cautious tone. An incomplete Luke was speaking through his professor. “Sorry, Professor. I just forgot. Claudia…?”
“... Yes, she left quite a nasty scratch. But, nothing that’ll last.”
The keeper supposed the man did not understand why this detail was so important. Of course, he would have preferred his apprentice not to be disfigured by an angry feline, since the latter could choose it. But a Riddle’s chosen aspect was never hazardous. It was as much part of the puzzle to solve as the words it may use.
She bent down, putting the spider safe on the floor, just as she felt the hair on her arms stand on end. There. Now she could properly meet Luke.
Not that he looked anything extraordinary. He looked exactly like Keats had described him, proudly readjusting the blue cap on his head as a near-perfect imitation of the Professor… Well, the three imperfect scars on his cheek excepted. Elizabeth had met Claudia before in town, and it was nothing like her beloved companion. It might have the shape of a cat, the tongue of a cat, and the general disposition of a cat; even a keeper like her could wonder if Claudia had just crawled straight out of Hell.
The Professor gently put his hand under Luke’s chin, and his thumb brushed against his cheek. “Does it still hurt?”
“No,” he unabashedly lied.
The man chuckled, hardly fooled. “Still, I’d like to ask Beatrice to look at it, before we continue our investigation.”
Before they went to do that, though, the Professor’s attention turned back towards Elizabeth. “Apologies. It seems I forgot my manners. My name is Hershel Layton.” He made his hat bow over his forehead. “I’ve been summoned here—”
“Oh, I’ve heard of you already,” Elizabeth interrupted. “The baroness hired you to look for the Golden Apple. And when you find it,” she pursued, as both Layton and his self-proclaimed apprentice stared at her with mouths varying degrees of agape, “this town will have no reason to be anymore. What a shame.”
Luke’s eyes moved to the Professor. “How could she know?”
Layton attempted to keep his composure. “... And, if I may, who you might be?”
“You’re standing in front of the beautiful, clairvoyant Granny Riddleton!” Elizabeth made a half-twirl, her duster dancing in the air like a wand. “See, my duty is to take care of Riddles. Riddles which have never found their solver, Riddles which have been forgotten…” It pointed at Luke’s chest, as if she was holding a knife against his chest. “Riddles which do not want to be solved.”
The boy visibly recoiled.
Hershel Layton did not know much, in definitive, but he might have sensed it too. Or at least it shone through, in his every word, the way he would talk of their adventures over the world, and hold Luke’s shoulder tighter, as if the Riddle threatened to spill through his fingers again: he did not want to solve it either. Because such a scenario would mean that Luke…
“I see.”
And yet, it was his to solve. Perhaps not the one he had been looking for—perhaps it did not exist at all, not yet—but the one his heart had called for.
“Don’t be scared… Luke, was it?” Elizabeth chuckled, seeing the boy glare at her with all the intensity he could muster, before addressing Layton: “That’s a beautiful name you gave him.”
He temporarily ignored his apprentice’s less-than-gentlemanly behavior, his curiosity stronger. “Actually, I’m not the one who chose it.” He put the flat of his hand under his chin, lost in thought. “Come to think of it, I’ve never asked Clark…”
It was not Clark Triton who gave Luke his name, Elizabeth knew already. It was a part of his aspect, as fundamental as his physical appearance. Layton figured that out too. He had a big brain hidden under the fancy top hat, and must have known his old college friend would not have had the imagination to think of a name. Not for the stray Riddle he had seen as an extension of the evil that plagued his town.
“Miss Riddleton,” he said at last, “you mentioned you’ve been taking care of Riddles which did not want to be solved, correct?” Luke’s head spun like an owl, eyebrows meeting in the middle in utmost betrayal, but Layton pursued: “Would it be possible that—”
“Hush,” Elizabeth interrupted. “I know what kind of Riddle you’re looking for. Ashes scattered but never grieved, taste of copper… And the face of a woman you’re trying not to forget.”
“... Professor?”
