Clive walks beside Simon and Bell, his gaze moving constantly, taking in streets, corners, landmarks, and distances as he tries to determine where they are taking him.
After he informed them about his discovery regarding the clay and its connection to the Dynamite Clay Factory, they exchanged only brief looks. No discussion followed. Instead, Simon raised his hand and called for a carriage. Before Clive could press further, he found himself riding with them, the city rolling past outside the window.
On the way, he asked questions.
Where are we going?
Why here.
Who are we meeting?
Each question met silence or vague deflections. Bell stared out the window. Simon folded his arms and said nothing. The carriage continued forward.
Eventually, it stops.
Clive steps down and looks up.
A library stands before them.
Tall stone walls, aged but well-maintained, rise quietly from the street. Wide steps lead upward to a heavy doorway carved with old inscriptions worn smooth by time.
Clive frowns and turns to them.
"Why are we coming to a library?"
They begin climbing the steps. The air grows colder with every step, the warmth of the street fading unnaturally fast. By the time they reach the top, Bell stops and turns.
"You stay here," Bell says, looking directly at Clive.
Clive blinks.
"What?"
Simon and Bell step forward together, crossing the threshold.
Clive follows instinctively, taking a single step after them.
The moment his foot leaves the ground, a wave of cold crashes into him.
Not physical cold.
Something deeper.
Every hair on his arms stands upright. His breath catches in his throat as a sharp, absolute certainty fills his mind.
If he takes another step, he will die.
His foot freezes midair.
Panic flares. He jerks his leg back and stumbles slightly, heart pounding violently as he looks around in alarm. His vision sharpens, and his senses scream danger.
Then he sees him.
An old man sits just inside the library, positioned near the entrance as if he has been there for years. His posture is relaxed, his hands folded loosely in his lap. His eyes are calm, ancient, and fixed directly on Clive.
They see everything.
Clive's blood runs cold.
He raises both hands slowly in surrender and takes a step backwards.
"I am not stepping inside," he says carefully.
The old man does not speak.
Clive retreats fully, leaning his back against a stone column beside the doorway. He keeps his eyes on the interior, breathing slowly as he forces his heart to calm.
A library.
Or something shaped like one.
Inside, Simon and Bell are guided down a quiet corridor by a woman named Amy. They pass rows of shelves filled with books that look untouched, their presence more symbolic than practical. Eventually, Amy leads them into a meeting room and closes the door behind them.
They sit and wait.
Minutes stretch.
Simon breaks the silence.
"Do you think the children are still alive?"
Bell lowers his gaze, his expression heavy.
"I don't think so," he says quietly. "There's been no ransom letter. No demands. The chances of them being kept alive are very small."
Simon exhales, grief clear in his voice.
"We have to catch the kidnapper before they take the seventh child."
Bell nods slowly.
"Let's pray Clive's discovery leads us in the right direction."
The door suddenly opens.
A man steps inside, dressed in a formal suit and tie, his posture rigid, his expression sharp. Authority radiates from him effortlessly.
He looks at Simon and Bell with cool appraisal.
"Your visitors' passes will be rescinded if what you've brought us is nonsense."
Simon stiffens. Bell turns sharply.
Simon freezes for a moment, then says carefully,
"Captain Ben, we're confident the information is not nonsense."
Before Ben can respond, Cassandra enters the room.
Her presence immediately changes the atmosphere.
Ben hesitates, then takes a seat.
"That is for me to decide," he says.
Cassandra pauses mid-step and looks at him.
"What is for you to decide?"
Ben falters.
Cassandra shifts her gaze to Simon and Bell.
"What happened?"
Bell answers, choosing his words carefully.
"Captain Ben warned us that if the information we have is nonsense, our visitors' passes would be revoked."
Cassandra turns slowly back to Ben.
"Ben," she says, drawing out his name, tilting her head slightly as she stares at him.
The silence stretches.
Ben exhales sharply.
"Sorry."
Cassandra nods once.
"Good. And I don't want to hear you intimidating my resources."
She then turns back to Simon and Bell.
"Now tell me what you two found."
Simon and Bell exchange a glance. Bell begins recounting Clive's findings, explaining the unusual properties of the doll's material, the identification of its clay, and its connection to older military applications.
Ben's eyes narrow slightly as he listens.
"The Dynamite Clay Company," he murmurs. "Where have I heard that before?"
Cassandra answers immediately.
"From the debriefing of Rosalyn."
Simon and Bell exchange another glance.
Bell speaks.
"Then, should we go question the Dynamite Clay Company?"
Cassandra's expression tightens.
"That's a problem."
An hour later, a large carriage rolls through the city streets.
Inside sit Clive, Simon, Bell, Ben, Cassandra, and Rosalyn.
Clive remains silent, still unsettled by the presence of the library and the old man at its threshold. He sits near the window, watching the city pass by, senses alert.
Rosalyn clears her throat, drawing everyone's attention as the carriage rolls steadily forward, the rhythm of the wheels echoing faintly within the enclosed space.
"Everyone listen carefully," she says. "Once we're inside, no one speaks unless I say so. I'll do all the talking."
The tone leaves little room for argument.
The carriage continues onward, buildings passing by outside the narrow windows.
Clive shifts in his seat, frowning slightly.
"Why?"
The single word hangs in the air.
Simon and Bell share the same question, their gazes turning toward Rosalyn as well. Rosalyn does not answer immediately. Instead, she looks at Clive slowly, her eyes moving from his face to his posture, then back again, assessing him as one would a variable rather than a person.
"Who are you?" she asks.
Clive blinks.
"What does that have to do with who I am?"
Rosalyn smiles faintly.
"It has very much to do with who you are."
Clive exhales once through his nose.
"I am Clive Holmes. A private detective."
Rosalyn nods thoughtfully, then turns her gaze toward Cassandra.
"A private detective, you say."
Ben shifts in his seat and looks at Cassandra.
"What is a private detective doing here?"
Simon answers before Cassandra can.
"The information was found by Clive."
Cassandra adds calmly,
"The previous discovery was also brought by him."
Rosalyn's expression cools.
"So we let anyone hear our state secrets simply because they bring us some information."
Ben nods sharply.
"We would have found that information ourselves."
Clive scoffs, unable to stop himself.
"But you didn't," he says. "I did."
Ben stares at him, eyes hardening.
"That information isn't secretive. We would have come upon it eventually."
Clive mutters, voice low but sharp,
"For that to happen, how many children would have disappeared?"
The carriage grows quiet.
Rosalyn speaks without hesitation.
"That doesn't matter to me."
Clive's eyes widen. He turns fully toward her.
"Missing children don't matter to you?"
Rosalyn finally allows herself a fuller expression.
Her auburn hair frames her face, curling slightly at the ends. Her skin is pale, almost milky white, flawless and composed. Emerald eyes gleam with sharp intelligence, and her red lips curve into a controlled smirk that holds neither cruelty nor kindness, only certainty.
"It matters," she says calmly, "but not more than a civilian knowing state secrets."
She looks directly at Clive.
"So, get down."
The carriage slows.
A moment later, the door opens.
Clive steps out onto the roadside, the cool air brushing against his face. The carriage does not wait. It moves on immediately, wheels turning, carrying the others toward the Dynamite Clay Company without him.
Clive stands there, watching until it disappears from sight.
He frowns and looks around.
"What should I do now?" he mutters.
Then recognition dawns.
He knows this area.
His gaze shifts down the street, toward a familiar corner.
Rick's Doll Repair.
Clive's expression sharpens slightly.
"Let's see," he says quietly, "if I can make old Rick talk."
With that, he turns and heads toward the shop.