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As part of a private indulgence, Aventurine refuses to think much of the sound of a vase falling — no doubt a minor annoyance to get it cleaned up later. One of the cat cakes wobbles on the bed as he throws the bed open, arms spread, showmanship on, and-
Finds nothing on the other side.
The flat is as he left it ten minutes ago. Minus that vase. Pity, he liked it, it had this rare, minimalist green and white design, was once a gift for lady Jade before she assigned him a boring mission and he took it home, in some sort of secret revenge. But well, huh, if it’s nothing…
Another sound. Not quite brittle this time. Crisp. He turns his head to find a rip that starta halfway through the curtain and snaps each of its threads, letting itself tear into some kind of diagonal line. The fabric tries to cling to its other half before surrendering to gravity.
He slams the bedroom door and picks up the phone. IPC security grunts — boring — personnel assigned to the building — no — pest control — ah. There’s an idea. He could use this pest. Call a different kind of pest control.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" comes Ratio’s voice through the speaker.
Doing his best to not make his grin apparent, Aventurine says, "Would you choose to deny help to the needy?"
***
He has a cat cake under each arm when he opens the door. "I think I have a ghost infestation," he opens with.
Ratio’s eyebrows draw up by mere millimetres — the smallest possible movement that could still register as movement. "Is that a joke?"
"No, no!" Aventurine interrupts, in a mix of urgency and delight. "I’m telling you, there are noises are coming from nowhere! And the tearing curtains? That’s a classic ghost move, my friend. I need your expertise."
"My expertise," Ratio repeats flatly, "in ghosts."
Standing in the doorway with two squirming cat cakes under his arms, Aventurine beams. The cat cakes wriggle in protest at being held so unceremoniously. The left one lets out a soft 'mrrp' that sounds suspiciously like a demand to be put down.
"Well, you're the best at everything else, aren't you?" Aventurine steps aside to let him in, letting the lighting in his flat catch him just so, as if he's arranged it. Which, he has. He has constructed his entire life to be perfectly staged.
The moment Ratio crosses the threshold, both cat cakes leap free from Aventurine's grasp, landing with identical soft thumps on the hardwood floor. One immediately winds its way between Ratio's ankles, leaving a faint trail of sugar crystals in its wake. The corner of Ratio’s mouth twitches upward. Probably despite himself, Aventurine thinks.
A tinkling sound interrupts his thoughts, like wind chimes in a breeze, except there are no wind chimes in the flat, and all the windows are closed. The second cat cake, halfway through grooming its sibling, freezes mid-lick, the rest of them snapping their heads towards the source of the sound, searching for what appears to be a poltergeist with a penchant for interior decoration. The broken vase still lies scattered across the floor, its minimalist green and white pattern now a fractured mosaic on Aventurine's expensive hardwood. Ratio's methodical sweep of the room transforms his humble abode into something approaching a crime scene, making even the simple act of examining a torn curtain look like a dissertation on the proper ways one ought to investigate paranormal phenomena.
The cat cake, having recovered its dignity after being so unceremoniously carried earlier, now sits in sphinx-like contemplation atop Aventurine's favourite armchair. Its companion continues its determined campaign to mark both of their trousers, much to Aventurine's private amusement.
"When did this start?" Ratio asks.
"Tonight." Aventurine affects his most casual air, which is about as casual as a peacock at a formal ball. "So soon after our last mission. It’s why I asked you, you know." Untrue, but making someone feel like a last resort usually works. "Might be because of my new souvenirs. You remember — the one with all those delightfully cursed artefacts? Though I must say, I didn't expect the little brass compass to be quite so... lively."
The compass in question sits innocently on his mantelpiece, its needle spinning in lazy circles that have nothing to do with magnetic north and everything to do with whatever spectral presence has taken up residence in his flat. He'd nabbed it — purely for safekeeping, of course — after Ratio had been distracted by a particularly aggressive cursed telescope. The fact that it matched his bedroom's décor had been merely a fortunate coincidence.
A tinkling sound, like crystal wine glasses toasting at a ghost's dinner party, fills the air.
"A compass," Ratio intones, each syllable precisely measured and weighed for maximum disapproval. "You took a compass from a collection of explicitly cursed artefacts."
"Borrowed," Aventurine corrects. "And really, as far as curses go, this one's rather charming. It hasn't even tried to predict anyone's death yet. Though it does seem to have strong opinions about my furniture arrangement..."
As if summoned by his words, a gentle force nudges his favourite armchair exactly two inches to the left. The compass needle spins with what Aventurine swears is satisfaction.
"Strong opinions," Ratio repeats in that delicious way of his, as though each word must be examined for moral failing before being allowed past his lips. "About feng shui."
"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous." Aventurine drapes himself across his newly-positioned chair, careful not to disturb the cat cake. He's perfected this particular pose over years of practice — the exact angle of recline to appear both completely at ease and utterly captivating. "Though you must admit, the room does feel more balanced now."
Ratio's expression suggests he would rather admit to a fondness for juggling live hedgehogs. The cat cake, sensing his distress, attempts to comfort him by leaving a perfect paw print on his ankle.