Layton just stood there, not even surprised by the description. “So you really are clairvoyant.”
“Beautiful and clairvoyant,” Elizabeth playfully corrected. “But that Riddle doesn’t even exist. Nada!” There was just a hint of sadness shining in the man’s dark eyes. “You’re already a solver, Mister Layton. You must take care of the Riddle that’s already with you. It was made for you.”
Layton’s attention went back to the Riddle-boy, just as he was trying to look away. “... Luke.” He crouched to meet his apprentice’s eyes. There was no need for the man to verbally ask the new pressing question hanging on his lips.
“... It was your voice, Professor. In Misthallery. Calling my name. But—” Luke raised his voice. “I don’t know why, I swear!”
A forgiving smile graced Layton’s face. “I never thought otherwise, Luke.” Still, that did not seem to lift the boy’s spirits, eyes on the ground, as if the sight of his shoes had suddenly become the most interesting puzzle in the world.
How fascinating. “He could not tell you even if he wanted to,” Elizabeth joined in, putting her duster against the wall of the shack. “You two boys really look like you could use a hint!”
Both repeated at once: “A hint?”
“As a keeper,” she explained. “I can’t solve the Riddle for you. But I’ll still give you a nudge in the right direction!” She extended her arm, opening her begging palm. “For a price, that is.”
Layton stood up, still holding onto Luke’s shoulder. “I imagine someone as honorable as you is not expecting money?”
Elizabeth grinned at the flattery. “Oh, just a coin. Any will suffice. You must’ve found some hidden in the village, yes?”
“Oh!” Luke’s bright eyes widened, before his hand hastily rummaged inside his satchel. From an inside pocket, he extracted it: one single golden coin, slightly corroded on the edges, with the drawing of an apple carved in the center. An inhabitant of Saint Mystere must have dropped in the street—before the use of money within the town became obsolete.
“Yes,” Elizabeth whistled. “Now, give it to me.”
The boy hesitated, looking back and forth between the keeper and Layton. The latter pointed his chin wordlessly in Elizabeth’s direction in encouragement.
As soon as the coin fell in her hand, she made it disappear in her sleeve, waving her empty palm like a magician at the end of their trick. “Thank you!” Of course, the worlds beyond did not give the gift of clairvoyance without a price, and she could not have shared a bit of it without asking for something in return as well; and fully breaking her oath as a keeper was one price she could never have paid back. The fae did not care about the monetary value, that much was true. They cared about the memories.
“Now, how to solve this very special Riddle…” She rubbed her chin. “Oh, I know! You’re wondering about that name.”
“I never considered how important it could be,” Layton admitted.
“Oh, of course it’s important! Your name has been carefully chosen, by someone who cared about you, yes?” The man politely nodded. Keats had told her this story too; Hershel Layton may have become Hershel Layton only thanks to the strangest, most unfortunate circumstances, it only made that statement more true. “Well, consider this riddle…
“What’s the use of a name for a kid that never came to be?”
“Claire…?”
Maybe she would have preferred Hershel not to recognize her. It would have been easier, at least. She had prepared herself for this scenario. After all, for him, it had been ten years since… well, calling it an accident felt boorish, but nevertheless. Had she lived, she would have changed, the same way he did. Alongside him, she had once hoped. And as far as he should have been concerned, she had died. Did not even have the decency to leave a proper body behind to bury. Gone just because of her own ego.
But Hershel did recognize her. And the way her name rang in his mouth, like a coddled whisper that had been physically ripped away from his throat, wounded her more than any explosion ever could have.
Yes, she wanted to say. It’s me, Claire. And also, I’m sorry I made you suffer. And even moreso, I’m sorry I’ll make you suffer once again.
Yet Claire knew she could not tell any of those things. As much as it hurt her, to see her boyfriend like this—to know that this was her fault alone—she had to keep pretending to be someone else. If not for Hershel’s own sake, for the sake of all of London. So, she lied. “My name’s Celeste.” As she had rehearsed. “I’m Claire’s sister.” Through clenched teeth.
