I cast my gaze beyond the glass once more, where a family moved along the cobbled streets, a stark contrast against the faceless tide of the city. A father, a mother, and two children—an ordinary sight, yet something about the simplicity of their presence held my attention. The younger child, a boy of no more than six, clung to his mother's hand, his tiny fingers wrapped tightly around hers, as if afraid to let go. The elder, a girl whose dark braids bounced with each step, skipped ahead, her laughter light, unburdened. They walked together, close enough that even the cold night air could not sever the warmth between them.
I watched them in silence.
The city around them churned with motion—nobles slipping past in carriages with lace-curtained windows, merchants beckoning to passersby with smooth, practiced calls, common folk weaving through the streets with the efficiency of those who could not afford to linger. Yet, in that moment, the family seemed untouched by it all, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other's presence.
A slow, unfamiliar ache coiled in my chest, subtle at first, then tightening like a vice.
Even now, even after all this time—years since I first opened my eyes in this strange, gilded cage—the echoes of my past clung to me with clawed hands—sharp, unyielding and haunting.
And in them—in that mother's gentle clasp, in the boy's fearful grip, in the girl's unguarded joy—I saw a ghost of what I once longed for. A shape I had chased through cold dreams and empty memories. A shape I had never quite grasped.
Something in me twisted.
A knot pulled taut by the quiet cruelty of remembrance.
"Don't dwell on those feelings, boy."
My grandfather's voice cut through my thoughts, quiet yet absolute.
I turned to him, finding his gaze already on me, sharp and knowing. His fingers idly tapped against the glass of whiskey he had yet to finish, the rhythmic sound filling the space between us.
"You will never have a family like theirs."
His words were not cruel, nor were they meant to wound. They were merely a statement of fact, delivered with the same detached certainty that accompanied all his observations.
And yet, the truth of them settled heavy upon my shoulders.
I exhaled, slow and controlled. "I'm aware of that fact."
My grandfather studied me for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose—a quiet, measured sound.
"Hmph." He swirled the remnants of his drink, the amber liquid clinging to the glass. "Have you figured out the answer to my question yet?"
I turned his words over in my mind, piecing together the fragments of my observations.
Westmere was not like Ashbourne.
The people here moved with a distinct rhythm, one shaped by ambition rather than discipline. Everything about them—their words, their gestures, even the way they carried themselves—spoke of a ceaseless hunger, a relentless pursuit of something just beyond their grasp. The nobles sought recognition, each conversation a careful maneuver in an endless game of influence. The merchants bartered not only for coin but for standing, for connections that would elevate them above their peers. Even the common folk, those who had no claim to power, navigated the streets with purpose, their eyes ever watchful, ever calculating.
This was a city built on perception.
A place where survival hinged not on strength alone, but on the ability to command the attention of others—to be seen, acknowledged, remembered.
I drew in a breath, voice steady as I spoke.
"The people here are driven by ambition," I said. "They seek recognition. Everything they do is a display—an effort to prove that they matter."
My grandfather hummed, neither confirming nor denying my answer. Then, setting his glass down, he turned to face me fully, his gaze sharp with meaning.
"Close," he mused, "but not quite there yet."
He leaned back slightly, one hand resting against the counter.
"Let me put it simply—Westmere is a city of peacocks."
I frowned slightly, waiting for him to continue.
"They wear their pride and ambition like feathers, always preening, always seeking to outshine one another. Here, a man is only as powerful as he appears to be. They flaunt their wealth, their connections, their carefully crafted images—each one desperate to be noticed, to be acknowledged."
His eyes held mine, cool and unwavering.
"But we, Ashbournes, do not concern ourselves with such frivolities."
His voice lowered, taking on a measured gravity.
"We do not flaunt what we have. We do not seek to be seen. Power is not about appearances—it is about endurance. We do not need to display our worth for others to recognize it. The Ashbournes are concerned with substance, not spectacle."
The weight of his words settled over me, sinking deep into my bones.
For the first time that night, I truly understood.
Slowly, I nodded. "I understand."
A flicker of something passed through my grandfather's expression—approval, subtle but unmistakable.
"You've got brains, huh?" His lips curled, not quite into a smile, but something close. "Not bad for someone who grew up in solidude."
Then, as if the conversation had already reached its conclusion, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.
"Let's head back."
He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, leaving them on the table with an air of finality.