Another crystalline chime fills the air, and this time the compass needle spins wildly before pointing directly at the space between them. Aventurine raises an eyebrow, his heart quickening with a mix of excitement and curiosity. "See? The spirit is trying to tell us something!" He gestures dramatically, as if orchestrating a symphony of ghosts. Ratio, though clearly unimpressed, leans closer, narrowing his eyes at the compass.
"Or it’s simply malfunctioning," he replies, deadpan. "After all, you did steal it from a cursed collection."
"Oh, come now," Aventurine says with a wave of his hand. "What’s a little ghostly mischief among friends? Besides, it’s not like I’ve invited them to tea." He leans forward in his chair, intrigued.
Ratio sighs, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. "You do realise that adventures usually come with consequences?"
"I’m counting on it," Aventurine says, his voice infused with a mischievous glee.
The corners of Ratio’s mouth betray him again, edging toward an amused smile. Still, he takes a step back to appraise the chaos that seems to writhe just beneath the surface of Aventurine’s flat. The cat cakes, sensing the charge in the air, sit up tall, tails flicking with feline curiosity.
The compass needle spins again, now more animated than ever. It settles on a spot in the center of the room, directly between them. With a sudden gust that ruffles papers scattered across the coffee table, another tinkling sound fills the air—this time accompanied by a distant wail that echoes. Aventurine finds himself sliding off his chair and closer to Ratio, drawn by some unseen force that he chooses to blame entirely on supernatural interference rather than his own inclinations.
"Fascinating," he breathes. "It appears our ghostly friend is something of a matchm—" He catches himself. "A mathematician. Yes, quite interested in the precise measurement of personal space, wouldn't you say?"
The compass chimes again, a sound remarkably similar to ghostly laughter.
Ratio pulls out a small leather notebook, because of course he carries one, and begins making notations with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs or selecting neckties. "The resonance frequency suggests a class three spectral manifestation, likely tied to the compass's original owner. Did you happen to notice any identifying marks? Initials? Mysterious bloodstains?"
"The only marks I noticed," Aventurine says, leaning over to examine Ratio's neat handwriting, "were some rather elegant engravings along the rim. Quite tasteful, really. Almost as tasteful as your penmanship."
The compass chimes again, more insistently this time, and the temperature in the room drops several degrees. Ratio's breath fogs in the air as he writes, though Aventurine notices he shifts ever so slightly closer. For warmth, no doubt.
"Class three manifestations are typically harmless," Ratio says, his voice clinically detached even as his shoulder brushes against Aventurine's. "Though they can be... persistent."
"Like someone else I know," Aventurine murmurs, just loud enough to be heard. The cat cakes, having apparently decided that ghostly activity is less interesting than their usual grooming routine, begin methodically cleaning their sugar-crystal fur.
Another spectral breeze sweeps through the room, this time carrying with it the faint scent of sea salt and something older, something that reminds Aventurine of ancient brass and forgotten libraries. The compass needle spins again, then stops abruptly, pointing directly at the door.
"Ah," Ratio says, snapping his notebook shut. "It seems our spirit is suggesting I take my leave."
Aventurine's carefully constructed expression falters for just a moment. "Or perhaps it's indicating the presence of another artefact? One that might require further investigation?" He takes a step toward the door, then another, as if drawn by the compass's invisible thread. "We could—"
The compass lets out a discordant chime, like shattered crystal, and suddenly every door in the flat slams shut.
"Interesting," Ratio says, in that way that means he's noticed something but won't share unless properly coaxed. "The energy signature just shifted."
"Did it now?" Aventurine asks, grateful for the dimmed lights that hide the flush creeping up his neck. "And what does that tell us about our spectral friend?"
"That perhaps," Ratio says, measured and deliberate, accusatory, taking a step back, "it's not the only one with an agenda tonight."
The compass chimes once more, softer this time, almost apologetic. The doors quietly swing open again, and the temperature gradually returns to normal. Aventurine watches as Ratio makes his way to the door, each step precise and purposeful.
At the threshold, Ratio pauses. "Next time you decide to acquire potentially haunted artefacts," he says, not quite turning around, "you might consider asking for assistance first, rather than after the fact."
"But then how would I ensure your prompt arrival at such an unfashionable hour?" Aventurine asks, unable to help himself.
The corner of Ratio's mouth twitches again, and this time Aventurine is certain it's deliberate. "Good night, Aventurine."
After the door closes, Aventurine turns to the compass, still spinning lazily on its perch. "Well," he says to the empty room, "that could have gone better." The compass chimes what sounds suspiciously like agreement. One of the cat cakes headbutts his ankle sympathetically, leaving a dusting of sugar on his sock. The other, still atop the armchair, gives him a look that seems to say, ‘Humans make everything so complicated.’
Aventurine picks up the compass, studying its shifting reflections in the dim light. "Next time," he tells it, "perhaps we should try a less dramatic approach." The needle spins once, decisively, and points toward his phone.
He laughs, setting the compass back down. "Now that," he says, "would be far too simple." But he catches himself glancing at the phone anyway, wondering if perhaps the ghost of whatever ancient navigator once owned this compass might, against all odds, have the right idea.
The compass chimes one last time, sounding remarkably like a sigh.