His brows furrowed. “Her… sister?”
Of course he would not buy it so easily. How many times had she talked about her mess of a family? Enough times that he would have recalled Claire mentioning a sister. The only family she could ever talk about fondly was a grandfather; even when he turned too old to remember her, when she had to fight him to keep him safe from his memories of the war, he had been still infinitely more gentle than her parents ever were. Mostly, she entertained the idea of the family she had wanted to build, with…
Claire is dead, she reminded herself, searing this idea in her brain. Claire’s dead, and it’s better that she stays dead.
“We had a falling out… When she left us to study at Gressenheller.” This second lie, at least, felt a little easier. “I’ve been investigating her death too.”
“... I see…” There was a strange trailing sound to Hershel’s words. Doubt. Or disappointment.
Well, she knew Hershel had been looking over the circumstances of the accident too. Dimitri had told her; and he had told her with such pride, to hold her—or whatever fleeting fragment of her that was bound to be sent back to her fate—when another man could not, Claire had instantly remembered why she had always rejected him. He had also told her how, once all pragmatic avenues of investigation ended nowhere, he had turned to the idea of Riddles. Of something that had remained of her after the accident.
Of course, he could not have known she had never died, to leave a ghost behind. Or had not died yet, she was not even sure herself. Not that it should matter.
She turned towards the real Riddle standing next to Hershel, hoping to take the latter’s attention away from the huge holes in her story. “And this young man is…?”
“Ah,” Hershel said, “this is Luke, my—”
“Apprentice,” the boy cut in fiercely. “I’m the Professor’s apprentice.”
Luke?
That.. Must have been a coincidence. Right? After all, Luke was not exactly a rare name in the area. She had cherished that name, true, but excluding him, she could even recall knowing two Lukes growing up in her neighborhood. It meant nothing.
It should have meant nothing.
“Nice to meet you.” Claire—or Celeste—put on a strained smile. “Now we should leave,” she advised. “Before the Family finds us here.”
“You’re right. Please wait here,” Hershel instructed. “I’ll make sure the way’s clear.”
Claire nodded, and he turned on his heels, securing the top hat on his head with one quick tip. She never would have thought he would have kept the silly thing, considering how much the gift had seemed to embarrass him, even less long enough to let himself grow into it.
What would’ve happened, if I’d just stayed?
As much as she did not want to, her attention returned to Luke; just to notice that the Riddle-boy was also looking at her, studying her intently. For some reason, she was reminded of Mortimer, their old laboratory rat, always staring at them from within its box.
“You’re not just Hershel’s apprentice,” Claire stated, once Hershel was out of earshot. “Right?”
Luke did not say anything, but she saw his mouth twist in an odd mixture of surprise and acceptance. Oh, of course the kid had to have been aware of his nature before Hershel. How had he not noticed the little signs… Then again, he seemed to have purposefully forgotten that Claire never had a sibling. He was a bright man, the brightest she ever knew; yet emotional matters had always been his blind spot.
“It’s a beautiful name you have, Luke. It was—”
“Don’t tell him!”
The strength of his voice might have even surprised him, because he paused. Before adding in a whisper: “Please.”
He lowered his head. Not being able to see the yellow rings in his eyes, Luke looked just like any normal—scared—kid, and Claire just felt this imperative urge to hold him in her arms, to tell him that everything would sort itself out in the end, even knowing her own fate. But she did not. She did not remember much about Riddles, outside of fairy tales, but she was afraid doing so would have him dissipate.
Instead, she just asked: “Why not?”
Luke shifted from one foot to the other, hands nervously twisting the strap of his bag. “Because… I don’t want to leave.”
… That, Claire could relate.
God, how many lives had they really ruined with that time experiment of theirs? Had she known the consequences of their foolishness, she would never have stepped foot inside the machine. Not because of what had happened to her—or what would ultimately happen to her—; it was only retribution for trying to play with the laws of nature, and she had long made peace with that idea. But because of everyone who was hurt around her. Clive, of course. Dimitri, even. And Hershel… The life they could have had…
Claire closed her eyes shut. The only thing she could do now, is to do her best to stop the ripples of that mistake.