I exhaled, my mind still turning over the weight of our exchange, and stood as well.
"Yes, Grandfather."
The carriage ride back was steeped in silence. Outside, the city pulsed with life, the glow of oil lamps casting elongated shadows across the streets. Westmere remained as vibrant as ever, its heart still beating with the rhythm of ambition and whispered schemes.
Yet, within the confines of the carriage, there was only stillness.
By the time we reached Ashbourne manor, darkness had fully settled over the estate. The towering structure loomed against the night sky, its cold grandeur a stark contrast to the lively city we had left behind.
My grandfather stepped out first, pausing at the threshold before casting a glance back at me.
"Don't look so sullen, boy," he remarked dryly. "I shall still grant you a wish. Think of it as a present for spending time with this old man."
I blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected remark.
Then, before I could respond, he turned and strode into the manor, his presence swallowed by the dimly lit halls.
The cool night air brushed against my skin as I followed, my thoughts still lingering on his words.
The moment I stepped through the entrance, a familiar voice greeted me.
"Master, your meal has been prepared."
Julia, my personal maid, approached with her usual composed expression.
"I'll be having my meal in my room," I said.
"Understood, master," she replied and left to carry out my order.
I made my way to my chambers, the quiet hum of the manor pressing in around me. Yet, even as I settled into the familiar solitude of my room, my mind remained restless.
A single thought lingered.
A promise. A wish, freely granted by a man who rarely gave anything without purpose.
A slow smirk curled at the corner of my lips.
"Now that I have a trump card, I'll be sure to use it wisely."
It was a small victory but a victory nonetheless.
***
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of my office, casting elongated shadows across the mahogany desk as I worked. The air was crisp with the scent of aged paper and ink, mingling faintly with the lingering traces of the herbs burning in my pipe.
Yesterday, Julia had retrieved my briefcase from Lock & Key Mercantile and left it in my room. Inside were the items I had taken from my father's office: the diary, a worn photograph, a few opened envelopes, and an obsidian ring. For now, they offered no answers—only silence.
"Master, why do you use that?"
I glanced toward Eloise, who was seated at the side table, diligently working. Her gaze flickered to the pipe in my hand.
"Ah, don't worry. It's not tobacco—just herbs."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "May I ask why? I've seen you using that pipe often. Are you perhaps… ill?"
I turned my eyes back to my papers. "Nevermind it, Eloise. Ashbournes don't show weakness."
The message was clear: I don't trust you enough to reveal my weakness.
A brief pause. Then, she nodded. "I understand."
She returned to her work without further questioning.
I had been taking these herbs twice a day for over a decade now. My body was weak from birth—without them, I would have never made it to adulthood. It was a quiet truth, one that I allowed no one to see.
A knock came at the door, sharp and deliberate, snapping through the quiet and severing the thread of my thoughts.
"Come in," I said, my voice calm but clipped.
The door creaked open, revealing Robert standing at attention. The dim light caught on the silver chain of his pocket watch, and for a brief moment, the shadows played across his face like a second skin.
"The detective assigned to investigate Lord Frederick's death has arrived at the manor. He requests an audience with you at your earliest convenience."
I set my pen down with a soft click. The ink was still wet, the page only half-finished, but the moment demanded my attention.
"I see," I murmured, folding my hands atop the desk. "And what did Grandfather say?"
"He said to do as you wish."
In Ashbourne terms, that translated to a quiet indifference. Let him in or send him away—it makes no difference to the Ashbournes.
A sentiment laced with quiet arrogance, sharpened over generations.
I leaned back slightly, the leather of my chair creaking under the movement. "Where is he now?"
"I had a servant lead him to the reception room."
"Good," I said, rising to my feet, my fingers brushing the fabric of my coat as I adjusted it into place. "See that he is served tea and refreshments in the meantime. Something proper. Let the detective feel the weight of our hospitality."
"Understood, master."
With another quiet bow, Robert stepped out, the door closing behind him with a muffled thud.
I turned my gaze toward Eloise, who sat at the far end of the study, her head bent in concentration over a stack of neatly arranged documents.
"Finish your work. I'll return shortly."
She lifted her eyes, nodded once, and returned to her task without a word. The faint scratching of her pen resumed as I made my way toward the hallway, the heels of my boots echoing softly against the marbled floor.
It was time to meet the man who believed he could uncover the truth behind my father's death.
Let him try.