England, London
No. 86 Lancaster Gate, Paddington
2 November 1898, 7:34 a.m.

"Are you really sure?" he asked skeptically, looking at the red silk cravat in his hand like a wet, slippery fish.

The man behind him could not suppress the moan that escaped his lips quickly enough. Immediately, his posture stiffened. His shoulders hunched higher, and then he cleared his throat too emphatically to cover the slip and most hastily corrected his mistake.

"Yes, Sir Crowford, I'm perfectly sure." confirmed a middle-aged face in the reflection behind the Sir. Watchful eyes the color of dark hazel were already pricking needles in his back. The man, dressed in the typical attire of a higher-ranking servant, nodded at this to emphasize his words. Men in groomed servants' clothing had their murderous gaze, and it resembled the look of a cat still pondering whether or not to bite the hand that fed it every day. The butler spread the fingers in the white gloves as if he had to count to ten in his mind.

"Well... I don't know..." The young Sir beside the servant looked critically at the thrown-back image in the mirror. Wavy hair, the color of coal-black raven feathers, framed pale features, a straight nose, and a charming oval face. He was extremely handsome, no question about it, even if his appearance was often derisively ridiculed as effeminate by other gentlemen of high society. The high collar of his white shirt was folded outwards according to the latest fashion and merged with relatively narrow; some might even say gaunt shoulders. He had, he would tell himself, qualities other than broad, masculine shoulders. 

Fortunately for him, the dark blue frock coat made of high-quality fabric somewhat concealed this flaw, which was so annoying. The waistcoat with silver buttons closed over the dark grey trousers of sturdy cotton. The blackened leather footwear looked expensive for its value and would no doubt stand up to the grime of the dirty streets. He always looked good. But today, it was essential to look outstanding for the occasion.

"I think I'll take the blue ascot after all," the fine gentleman mused aloud, jutting his smooth chin higher in a deliberative gesture. Either he had not read his servant's bitter despair from his precise gestures, or he was ignoring it.

Behind him, teeth clenched a little tighter, causing a muscle to twitch on his butler's polished chin line. The dark mustache was already trembling.... filling the young gentleman in front of the antique mirror with distinct satisfaction. Dark eyebrows drew higher, and they lifted towards the dark mop of hair while the gaze from the mischievous flashing eyes settled on the servant in mock sternness.

"What are you waiting for, Bancroft? Please bring me the royal blue ascot. I'm running late. So hurry up!" emphasizing, he wavered his hand in the air and luckily managed to stifle the 'shoo, shoo.' Otherwise, there might have been an article about his tragic demise in the London Times tomorrow after all. 

'Young, handsome, and extremely exquisitely dressed lord beaten to death by the butler for silk tie.' No doubt the headline would read exactly like that and not otherwise.

Slightly, the corners of the young man's mouth twitched. They rose a little as pulled by invisible strings, and it took all the self-control he could muster to contain his amusement at his butler's scowl. The Servant turned away to disappear through the door to the large dressing room. The young gentleman did not miss the curse the older man uttered at the brash youth as soon as he thought he was far enough away.

The fact that Kyle was now sending him for a cravat for the tenth time was his little revenge for the fact that he had let him march into the gentlemen's club yesterday with a far too innocent grin - even though Bancroft had seen precisely that the back end of his frock coat was stuck in the waistband of his trousers! Kyle was surprised to find out when that had happened. But he remembered very clearly the embarrassed face of the receptionist and the subsequent laughter of Lord Wellington and Lord Corbett in the gentlemen's club. That was why Kyle was exceptionally fickle about his wardrobe choices today.

This game of back and forth between them had been developing into a very special tug-of-war ever since he had hired the old butler (which he admitted to himself he enjoyed far too much to let it end). And Bancroft seemed to feel the same way. It would be inconceivable that a friendship would develop between a noble gentleman like him and a servant. So all they had left was this almost daily cat-and-mouse game and a healthy mutual respect for each other. And it was good the way it was.

That was one of the reasons why a half-laughing snort broke out from the young master's lips. He loosened his disguised stern features and breathed in and out more deeply as a test. With the widening of his chest, his rather loose waistcoat with its delicate patterns of silver ornaments hardly showed any noticeable tension. The coat, too, was open, not constricting around his body. Everything was a perfect fit.

It was only a short time before Bancroft returned with the blue silk tie, which, to his satisfaction, harmonized exceptionally well with the waistcoat and frock coat. The fabric rustled as he pulled it from the silver tray, passed it around the collar to tie it in a practiced motion to the ascot knot, and then pinned it in place with the gold tie pin. This time, as his gaze slid over his reflection, he nodded with satisfaction. Everything was flawless. And nothing but perfection would he accept on this momentous day because today was THE day. 

The day of his very first mission for the Royal Hermetic Order of Seekers of Truth and Knowledge.

England, London
Trafalgar Square 
2 November 1898, 08:22 a.m.

