The ancient architecture of St. Rosamure Cathedral exuded a somber vacancy.
However, the splintered wooden confessional that stood nestled between the towering booths, had an unassuming presence in comparison.
Inside of this confessional, Darwin knelt alone.
The latticework cast intricate shadows across his pallid face, reminiscent of milk-glass under amber light.
His homburg sat low, concealing his hollow eyes, though strands of silver hair escaped its brim.
Darwin whispered, reciting his own prayer, "O Lord, who sees us as we are, and knows the burdens of our hearts…"
A subtle sound, akin to cotton brushing against splintered wood, interrupted him.
He paused to listen attentively.
After a few seconds of resumed silence, he continued, tightening his grip on his coat's hem.
"…Grant me the grace to bear this face, the gift of life reflected in silver threads…"
His gaze remained on the wooden grate.
"To accept that which I cannot change," he murmured so carefully that his lips barely moved, "and to walk in Your light, though it is hidden from my sight."
From the outer chapel, a bell suddenly tolled thirty minutes past ten.
Darwin sighed inwardly at himself.
Then, suddenly veering from his prayer, he declared with a troubled visage, "Father... the devil has brought upon me a tempting opportunity to stray from the fate I've been given."
Silence lingered within the confessional.
He rapped his knuckle against it, adopting a gravelly tone, "Proceed, my child. Confess all."
Darwin sighed and pressed his fingers against his temple. "I said no," he murmured. "Because accepting would mean losing myself, only to return later, shamed and diminished."
He made a bitter smile. "Shame? A petty fear for someone already halfway there."
He slumped slightly as his coat to pooled around his knees.
'Yet, I've been unable to stop thinking about it.'
As he reached into his coat, he retrieved a browned slip of paper.
He said aloud, in his older voice, "This is a rather unusual sort of temptation... my son."
The note read:
"The Mirror Opens Only at Dusk
Sunday, 11 P.M.
Should you reconsider, attend. If not, no harm done.
Yet, I believe it would benefit us both immensely."
It struck Darwin as peculiar that the note bore a date preceding its receipt.
He slipped it back into his breast pocket, treating it as a talisman that was best left forgotten.
Darwin glanced toward the nave, noting the gradual influx of parishioners arriving for the morning sermon.
He clasped his hands and leaned forward slightly.
With a touch of whimsy, he murmured, "Thank you, Father, for your generous words. May God enlighten us all. Amen."
As he rose, a chill brushed against his skin, incongruent with the room's warmth.
His fingers grazed the edge of the pew, and for a fleeting moment, he detected an unfamiliar scent mingling with the lingering incense.
He turned, but found no one there.
Outside, the sky had dulled to a cold pewter, the sun obscured by a pale, moisture-laden haze that clung to windows and stiffened coats.
It was Sunday; free from his nightly shifts at the printing house, Darwin allowed his feet to guide him away from the cathedral.
Above, clouds drifted slowly, like a languid river, mirroring the pace at which he moved through society.
. . .
Darwin's home rested atop a long-abandoned tobacconist's shop, its signage faded and windows clouded with the dust of neglect.
Ivy had grown inside of a fissure in the windowpane, curling possessive tendrils across the sill, as if asserting dominion over the space.
Rain had rendered the glass into a muted blur, casting the interior in a perpetual twilight, each room exuding the weariness of prolonged existence.
The sitting room, narrow and congested, housed an assortment of clocks in varying states of disrepair. Their asynchronous ticking coalesced into a mechanical murmur, a chorus Darwin often interpreted as idle conversation.
Beneath the bookshelf rested a locked chest, its surface marred by time, untouched for countless years.
Ascending the creaking stairs to his chamber, Darwin retrieved a folded note from his coat pocket, pinning it to the wall before settling into the worn armchair adjacent to his shelves.
Following his refusal of Gabriel's proposition, the man had cryptically advised him to inspect the crevice of his seat.
True to his word, Darwin had discovered a letter nestled within, evidently placed prior to his arrival.
Gabriel's persistence was not what piqued Darwin's perplexity.
Rather, it was the unsettling realization: 'He knew I would sit there.' He had felt more suspicion about the matter than confusion.
'He somehow knew I would choose that exact seat and row. And it was as though it was the only seat open; I ended up seeing plenty more vacant seats after the crowd had settled down. So, it's not like he went so far as to fill them all.'
He was just beginning to turn this thought over when there was a quick succession at his door.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
Darwin nearly dropped the letter.
He certainly wasn't expecting a visitor, as he kept careful records of when to expect them. 'No one visits me,' he thought. 'Not unless they are making a complaint.'
