Part Twenty Four – The Dance and the Watcher
The tower's solitude gave Jonathan no peace. He returned to the hall, drifting to its edge where shadows pooled and nobles shimmered under chandeliers.
The grand room had changed since he left. Music now commanded the air, violins chasing across marble as couples swirled into a glittering storm of color. Every movement seemed rehearsed: laughter honed like a blade, gestures polished into masks of civility. Alliances announced themselves with subtle touches—Lord Madeiya's hand clasping Lord Morokais's shoulder a little too firmly, the Dohertys bowing too low to Lady Lulough. Politics unfolded here not in words, but in dances, whispers, and glances sharp as razors.
Jonathan lingered near the refreshment table, a glass of deep red wine warming his fingers. He felt more observer than guest, watching his peers move as though part of a pageant he no longer belonged to.
Then, the music swelled. All eyes turned.
Franklin Phelps led Valia to the floor. They cut a striking pair—the wealthy industrialist in his crimson suit, the bride radiant in silver. Their steps were perfect, their grace undeniable, their union announced with each spin and dip. Applause burst like thunder around them.
Jonathan's stomach knotted. He raised the glass to his lips, hoping the wine might dull the ache of watching her smile at another man.
But through the corner of his vision, something pulled him away from the spectacle. Roger. The pale assistant slipped quietly into a side passage, his movement deliberate, unnoticed by the crowd. A shadow sliding into deeper shadows. Suspicion pricked at Jonathan's nerves.
He set his glass down, ready to follow—
"Careful there, Master Hanns."
The voice came low, close. Jonathan froze as Detective Albert Raleigh stepped into view, a glass in his own hand, his eyes sharp as steel under thinning brows. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile a wolf gave before the bite.
"You've been hard to pin down tonight," Albert murmured, clinking his glass against Jonathan's in mock cheer. "Avoiding old friends in blue?"
Jonathan forced a thin smile. "I wasn't aware I was."
Albert studied him with the patience of a man who lived to sift through lies. "The community's restless, you know. They want blood. They want answers. And when nobles want answers, they turn their eyes on men like us, like me."
He sipped, gaze never leaving Jonathan. "So tell me, Master—are you quite certain you've told us everything you know about that night?"
The words slid under Jonathan's skin like cold knives. His pulse quickened. He tried to steady his glass, but Albert's eyes caught the tremor in his hand.
That flinch—so small, so fleeting—was all Albert needed. His smirk deepened, wolfish.
"There it is," the detective whispered, almost with satisfaction. "A man doesn't look like that unless he carries something, some are quick to mistake it for grief but a few can just see through it."
Jonathan stiffened, fighting to mask the rising panic.
"What are you trying to say? " Jonathan replied.
Albert leaned closer, voice low enough to be drowned by the music. "You must forgive my audacity, do enjoy the rest of your evening, Master Hanns,"
He straightened, downed the rest of his glass, and melted back into the crowd. But Jonathan felt his gaze still burning against his back long after he was gone.
The music resumed its bright, elegant march. But to Jonathan, every note carried the echo of Albert's promise.