The following morning, the scent of baking pastry filled the house. Eliza, it seemed, had decided to combat the lingering winter chill with a savory meat pie. Lutz ate it at the dining table, appreciating the flaky crust and rich filling as he accompanied it with some Ale.
He watched Eliza as she moved through the room, not with the efficient purpose of the previous days, but with a kind of nervous energy. She dusted a spotless mantelpiece, rearranged a vase of dried flowers for the third time, and fussed with the curtain ties.
She's bored, or she's trying to appear competent on her first job. Lutz realized. The initial flurry of setting up the household was over, and now she was inventing tasks to justify her generous wage. A busy servant was a servant who wasn't prying. But the new amalgamation of Lutz and Andrei saw it differently. It was… unnecessary. A subtle form of cruelty.
"Eliza," he said, setting down his fork.
She jumped slightly, as if caught doing something wrong. "Yes, sir? Is the pie not to your liking?"
"The pie is excellent. But please, sit for a moment." He gestured to the chair opposite him.
Hesitantly, she obeyed, perching on the very edge of the seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
"You've done a remarkable job turning this house into a home," he began, using James Morgan's congenial tone but infusing it with a sincerity that was entirely his own. "It's running smoother than a Loenish watch. But you know, a watch doesn't need to be taken apart and reassembled every day to keep good time."
She looked confused. "Sir?"
"What I mean is… you don't need to occupy yourself with busywork every waking hour. The essentials are covered. The house is clean, the meals are prepared. If you find yourself with spare time, it is your time. Read a book. Take a walk in the park. Visit your aunt. A rested and content mind is far more valuable to this household than a perpetually dusted windowsill."
Eliza stared at him, her green eyes wide with disbelief. Such a concept was alien to her experience. Time was something to be filled with labor, not enjoyed.
"Are… are you certain, sir?"
"Absolutely certain," Lutz said with a firm, kind smile. "Consider it a standing order. Your duties are important, but they have limits. Your well-being is also important. Understood?"
A slow, grateful smile spread across her face, transforming her features. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
It's just basic decency, he thought, a little cynically, but he was pleased nonetheless. But in this world, I suppose basic often feels like a revolution.
After breakfast, he prepared to leave. This time, he didn't head for the safe-house. He was James Morgan, a man returning a legally borrowed item. He dressed in his Amber suit, ensuring he had a heavy purse of coin with him, and placed the lead box containing the seal into a leather satchel.
The walk to Inkwell Lane felt different in the daylight. The street was still quiet, but the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams piercing the grimy windows made Gordon's shop seem less like a villain's lair and more like a forgotten repository of knowledge.
The bell jingled its same, lonely tune. Gordon was at his desk, mending an ancient tome, his movements precise and unhurried. He looked up as Lutz entered, his watery eyes sharpening with recognition.
"Mr. Morgan," he rasped. "A social call?"
"Business, Mr. Gordon," Lutz replied, his tone polite but direct. He placed the satchel on the counter, opened it, and withdrew the lead box. He opened the lid just enough for Gordon to see the grotesque, multi-limbed seal within before closing it again. The disruptive aura, slightly contained by the lead, was nothing more than a memory.
Gordon's eyes lingered on the box for a long moment, then flicked back to Lutz's face. He gave a slow, approving nod. "Efficient. Yevgeny was… agitated this morning. But he found nothing amiss, save for an empty space where that thing once was." He didn't ask how Lutz had done it. The result was all that mattered.
He reached under his desk and produced a small, plain card. On it was written a single name: Saratov, and an address near the river docks, followed by a time: 'Midnight, on the new moon.'
"Give him this," Gordon said, sliding the card across the counter. "He will be your guide."
Lutz picked up the card, his ticket to the real Winter Garden. But his business wasn't finished. He had paid for access with the theft; now he needed to pay for power with knowledge.
"Before I go," Lutz said, leaning slightly on the counter, "you mentioned you were a bookseller. I find myself in need of… specialized literature."
Gordon's gaze intensified. "What sort of literature?"
"I'm a man of diverse interests. I'm looking for books on mysticism. The fundamentals—divination, warding, the nature of spirituality. I'm also interested in languages. Jotun, for a start. And Hermes… is there more beyond the ciphers? And the ancient languages… like Elvish. Are they even real? Do they hold power?" He paused, letting the questions hang. "Finally, I need knowledge of a more practical nature. Mystical alchemy. And anything on the proper handling of materials from… non-mundane sources. Hides, scales, that sort of thing."
Gordon stared at him, his expression unreadable. This was not the request of a curious dabbler. This was the syllabus of a serious aspirant. After a long silence, he gestured with a bony finger. "Come."