She crouched down, hoping to get Luke to look at her. “I really wish I got to know you.” The boy did raise his chin, and she could see the tears he was bravely trying to stop from spilling. “But I’m not going to tell Hershel anything. At least, not before London’s safe.”
And after that, there won’t be any time left.
“Luke? Celeste?” Hershel’s voice echoed from the next room. “We can go.”
Claire whispered: “Are you going to be alright?”
Luke rubbed one hand flat against his eyes. “... Yes. Thank you.”
She smiled, before standing up, calling towards Hershel. “We’re coming!”
She had not realized she had extended her hand. Or noticed the cold weaving itself into her arm when Luke’s fingers joined hers.
Hershel took a long minute to contemplate the two plates in front of him.
Admittedly, he would have been the first to admit it was far from fine gastronomy. The sausages were overcooked, the broccoli was not cooked enough, and eggs floated in the middle in excess water, the yolks like eyes staring back at him with judgment. Yet he felt pride creeping on his face. Cooking is not just about making a nutritious meal, Professor. It’s about the effort you put in it. It’s about the time spent with your family. It was Flora who had once told him that, and it was something he had grossly failed to understand at the time; but he was determined to correct this.
He took one plate in each hand, precariously balancing them as one of his elbows pushed the door open. “Dinner’s ready, Luke.”
“Hm-hm.”
The boy barely acknowledged Hershel’s voice; sitting on his knees and leaning backwards on the couch, he was silently watching the Crescent.
As the man dropped the first plate on the table, he could not help but look as well. There was nothing but the slow pitter-patter of the rain against the window, and the curls of smoke coming out from the chimneys. Not a soul in the Crescent to dare and challenge the weather, not even a cat or a mouse. Those would have invariably ended up finding refuge inside the house anyway, though Luke had thankfully stopped being so generous—since they had to explain to Dean Delmona how and why a winged Witch had broken down his office wall. It was quickly appraised and dismissed as one ordinary evening in London.
But evidently, there was something, a thing only his apprentice could see.
As soon as he put the other plate down, Hershel rejoined, putting a hand over Luke’s shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. “Come. You don’t want to eat cold food.”
The boy reluctantly turned around to sit properly on the couch.
It was Hershel who lingered a little longer. In the distance, the fog obscured the streets… but it did not feel quite like the fog. He had lived long enough in the capital to notice the difference between the London Smog and a foreign mist. It came tip-toeing on the pavements, like an unwanted guest, silently sneaking in from the alleys. It had an intent.
Hershel sat down at his apprentice’s side. Luke had already started his plate, painfully trying to chew on one of the sausages. “I’ve never been a good cook, I’m afraid,” he confessed.
Luke gulped down, like a mouse caught in a trap. “It-It’s not that bad, I promise!”
When Hershel tried to cut through his own sausage, it flattened under the knife dent with a noise he would usually only associate with wet plastic. “Oh, I think it is that bad,” he laughed. “Don’t force yourself. The eggs should be good, I hope.”
Luke did not argue, but quietly pushed the sausage and broccoli on the side of his plate. “... It’s better than Flora’s fishcake,” he offered.
Hershel let an indulgent laugh escape his lips. As much as he came to appreciate Flora’s efforts, even missed them, now that she had found her own home… It was not difficult to do better than a whole fish on a cake.
Then he heard a small whine coming from Luke. “Are you cold?”
“... A little bit,” the boy admitted.
“Have you eaten enough?” Hershel’s arm reached for his old coat on the hanger.
“... I should help you clear the table,” Luke commented, without making any move to do so.
“That’s quite alright, Luke,” Hershel dismissed, putting the coat around his apprentice’s shoulder. “I’ll make us some tea.”
He stood up, reluctantly leaving the comfort of the couch, threw a small log in the fireplace, and took the plates back to the kitchen.