He relaxed his expression before striding over and reaching for the disconnected chain lock.
The brass chain swayed gently as Darwin guided it into the narrow slot affixed to the doorframe.
The slide catch clicked into place. He reached for the knob, turning it slowly until the door creaked open just enough for the chain to stretch taut.
Peering through the narrow gap, Darwin saw nothing at first until he looked down.
A boy stood there, no older than ten, dwarfed by the doorway. His trousers were soaked from the knees down, despite the earlier drizzle.
He wore an adult's tailcoat, cinched at the waist with a ribbon, and a wide-brimmed hat that sagged comically over one ear. His expression was theatrically solemn, his mud-colored hair overgrown, nearly brushing his eyelashes.
His posture was rigid, like a lad who fancied himself a soldier.
"Mr. Darwin," the boy said, bowing slightly.
"I have been charged to deliver to you… this."
He held up a small parcel wrapped in crimson paper, sealed with an embossed wax emblem.
Darwin recognized the sender instantly.
The sigil adorning the parcel mirrored the one on the letter Darwin had scrutinized for hours upon his return home. Though he was nearly certain of the sender's identity, he chose to inquire further.
"Who entrusted you with this?"
The boy straightened with a confident posture. "Apologies, sir. The Mirror's courier instructed me not to answer any questions from the recipient. My sole duties were to ensure this reached your hands and to recite the lines I've already spoken."
Darwin arched an eyebrow. "Do they provide you with lines as well as sustenance?"
The boy glanced down at his diminutive frame, replying hesitantly, "Bread is... optional."
Maintaining a neutral expression, Darwin closed the door, unlatched the chain, and reopened it fully.
"Do I need to sign for confirmation?"
Handing over the parcel, the boy responded with conviction, "No need. Your face sufficed." With that, he tipped his oversized hat and departed swiftly, leaving Darwin without a chance to respond.
Closing the door behind him, Darwin turned away, not bothering to return to his seat. He broke the seal with deliberate indifference.
Inside was not the anticipated letter, but a small brooch.
Its design was striking: an eye carved from a lustrous mother-of-pearl, set within a silver frame.
The longer Darwin held the brooch, the more he sensed its weight was disproportionate to its size.
He turned it over, noting the back's smooth surface. However, under the study's gaslight, he detected a nearly imperceptible seam encircling the edge.
Upon gently applying pressure, he heard a soft click.
The brooch parted, revealing a concealed compartment lined with velvet.
Nestled within was a miniature portrait, exquisitely detailed despite its diminutive size.
The man depicted bore yet another resemblance to Darwin.
Yet, there were still differences.
Most notably, a single mole rested beneath the left eye, absent the matching mark below the lip that both Darwin and Gabriel possessed.
Darwin's mind raced.
The seal on the parcel suggested Gabriel's involvement, but the portrait did not align as much with their features.
Darwin closed the brooch and pondered the enigma now in his possession.
It hadn't felt like a mere coincidence anymore.
Darwin balanced the brooch between his fingers, resting his thumb unconsciously against its open face.
As he examined it, he noticed something peculiar.
A faint line traced the edge of the waxen frame.
Then, another remarkably subtle line caught his eye.
He moved his nail along it until he found the edge, and with minimal pressure, the miniature popped out.
Turning the oval sliver, he noticed ink bleeding through the front.
Once he had flipped it over he read the script inwardly:
"You need not be the man in the mirror. Yet, should you choose, you may speak through him."
Darwin stared at the words with puzzlement.
He laid the miniature down on the table beside him, carefully.
Then, he leaned back, and looked toward the windowpane.
Even despite it being Sunday, the streets lay silent, giving Darwin the best composure to settle his thoughts.
Gabriel was undoubtedly a man of schemes.
Just as the man had tested him in the theater, these clues also seemed to have similar roles in that aspect.
Darwin pondered, "How can one offer such intricate articulation, simply because they saw an opportunity in a stranger that caught their eye once?"
He had pieced together the puzzle swiftly upon recognizing the second message:
"His very first clue was embedded in the seal and the timing… nearly as if he knew when I would arrive home, even though I do not work at the printing house today. He intentionally used the same seal so that I would acknowledge both were sent from him."
Darwin walked further into his room, stopping near where his coat and scarf hung.
He pressed his lips together, staring at his scarf.
"His second clue lay in the choice of venue, a mirror shop, of all places. Not a pub, nor even a chapel. A place where we would inevitably stand before reflections of what I have become and who I could be."
He recalled the phrase inscribed on the miniature: 'You may speak through him.'
Using his hand, he swept his bangs back from his face.
For the first time in a while, he was not peering through strands of hair and could see his room clearly.