He led Lutz through a curtain of hanging beads into a small, windowless backroom. A single gas lamp hissed, casting a weak, yellow light over three shelves of books. These were not like the ones out front. Their bindings were of thick, sometimes strange leather, their pages edged in gold or stained with age. The air smelled of ozone, dried herbs, and secrets.
"Browse. But do not touch without my permission," Gordon instructed, standing by the doorway like a guardian sphinx.
Lutz's eyes scanned the spines. The titles were cryptic: The Lament of the Silver Knight, Echoes from the Spirit World, On the Classification of Arcane Flora. He saw a thick volume bound in what looked like scaled hide titled The Metamorphosis of Form. Another, slimmer one, was simply called Whispers of the Ancient Giants.
After several minutes, Gordon spoke again. "Well?"
Lutz had already identified the most promising ones. "The fundamentals of mysticism. A comprehensive guide to Jotun. And the most advanced text you have on mystical alchemy and the properties of arcane botanicals."
Gordon moved with a surprising grace, pulling three specific volumes from the shelves and laying them on a small, central table.
The first was bound in dark blue leather with silver sigils tooled into the cover. "A Primer on the Esoteric: Wards, Watchers, and the Unseen World," Gordon intoned. "It covers the basics of spiritual perception, simple protective seals, an introduction to divination methods like dowsing and dream interpretation, and how to erect rudimentary 'walls' against spiritual intrusion. Fifteen Gold Hammers."
The second was a heavy, utilitarian tome bound in dull brown leather. "The Tongue of Titans: A Grammar of the Jotun Language." "It is a grammar and lexicon. It does not teach you to speak like a poet, but to read and decipher. Ten Hammers."
The third was the largest of them all, a massive folio bound in a tough, greenish hide that felt strangely warm to the touch. The title was stamped in flaking gold leaf: "The Verdant Crucible: A Treatise on Alchemy and the Soul of Plants." "This," Gordon said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, "is not a recipe book. It is a philosophy. It discusses the spiritual principles of transformation, the symbiotic relationship between alchemist and ingredient, and contains detailed analyses of hundreds of mystical plants and fungi, their properties, and the safe handling of their… byproducts. It also has a small section on the preliminary treatment of creature materials. Twenty Hammers."
Lutz did the math in his head. Forty-five Gold Hammers. It was a staggering sum, It was almost all the money he had brought with him. The wealth from the Baron's treasury was vast, but it was not infinite, and he was burning through it at an alarming rate.
He made his decision.
"I'll take them all," he said, his voice firm.
Gordon's eyebrows rose a fraction, the most significant show of emotion Lutz had seen from him. Without a word, he began to wrap the books in thick, oiled paper to protect them.
Lutz counted out the coins from his purse. The heavy, golden Hammers clinked onto the counter. When he was done, his purse was alarmingly light, holding only three remaining gold coins and some change.
Gordon finished wrapping the books and tied the bundle with twine. He pushed it across the counter towards Lutz.
"A profitable morning for us both, Mr. Morgan," Gordon said, his dry rustle of a voice sounding almost pleased. "I trust you will find the atmosphere of the Garden to your liking. Saratov will be expecting you."
Lutz hefted the heavy bundle of knowledge. The weight of it, both physical and financial, was immense. But as he stepped out of the dusty shop and back into the daylight, he felt a surge of anticipation that outweighed the dread. He had his invitation.
The heavy bundle of books felt like a tangible secret in Lutz's arms as he returned to 17 Vesper Lane. He found Eliza in the parlor, curled up in a chair with a novel, a sight that brought a faint, genuine smile to his face. She looked up, her expression slightly guilty.
"Just taking a moment, sir, as you said."
"It's okay, enjoy your reading" Lutz replied smoothly, shifting the wrapped package. "Some dreary business documents from a southern associate. Need to be stored in the study." The lie came easily, layered over the truth.
He carried them into his study, the sanctum where James Morgan's facade was thinnest, and placed the bundle carefully in a locked drawer of his desk. The knowledge within felt like a sleeping beast, full of potential and danger.
His attention then turned to the plain card Gordon had given him. Saratov. The Docks. Midnight. He looked out the window.
A time for secrets. It made sense. The real Garden wouldn't operate on a predictable, publicly visible schedule.
He spent the rest of the day in a state of controlled anticipation. He reviewed his notes, sketched out a rudimentary design for a hidden safe in the basement, and went to eat the dinner Eliza prepared. As night fell, he told her he was retiring early with a headache—a classic, unverifiable excuse. He waited in the dark of his room until the house was silent and the clock ticked past 11 PM.
Slipping out through the study window, he moved through the shadows to a main avenue and hailed a closed carriage. "The western docks, near the old customs house," he instructed, naming a landmark near the address on the card.