It was hardly enough, or balanced, he realized that, setting aside the sausages for the dogs. He was just lucky that, by his very nature, his apprentice was not too picky with food. He knew that it would be different with Alfendi. If he were to gain custody of the child, he had to prove he could provide a good home for him. And a young boy, especially one with his background, could hardly grow with nothing but the whole variation of eggs, from hard-boiled to scrambled.
Quietly, he started to prepare the tea. The Belle Classic, as always, with just a drop of cream and a spoon of honey to sweeten it at the bottom of Luke’s cup.
Hershel had to make this house—his own house—feel inhabited once again.
They had started to prepare the living room for Alfendi’s arrival, though it was far from livable yet. At the beginning, it did not feel like their home at all. Now, there was still dust on the surfaces he had neglected for so many years, with only scattered fingerprints betraying the presence of inhabitants. Piles of books that had little to envy of the ones in his Gressenheller office, where Flora had tried to clean up; old photos—the memories of Emmy before she left—and press articles—Emmy after she left—yellowing under sunlight. But it was an honest start. If only because Hershel did not want Alfendi to believe Professor Layton would take him in, because there was no one else willing to.
Luke had helped, too.
Now, he was on the couch, all his limbs coiled in the Professor’s old coat like a blanket. Hershel put the tray on the table and sat next to him, pouring hot tea in the first cup. “Here.”
Small hands reached from under the coat, each finger trying to dig into the porcelain, as if to keep the warmth from slipping away, and nestled himself against Hershel’s shoulder. And as the latter put the back of his hand against his forehead, he felt how unnaturally cold and pale the boy’s skin was. More so than usual, even.
He knew that had nothing to do with the flu. Instantly, the memories of their meeting with Miss Riddleton, a year back, flooded at the front of his mind. The first time he had seen Luke’s true aspect. The fear that this tiny curl of mist that was his best friend would simply vanish if he did so much as look away, with him powerless to stop it.
Hershel did his best not to move too much when reaching for his own cup. The steam rose to his nose, taunting him. Outside, the mist had settled in the Crescent. “At least,” he commented, “that weather means we’ll have some sun tomorrow.”
Luke’s head swayed against his shoulder, turning to fix a corner of the window.
Hershel had been readying himself for that day. He had solved the Riddle, since Claire’s other death. “I must admit I still don’t understand everything about Riddles… But I suppose this mist is waiting for you.” Hershel could have sworn he heard the frown etching itself on Luke’s face. “Am I wrong?”
“... It’s calling,” the boy tried to explain, as if mentioning the silent thief by name could summon it within. “Not my name, but… When I was younger, you were telling me never to run out of sight?”
“I think I understand what you mean.” Even during their first adventure together, even when Luke could still physically leave, he would never do so. Like all children, he knew instinctively the Professor’s protection could only go so far.
Luke burrowed deeper under the coat. It’s like a moth to a flame, Hershel thought. An unexplainable, irresistible attraction.
“But I want to stay with you.”
“Luke…” Hershel shook his head, sighing inwardly. For a brief moment, watching his best friend next to him, he wondered if he could just… not say anything. Keep him by his side, just for a little longer.
And he had an inkling that Luke was thinking the exact same thing.
“You can’t stay. Riddles cannot remain indefinitely in our world. You do remember what happened with Aurora, right?”
Of course he remembered Aurora. The Azran’s final Riddle, that poor girl, forgotten by the very people who she had been meant to guide, trapped for eons under the ice—because they could not bear to see the true face of what they were about to destroy, the soul of their own robotic creations. It was a wonder the Other World was still willing to deal with humans after that.
“I’m not like Aurora,” Luke argued.
It was true. Luke had been made to be loved—every bit the child he could have been, had it not been for the accident—; that only made things more difficult. But as much as Hershel selfishly wanted to keep his apprentice by his side, he could not start to imagine him going through even a fraction of what Aurora had to endure.
“Luke.”
No response.
“Luke, please look at me.”
