I'm tense. I don't know how long we've been sitting here, waiting for the doc to arrive. Mrs. Lane hasn't moved much. We managed to guide her back upstairs, where Thomas called the doctor. Good thing rich people have communicators in their homes. It's quite a handy thing to have, but nothing I could ever afford.

In the Lanes' case, this communicator is overly ornate, as is everything else in this mansion. Just another thing they had an archist make for them, but it's probably one of the most common things in wealthy households. It connects people. In my case, I just have to walk to the next public communicator. And write letters. Not that I ever do, but still.

Ever since we sat down on the overly sterile, red couch, I've pinned my eyes to the clock. It's enormous. The freely hanging sphere depicts a clock on both sides of the sphere; I don't really know what time zone the other side is showing, and I don't care. The planets of our universe are depicted in smaller spheres, attached to the rings of their orbit. In this case, the sphere with the main clock depicts our Earth, showing the others – smaller than they should be considering the size ratio – planets following their natural orbit around it. Basically, it's a very, very big orrery with our planet in its center and only showing the suns and moons circling it. By the size of it, I doubt an actual orrery displaying all planets would really fit into this room, not even with the three to four-meter-high walls.

The one thing that caught my eye is the fact that it counts five stars in direct circulation. Two suns and three moons. The moons are crafted in silver, whereas the suns are crafted in gold. This clock must be old, or the archist who made it was a hopeless romantic, reminiscing over the old times. The second sun burned out decades before I was born. Before anyone in this mansion was born.

Not that there aren't people who remember the golden days when the city of marble was still blessed by two suns, warmth, and progress, but I don't think there are that many left. And the ones that are, are stored by the arch anyway, like the relics they are. Now this sun is just a black planet, the cause of the black fog and so much despair.

I huff. What a stupid thing to have. But it shows the time accurately, so I won't complain. Finally, after around fifteen minutes of just sitting around, I can hear a knocking on the door. We're on the second floor, the entry hall is on the ground floor, and yet I can hear it so clearly. There must be some magical enhancement at play, but I don't question it. Not now, anyway.

I glance over at Thomas. He notices, throws a concerned gesture toward Mrs. Lane. We try not to speak too much. We can't really assess her current state. She has become apathetic, didn't move since Thomas sat her down. Her head is lowered but her back is as straight as it can be. And yet she still seems lumped over. She really isn't but the aura surrounding her, her silence, her lowered head, the way she has been staring at her hands which she had firmly placed in her lap…

I sigh and nod toward her, signaling Thomas to stay with her. He has been running enough for one evening. And if she does get up to run away, she will have to cross my way. And the way of the doctor. So I get up and descend the stairs, opening the door. I'm greeted by a well-known but rarely-seen sight. The doctor has arrived in his usual attire. A black cloak covers the whole of his body, the only thing I can see is the lower half of his delicate, young face.

I can't help but raise the corner of my mouth in an amused way that stems from self-irony. We look alike. Not our appearance, but I can clearly see the bruise covering his chin. We're one of a kind. It doesn't matter that his work saves lives, he's as much another man's possession as I am. Fucked up world. Behind him towers a young lady, her lips are painted red, her amber eyes circled with dark, blue makeup. She's wearing the attire of a doctor's apprentice.

Huh, seems like I missed a thing or two. Things happen fast in this city. I don't pay attention to other people's life for a while and suddenly they stop operating alone. Not that I pay much attention to personal news anyway. I hear Thomas and other co-workers talk once in a while and don't get me started on the gossip whenever I actually go to the station, but even though I do hear some things they never really stick. I remember them if need be, but there rarely is. However, I would remember someone talking about the doc's new help.

"Thank you for your time. I know it's late." I step to the side to let the two in. Just as I turn back after closing the door, I am met with the direct stare the doctor gives me. He's a short man, hiding his fragile body underneath layers and layers of black fabric. At times, he reminds me of death himself. Silent with every step, agile and swift, smooth in every movement, and oh-so-frail. But given the fact that he's still alive, he must be capable of quite a lot. The proof is shown by the bruises he endures.

It's rare for me to see his eyes, he keeps his head lowered most of the time, for his cloak to hide more. It feels like he's afraid to be seen, afraid to show more of himself than necessary. But for some reason, he was waiting for me to turn back around, waiting to meet my eyes with his own. Silver glowing ambers meet my gaze... No matter how often I get a glimpse of his eyes, they always seem just as mesmerizing. I guess I understand why he hides them, the faint glow is a trace of the magic he holds, something so rare it is dangerously valuable.

"You are emotionally afflicted." He gives me no time to ask and outright confronts me with his concern. Maybe it's due to my emotional turmoil, the fact that I have to carry around emotions that don't belong to me, and the fact that I have been interrupted in the middle of my work, which prevented me from attending to myself properly; But I sense a hint of worry in his cold voice.

"Well, yeah. Comes with the job, I guess."

"More than usual."

"Yeah, it's been… turbulent."

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"I'll take a look at you later. Where's the lady of the house?"

"You don't need to. I'll get into cleansing first thing in the morning," I explain, nodding towards the stairs leading up, "upstairs. She's become apathetic since we managed to move her to the living room. Well, one of the living rooms. You can't miss it."

He eyes me for a moment longer as if he's searching for something. Maybe the truth behind my words to tend to myself later. Whatever it is, after a few seconds he turns and ascends to the second floor, followed by his apprentice. She's really tall. My first guess was perspective, seeing her towering over such a short man as the doctor himself. When she passed me on her way inside, I suspected heels. But no, she doesn't need heels. She's just that tall, and elegant.

