The fog outside No. 17 Vellum Street had not lifted by morning. It merely thinned to a pale gauze, allowing the first gas lamps of the Spire Ward to appear as distant, judgmental eyes.
Elias Varn descended the narrow staircase at precisely eight minutes past nine. Harlan Quill was already waiting behind the counter, a small valise of dark leather placed beside the astrolabe. Inside the valise: the Probability Prism wrapped in black silk, a slim ledger bound in calfskin (its pages already marked with yesterday's wheat discrepancies), and three copper coins identical to the one Elias carried—each one a minor anchor against sudden reversals.
Quill did not look up from the ledger he was balancing. "The Azure Salon opens its doors at ten. Lord Crowe's people will be watching the approaches. The back alley is safer, but slower."
Elias paused at the foot of the stairs. "Speed is a luxury. Caution is necessity."
He accepted the valise without comment. The leather was cool, the weight familiar—exactly the mass of calculated risk.
Outside, the fog clung to his coat like unpaid interest. Vellum Street was quiet save for the occasional clatter of a milk cart and the low hiss of steam vents from the Foundry below. He walked north toward the Spire Ward boundary, pace unhurried, each step measuring the same seventeen inches as the night before.
The copper coin in his right pocket grew warmer with every block. Not alarm. Merely awareness. Threads of observation brushed against him—subtle, professional, the kind laid by men who billed by the hour.
He did not look for them.
At the boundary arch—black iron filigree etched with faded protection sigils—the air changed. The fog thinned further. The scent of coal smoke gave way to something sharper: incense, expensive perfume, the faint metallic bite of alchemical polish.
The Azure Salon stood at the end of a short, private lane lined with gas lamps shaped like blooming lotuses. Its doors were tall panels of blue-tinted glass framed in brass. No sign. No doorman. Only a single brass knocker in the shape of an open ledger.
Elias lifted the knocker once.
The sound echoed inside like a coin dropped into an empty vault.
The door opened inward without a hand visible.
A footman in charcoal livery bowed fractionally. "Mr. Varn. Lord Crowe awaits in the Upper Salon."
Elias stepped inside.
The interior was all polished marble, deep blue drapes, and gas chandeliers that burned with unnaturally steady flame. No other patrons were visible at this hour. Only the faint murmur of a string quartet playing in some distant room—Schubert, slowed to funereal tempo.
They ascended a curving staircase of black iron and white stone.
The Upper Salon was smaller than expected: a circular chamber with high windows overlooking the city's spires. A single table waited at the center—round, ebony, set for two. No food. Only a crystal decanter of amber liquid and two glasses.
Lord Darius Crowe rose as Elias entered.
Silver hair swept back, features aristocratic yet worn, eyes the color of old steel. His coat was immaculate midnight blue; a single silver pin at the lapel bore the sigil of a knotted coin—Fourth Knot mark of a banker who had long ago learned to bind fortunes as easily as breathing.
"Mr. Varn," Crowe said. Voice smooth, cultured, carrying the faintest trace of amusement. "Punctual. A rare virtue in this city."
Elias inclined his head. "Punctuality is merely compound interest on time."
Crowe gestured to the opposite chair. "Please."
Elias sat. The valise rested against his leg. The copper coin in his pocket had cooled—neutral now, tasting only the room's equilibrium.
Crowe poured two fingers of amber liquid into each glass. No offer of a toast. He lifted his own and regarded Elias over the rim.
"The granary futures," he began without preamble. "Seventeen points overnight. The syndicate's ledgers show no external pressure. Yet the discrepancy aligns precisely with your… recent activities in the Veil Markets."
Elias lifted his glass but did not drink. "Coincidences are the Lattice's way of reminding us that arithmetic has a sense of humor."
Crowe's smile was small, precise. "I prefer to think of them as inefficiencies. Inefficiencies that, left uncorrected, compound into liabilities."
A pause.
The quartet in the distance reached the slow crescendo of the second movement—strings drawn long and thin, like Threads under tension.
Crowe set his glass down untouched.
"I propose a simple arrangement," he continued. "You unwind your position in the wheat contracts. Quietly. The discrepancy vanishes. In return, I extend you a line of credit—favorable terms—through my house. Enough to acquire certain artifacts currently held in the Archive Vaults. Artifacts that might… ease certain personal inconveniences."
The sigil on Elias's wrist gave a single, cold pulse.
He regarded Crowe across the table. The man's Threads were visible now—pale gold cords thick as mooring ropes, knotted around the city's major houses, looping back to this very room.
"An elegant offer," Elias said. "Generous, even. One might almost suspect it comes with an anchor clause."
Crowe's smile did not waver. "Every contract has fine print, Mr. Varn. The question is whether you prefer to read it now… or discover it later."
Silence settled between them—thick, measured.
Elias finally lifted his glass and took a single sip. The liquor tasted of aged oak, smoke, and something metallic beneath.
He set the glass down.
"Lord Crowe," he said softly, "I appreciate the courtesy of this conversation. But I find myself disinclined to unwind positions that are performing so admirably."
Crowe's eyes narrowed fractionally.
"Then we understand one another."
He rose smoothly.
"Enjoy the rest of your morning, Mr. Varn. Should you reconsider, my people know where to find you."
Elias remained seated as Crowe left the room. The door closed behind him with the soft click of a ledger being shut.
The quartet fell silent.
Elias lifted the Probability Prism from the valise. Held it to the light.
Inside the crystal, dozens of translucent futures branched—most ending in quiet misfortune: a warehouse fire, a sudden audit, an ally's Thread snapping without warning.
One branch, however, showed a different path.
A black silk glove appearing on his desk—unbidden, unexpected.
And a woman's voice, low and amused, whispering from nowhere:
"…interesting."
Elias closed his fingers around the Prism.
The futures dimmed.
He rose.
Outside the Azure Salon, the fog had begun to lift.
But the weight on his wrist had not.
The sigil pulsed twice—slow, patient.
As though the Lattice had just added a new line item to the account.
And interest was already accruing.