It seemed to take every muscle in the boy’s body to move, shifting on his other side, carefully juggling to put the cup away and not to let one extra limb slip away from his makeshift burrow.
“Let me ask you a simple question. What are we?”
“What are we…?”
“To answer, you’ll need six clues: the first of a human who lived with robots, and the last of a robot who lived with humans.”
“Professor, are you really asking me a solve a—”
“The third,” Hershel continued, “of a friend who solved puzzles by our side, before leaving to solve her own. The fourth of a woman, who gave us ten minutes of life after ten years of death.”
He smiled at the opposite wall. For so long, her ghost—the one he had created himself—had hung there, like an old overcoat he could not resolve to throw away. Now, it was just a meaningless empty space.
“The first of a Riddle, answering a call I didn’t know I was making.” He looked at Luke again, the boy now listening intently. “And the last of the place where he found me.”
Luke’s eyebrows met in the middle. “... We—ell,” Luke stretched the vowel, deep in thought. “The first of a human who lived with robots, it can only be Flora. So the first of Flora is…”
Hershel knew after all these years the boy did not proclaim himself his apprentice in vain; if his mouth struggled, it was because his mind was busy, already trying to figure the answer to the other clues ahead.
“Now, if you put the clues in order…”
It was kind of funny, and kind of cruel, too. Hershel had never liked puzzles, growing up; perhaps a subconscious part of his mind remembered how that obsession turned out for his biological father, or perhaps he just associated them with Randall’s childish antics. But now, he was looking at Luke. Luke, with the brown curls that should have been his, the blue eyes that should have been hers, just the pale yellow rings from another otherworldly maker. Luke, who always loved to solve his puzzles…
“... Oh!”
“I see you’ve figured it out.” Luke did not need to say the answer out loud, or point, or claim that he saved the day! His expression said it all.
“But—”
“Luke.”
The boy opened and closed his mouth with a pop, like a fish trying to eat a fragment of moonstone.
“It’s been three years since we met, right?”
Luke nodded.
“Over the last three years,” Hershel recounted, “I’ve met many people I can consider my friends. I’ve rekindled old relationships I thought I did not deserve. I’ve got Flora, and Alfendi. And… I even solved that puzzle that has been tormenting me for ten years.”
He found some love again, just for it to be taken away.
“And it’s all thanks to you.”
“Me?”
“You may not have been aware at the time, but if you hadn’t appeared in Misthallery, I would still be looking for this unsolvable Riddle.” Even though his mouth felt drier than the sands of Monte d’Or, he swallowed his feelings. He could not waver—or he would never resolve to do what he was supposed to.
“So, the least I can do is to let you go.”
Luke did not argue. Perhaps the idea was still sinking in, and Hershel considered it was even more cruel for Riddles like him, like Aurora, to have the aspect of children. He felt like he was abandoning him. But he knew he had a duty. As a solver.
“We’ll be fine. And, most importantly, you’ll be fine.”
Hershel slightly moved his arm, putting the cup away. The tea had likely long turned cold, anyway, and he did not feel like tarnishing his last memory of Luke with the bittered taste of Belle Seed on his tongue. The boy nested his head against Hershel’s chest, and they let themselves drift.
“I really don’t want to go,” Luke still said, weakly, as a matter of principle.
“... Well, if you don’t,” Hershel played along, “we’ll need to go buy some bread tomorrow.”
“But if I do… Will you remember to feed the birds?”
“Of course.”
He gently brushed the boy’s hair.
“... Can I just ask you one question?”
“Mh?”
“Did Claire solve the Riddle?”
He felt Luke’s head slightly shift with a smile. “Instantly. I asked her not to tell you.”
As he felt his eyes close, Hershel felt a small chuckle rise inside his throat. Of course she had. That Riddle was a fragment of her unwound future as much as his. Maybe she would have been better, but that was the best he could do: just an ordinary evening in London, the smell of wood burning in the fireplace, listening to the rain’s pitter-patter and his child’s breath along his own…
By next morning, Luke was gone.