"Doc?"

Before he slips away too far, I call out to him. Calm, but firm. He comes to a halt and turns just slightly, probably enough to see me, to make me aware that he's listening, but I can't tell if he's really looking my way.

"Thomas is with her, he's been running too much, mind taking a look at him too? And don't let him get away with his usual excuses."

He nods, then continues on his way. I feel the tension ease, if only a little. This night has become so much longer the moment Mrs. Lane came rushing downstairs, and it's far from over. But at least I don't have to worry about her interrupting me again. Which means I should get back to work, be it just to get these emotions under control. I hate feeling things that aren't mine. If I feel guilty I want to feel guilty for a reason, not… whatever this is.

But this guilt hasn't left me yet, it has even surpassed the sudden anger I had to cut from the weave. I know it's not possible in such a short time but it feels like it is growing. Maybe some of my own emotions resonate with this guilt. Though I seriously don't even know why that could be the case.

I sigh, and then I take a deep breath. Finally, after another second or two of just standing there, I return to my briefcase and open it again. I get rid of my gloves and put on new ones. Since I didn't manage to get rid of all the emotional residue I start up the sphere once more. It's a positive thing, this big mansion I mean. With the broad staircase and the height of the walls, I will hear if someone is about to come down the stairs.

Unless it's the doctor. I doubt I'll ever be able to hear him.

I let the sphere do its thing, and more than ever I welcome the steady hum emanating from it. Doing my job – alone – as it should be, brings some needed quiet to my headspace. There is still a lot to be cut from the weave, and I lose no time to get right back to it. Mrs. Lane's abrupt intervention and emotional outburst just added to the pile. I hesitate, and with yet another deep breath, I cut her grief out of the weave.

Only once the whole trail of emotions and evidence has been cleared do I turn off the sphere once more and store it back in the briefcase. Now for the hardest part. I glance up at the chandelier and sigh. It can never be easy, can it now? It's not like I'm stalling, but it does make more sense to clean up the wider spread area of the mess, gather it all under the chandelier before dealing with the ceiling. Luckily, the chandelier got the worst of it and kind of prevented the same radius of disaster on the ceiling. It's still a mess, but at least it's not that bad.

Well, it's bad enough that it's on the ceiling of all places, but it could be worse. Maybe. I go through the motions almost on autopilot. With a broom that can easily be assembled and dismantled for easy storage and transportation, I start with the walls. Adding length to the broomstick the higher up I need to reach until I can't get any higher. I brush down all of the walls as far as I can reach, then I proceed with the floor.

The pile that once went by the name Constantin, grows beneath the chandelier. At this point, I am a little amazed how I haven't gotten blood and tissue all over myself. I'm good at cleaning crime scenes and getting rid of bodies; it's a habit. Not one I particularly like, but there is a little pride somewhere along the line. After all, this job ensures my survival in this goddamn city, and the better I do my job, the more secure I am. So… Is it really wrong to be proud of the skillset that makes me good at my job?

But this crime scene right here is testing me – my every movement. And even though I go through the motions in a state of numbness, I still have to pay attention. I will have to get rid of the clothes after the job anyway, it's part of the procedure. A set of spare clothes is neatly folded in my briefcase for immediate change, once the scene has been cleaned. But I still hate it to get dirty at a crime scene.

I am absolutely not squeamish, I've been wading through the sewers to get a job done, but I do like to avoid the additional work that comes with cleaning myself. So I try to limit it to my clothes; it's easy to simply get changed. But if we talk about taking a shower at a crime scene, the whole thing becomes much more complicated. Unnecessarily complicated.

Ladder. I need a ladder. And every household should have one, so off I go in search of one. And, well, all I really do is turn a corner. I guess she had the time to prepare for my arrival. The ladder seems out of place; this is not its usual storage place. Mrs. Lane must have prepared it for me to take, which means that she had absolutely no issue walking through the aftermath of her lover exploding.

What happened to her clothes? Until now I expected her to have enough distance between herself and Constantin to stay out of the blast radius. This may still be the case, but there is absolutely no way she walked right through the mess without getting blood on her shoes. Which means there should be footprints. But there are none. Neither I nor the sphere could detect any blood leading away from the scene.

"Eon?"

I turn my head to look at… well. Nothing. It sounded close, but just to make sure I lean around the corner so I can see the vault door. There's no one. Imagination? It must be the emotional strain. The doc is right; I need to tend to myself as soon as possible. I need that cleansing as soon as possible. Good thing I can just waltz into the station, no matter the time.

I shake my head to get rid of my thoughts, grab the ladder, and return to the scene. I'm just about to climb the ladder to clean the walls when I hear someone call my name again. It sounded so clear before, but now it seems distant, faded. As if it was only a memory lingering in the air. For fuck's sake. I've been here before, and the only person calling out my name was Mr. Lane. It is possible that the weave stored his emotions, and now it recognizes me.

I wouldn't normally be able to hear such things, but I meddled with the weave for the last hour or two, and I am next to potentially highly potent artifacts. With every passing minute, this crime scene becomes more and more a liability. I hate it here.

I clench my teeth and try to occupy my mind with the cleaning of the walls. Little by little, I get closer to the chandelier, cleaning the ceiling along the way. Luckily, this hallway is narrow compared to the rest of the house. Still too high but I manage to deal with that. If it were any wider I wouldn't be able to reach the middle part of the ceiling, which means Thomas would need to make another call to get us additional gear, which in turn means that I would need to be idle again for an uncertain amount of time, waiting. I'm pretty sure Thomas doesn't want to make another call, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to wait.