"...I quite like this eerie fellow," he mused silently.
'It would not be legal, precisely. Nor illegal, nor necessarily a crime that bore a name, unless someone made the wrong kind of gesture. No title would accompany the role, no badge, no law to uphold. Only something more opportunistic, and far more difficult to justify in daylight.'
Darwin rubbed a hand along his jaw to confirm that it still belonged to him.
It mattered not whether the man in the portrait was meant to be him in a different future.
The offer and the invitation had been extended to Darwin, based solely on his appearance, which was an aspect he had never imagined would bring him fortune.
Although the revelation had unveiled one enigma, it also only deepened another about himself.
What was he truly capable of?
His "skills" and hobbies only consisted of penned words and stories that he had been crafting since his youth as an orphan.
Yet, none had seen the light beyond his own eyes.
"Surely, I must be capable of more," he mused, flattening the corners of his mouth. "Even my writing is mediocre, hardly a skill to boast."
He signed. attempted to dispel some of his stress.
The offer, though not overtly threatening, clung to him with many unspoken consequences.
Nonetheless, the more he resisted, the more its allure entrenched itself.
His gaze drifted to the window.
After being drawn by an undefined impulse, he approached and parted the curtain.
Beyond, the sky was a canvas of deep grey and violet.
Fortunately, there still wasn't any betrayal of light.
Thus, reassured, he let the curtain fall.
'A walk, perhaps, would suffice. I don't intend to necessarily make these thoughts clearer, but perhaps I can distance myself from them, and find solace elsewhere.'
Darwin reached for only his coat and walked back over to the door.
'Surely... another opportunity will come for me…'
Following this quiet assurance, he stepped out and gently closed the door behind him.
. . .
Beneath his usual coat, Darwin's attire bore the unmistakable signs of prolonged wear, though each piece was maintained with meticulous care.
His high-collared shirt, once pristine white, had faded to a parchment hue, the collar and cuffs frayed from years of use. Subtle embroidery traced the sleeves, its threads dulled and worn thin.
Over this, he wore a brown wool vest, slightly threadbare at the sides, its mismatched buttons; two clearly replacements, testifying to past repairs.
His trousers, sturdy yet aged, showed thinning fabric at the knees, and a neatly rolled cuff concealed a modest tear.
His boots, though polished to a respectable sheen, bore uneven heels.
He dressed with less flourish than even those of modest means.
Darwin walked leisurely.
The buildings, nestled near the heart of the borough, stood shoulder to shoulder, their facades blurred by the mist.
Yet, even this fog, with all its strange mercy, could not indefinitely delay the burden pressing upon his mind.
He traversed the corner where the bookshop once stood, before eventually venturing across the tramline junction, where the air retained a faint trace of ozone.
Nearly an hour had slipped by before an idea coalesced, guiding his steps along a divergent path.
The Quilver Conservatory of Living Collections had not seen his presence since youth, when its glass dome seemed to caress the heavens.
Perhaps within its confines lay the solace he unconsciously sought.
The journey led him away from the borough's bustling arteries, through districts where windowpanes bore the grime of soot and ivy clung tenaciously to crumbling facades.
Approximately forty minutes passed in this quiet transition.
Eventually, he turned onto a secluded lane, where ironwork fencing, slick with dew, stood interlaced with ivy that made it look like veins beneath translucent skin.
Darwin could already see the conservatory's grand glass arch that loomed over the street.
Without hesitation, he passed through the gates.
Once he had made it further inside, the soot-laden atmosphere gave way to a humidity saturated with the earthy musk of flora and soil.
The muffled clamor of the outer world receded and was replaced by the gentle rhythms of leaf, drip, and petal.
He meandered along shaded paths, beneath hanging orchids and waxy palms.
Darwin's eyes skimmed over a few small placards that were placed to identify each specimen, before he eventually came to a halt beside a fern enclosure.
He found a seat on an iron bench andsighed, leaning forward with resignation.
His right hand drifted to the breast pocket of his coat, coming to rest unconsciously over a folded scrap of paper within.
Darwin suddenly thought of another bad possibility.
'Would trading identities night and day even result accordingly?'
It seemed just as unlikely as being able to hide the physical outcomes of his condition.
He leaned back into the wrought-iron coils and closed his eyes.
Through the thick glass dome overhead, feeble lamplight filtered in, casting ghostly branchlike shadows across his lids like gnarled fingers scratching the distant sky.
He began to wonder whether he had truly come here to distract his mind… or if, instead, he had unwittingly drawn himself closer to decision.
Suddenly, Darwin heard a single set of footsteps scrape the ground and his eyes snapped open.