The carriage deposited him in a district of looming warehouses and the thick, briny smell of the river. The air was cold and damp, the streets poorly lit and mostly deserted. He was an hour early. Always scout the battlefield, the lessons from Indaw Harbor echoed. He found a deep recessed doorway across from the specified address—a shuttered chandlery—and settled in to wait, his senses stretching out into the night.
Precisely at midnight, a figure emerged from the shadows between two warehouses. He was a short, stocky man, his most prominent feature a magnificent, bushy beard that cascaded over his chest like a thicket of brown moss. He moved with a quiet confidence that belied his stature.
Lutz waited a moment, ensuring the man was alone, then stepped out of his hiding place. "Saratov?"
The man stopped, his eyes, sharp and dark like a bird's, scanning Lutz. "You're the one Gordon sent? The one who retrieved the artifact?"
"That would be me" Lutz said, his tone neutral.
"Good. I am Saratov." The man's voice was a low rumble, fitting his sturdy frame. "Before any invitation can be extended, a final verification is required. The Garden must be protected from those with ill intent." He reached into a coat pocket and withdrew an object that made Lutz's Thief's nose prickle.
It was a golden crystal, carved and polished into the shape of a human eyeball, complete with a vertically slit pupil, like a lizard's. It seemed glow with a soft, internal luminescence.
"Stare into the pupil," Saratov instructed, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Do not resist. It will only take a moment."
Here we go, Lutz thought, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. This was the moment of truth. He met Saratov's gaze for a second, then focused on the vertical slit of the golden eye.
The moment his focus locked, he felt it—a distinct, foreign pressure, like a cool, smooth tendril slipping past his temples and into his mind world. It was an unnerving, violating sensation. He braced himself for a loss of control, for his consciousness to be shoved aside, for the truth to be ripped from him involuntarily.
But it didn't happen.
The pressure was there, a presence in the periphery of his thoughts, but his mind remained his own. He was fully lucid, fully in control. He could feel the artifact's power, a mental probe testing the walls of his consciousness, but he stood behind those walls, watching, aware.
A voice, not in his ears, but formed directly in his consciousness: "Do you belong to any organization hostile to the exchange of knowledge and items among Beyonders?"
The question was clear, the intent obvious. Lutz, maintaining his lucidity, formed the answer in his mind with deliberate clarity. No.
"Do you hold any intention to bring harm, to the community known as the Winter Garden?"
No.
"Do you serve any god or entity that seeks the subjugation or destruction of others?"
No.
The questions continued, probing for allegiance to an evil cult or an affiliation to the orthodox churches. To each, Lutz answered with a mental No that was, in this moment, entirely truthful. But Lutz felt that something was wrong, he was answering himself instead of having those answers sucked out from his head.
As quickly as it began, the pressure receded, the cool tendril withdrawing from his mind. The connection severed, and he was just a man standing in a cold, dark street, looking at a golden eyeball.
Saratov nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face as he tucked the artifact away. "You are clear. Welcome to the garden."
But Lutz's mind was racing, his internal monologue a torrent of questions he dared not voice. Was I supposed to be fully sentient during that? Shouldn't it be something that takes over the mind, that forces the truth out? A magical polygraph that bypasses conscious control? Why did i stay awake? Why did I maintain complete lucidity?
It was a disturbing data point. An advantage, perhaps, but one he didn't understand.
Saratov, oblivious to Lutz's internal crisis, now produced a different object: a small insignia made of a greenish, unidentifiable metal. It was shaped like a stylized leaf, with intricate veins etched into its surface. It hummed with a faint, mystical energy that felt organic, alive.
"This is your key," Saratov said, pressing the cool metal into Lutz's palm. "Every night from 8 PM to 4 AM, at the public Winter Garden Salon, show this to the guards stationed beside the large floral mural. Do not speak to them. Then, proceed to the back. You will find a room adorned with carvings of vines and plants on the floor. Stand in the center, hold the insignia in your hand, and recite the word 'Open' in Hermes ."
He fixed Lutz with a stern, meaningful look. "Needless to say, this information is for you alone. Be vigilant. Never be followed. If we discover you have disclosed this, or if you bring trouble to our doorstep, your access will be revoked. Permanently." The unspoken threat of what 'permanently' might entail hung heavy in the air.
Lutz curled his fingers around the insignia. It felt like holding a piece of a living forest. "I understand. Discretion is the foundation of trust. You have mine."
Saratov gave a final, grunting nod and then melted back into the shadows from whence he came, leaving Lutz alone on the docks.
The journey home was a blur. His mind was no longer on the route but on the green metal key in his pocket and the unsettling clarity he had experienced during the mental probe. He had passed the test. He had his key. The door to the true Beyonder world of St. Millom was now open to him.
He arrived at his house silently.
Just another step on the pathway, he thought, a wry, tired smile touching his lips as he finally lay down to sleep. The world of Beyonders was every bit as strange and dangerous as he'd hoped.