What about anything going wrong whenever you had no use for it?

That was the question Kyle Crowford's mind grappled with like a whirling top as he turned from his running pace into the nondescript alleyway just behind the imposing National Gallery of London building. His breath stumbled as frantically as his steps did.

Where exactly had the misfortune begun?

He was sure it started when he took unusually long to flag down a cab. The driver seemed to be having an equally unlucky day, too. That, or he was blind in both eyes.
The fact was that the carriage hit a raised kerb at an angle on Achilles' Way and suffered a broken wheel. It had thrown him painfully against the cursed carriage wall in the process and also dented his nice new top hat. If it had been lucky that neither he nor the coachman had been hurt, it seemed he had been used up for the rest of the day. For it only got worse from here.

Driven by haste, he had set off on foot, half limping, thinking it a wise idea to shorten the route through the less crowded Green Park. Perhaps he had hit his head on the carriage wall without realizing it because, in retrospect, he could not explain how he had come up with this snap idea for his life. 

In the pale twilight of the rising morning sun, a few gloomy figures were still loitering in the corners of the parks in the fading veil of night, just waiting for an opportunity to present itself. 

Fortunately, there was one familiar face among all the cutthroats: 'Dirty Jim' was a fellow he had often slipped good money to for one favor or another. So, this unwelcome morning terror could be solved without violence. But now he arrived at the Order with one less valuable tie pin, a top hat, and a painfully large amount of cash, and instead, he was sweaty and out of breath. Frustration already stung his chest more than breathlessness.

Absolutely nothing was perfect!

Taking a deep breath, he briefly stared gloomily at the door made of worn, faded wood and took at least a second to sort out his thoughts. Multiple pasted-over posters peeled off the surface just as the mud-green paint of the gate did. His fingers hesitantly laid against the tarnished brass handle. Fortunately, he wore gloves and hated the pungent smell of rusty and tarnished metal on his hands. In general, he wasn't a big fan of getting his hands dirty.... in more ways than just one meaning.

With a few steps, he plunged into the murky darkness that opened up for him behind the gate. Only a few inconspicuous oil lanterns, partly riddled with cracks and already milky with dust, flanked the narrow room, in the middle of which a spiral staircase spiraled downwards. 

On a creaky old chair in front of a pack of cards on a stained table, a figure clad in working-class clothes sat and raised his eyes. Quiet as it might seem, perhaps even giving a sluggish and dirty impression at first, Kyle knew better. He saw the wary flash from the irises under the peak of the skipper's cap in his direction. Although he had been here more than once... his pulse inevitably beat a little faster, and he remembered his good manners just at the last moment.

His anticipation had flown too close to the sun this morning and now lay broken-necked on the hard ground. Therefore, he could not manage more than a slight nod to his mood before he purposefully approached the staircase exit. Metallic groaning and clattering accompanied his steps into the depths, announcing his arrival like a rusty war drum in the adjacent vaults. There was no need for arcane traps or elaborately woven alarm spells when simple means and more unobtrusive methods could be used.

Nothing awaited Kyle except an empty storeroom at the foot of the stairs. As he moved through the maze of unfilled shelves and collapsed crates, his footsteps echoed off the walls. The light flickered ominously from the overhead lamps as he finally stopped at one of the walls and reached for the painting propped on a barrel against the wall. 

Her Majesty Queen Victoria's scrutinizing gaze turned away with it as he operated the secret mechanism behind it. A deep scraping sounded, then a click. With that, the hidden door in the unadorned wall opened for him to step through.

It was almost a mockery that behind it, too, was an empty area. However, he was not greeted by an endless maw but by a more official atmosphere with the two human-looking giants standing next to a dark, polished mahogany gate. Three sliding bolts with chains adorned the door, and he knew that each was secured with an arcane spell and could each be opened by one of the guards. Of the two in front, those with the grim look as if they chewed pebbles for breakfast every day, and the third, on the other side of the entrance. The one who could make the blood of uninvited guests boil without batting an eyelid. At least, that's what Kyle heard. He didn't want to mess with any of them.

Therefore, he wasted no time sliding his hand into the narrow pocket of his waistcoat. Matching the rest of his exquisite attire, light crept across the surface of a gold pocket watch. Just large enough to nestle in the young gentleman's palms, it displayed the engraving of a triangle, a pyramid with an Egyptian-looking eye in front—the symbol of the Royal Hermetic Order of Seekers.

"Mundus vult decipi..." (1) sounded behind the door.

"Ergo decapitator."(2) Kyle replied in a firm voice. 

A heartbeat passed, then two; it rattled and clicked, and finally - the last door to his destination opened for him.

(1) Latin: The world wants to be deceived

(2) ... so let it be deceived! 

(The Credo of the Order of the Seekers) 

Chapter artwork: Kyle, the Magician - by TheKomor_San.

All collected artwork & other sketches, etc., can be found in the chapter *ARTWORKS*.