I entered the city of Harthwaite by engine at noon with the sun high above me, engulfing all of Harthwaite. Behind me, passengers of the engine spilled out onto the platform; Harthwaite was constructed in such a way that the station was almost directly in front of the main entrance to the city. Harthwaite found most of its similarities with Lowestoft, yet it still was somewhat advanced in the way that Iyesgarth was. Throughout my life I had already seen much of the majesty that Farenzo had to offer, but when I came into Limmere I was awestruck by its complexities, though I had not yet arrived.

Within Harthwaite and its flat-stone streets, unlike Lowestoft which held terribly worn cobbled paths, I found a wrought-iron carriage and horse accompaniment. To the driver I passed coinage along with a short phrase explaining that I was on my way to Limmere. His response was not one that I had expected:

“Quite the way away, is it not? Ye’ll be in here for quite some time.”

By the time he said this I had already made myself comfortably placed myself down in the caged seat behind him. “I know that,” I said coldly.

Like he had said, the drive from the inner-mouth of Harthwaite to its far-reaching exterior was long and tiresome, and then from there to Ascott would be an even greater journey, but I had already waited a great time in order to be accepted to Limmere. Even moreso, I had already waited even longer to be able to begin my journey to the college. To me, waiting mattered not. Upon our exit from the thin outskirts of Harthwaite the sky became sullen, a twisting expanse of gray matter. Once or twice the horse refused to go forward, yet this was overturned by the coach who forced the steed to go on its way. Rain tapped the top of the carriage as the coach pulled his cap closer to his face and his collar closer to his neck; since the windows were bent out of wrought-metal wire, there was no glass that was held within their empty spaces. Water slipped through those gaps and found its way onto my brown coat. Throughout the entirety of the journey the shrill sound of the wheels turning over themselves could be heard, paired with the stone of rolling stones and clogged dirt being crushed below the carriage’s weight.

Ascott itself was nothing to spit at. A depressing town that once used to stretch its arms quite far; now it was in disarray, a husk of its former self. I understood now why people usually only referred to Ascott as Limmere itself or, rather, “the slums of Harthwaite”. One would think that such a town would be more refined and dignified if it harbored such a prestigious school within it—not so it would seem.

After what truly was a long ride, the coach stopped. He pulled his hat closer to his face once more as I stepped down the short metal steps, onto the now rain-soaked ground. All about me there was fog, but high above it I saw some sort of stonework-erection which I could barely even make out. With me I held my luggage which I had placed at my feet during the carriage ride. The coach spoke to me, saying, “Off to Limmere ye go then, followin’ that belfry peekin’ above the mist. The path may seem hardly visible, but that’s only ‘cause the college has been here for years. What did you say yer name was, sir?”

I made no effort to look back at him; instead, I replied as I faced the dense, whispering fog. “Iwrin—Irwin Larkin.”

“Well then, Mr. Larkin, I hope ye the best of luck with whatever affairs you have.” And with that, I stood silent as the fog bit at my ankles and boots. Like the tendrils of some sea creature, it wrapped around my legs and arms, about my waist, void of any force. My grip on the handle of my luggage tightened as I made my way forward, towards what the coach called a belfry. As I went on my way I came to the realization that I had no idea of how to prove myself to be enrolled in the college other than my name and my government identification. I did not bring with me my letter of acceptance. Above me I saw no sun; instead, I saw ever present fog which brewed in the air. I believed myself to have entered a courtyard, as before me now was a knotted tree, with low-hanging bows and sparse leaves, and on the ground it sat within a stone-crown. With not but a few strides beyond it, I was greeted with great stone steps, which lead up to darkly stained doors which instantly beckoned me the moment I laid eyes upon them. They were already slightly opened, so with a deeply held breath I slipped through the thin ajarment, entering into a decorated hall. My footsteps echoed throughout it like a chamber of glass; the walls were made of similar wood to that of the steps, but it was the sort of room that you would expect to see in the house of a noble, far above the likes of Agnes Werthman. Though still the papered walls were dingy and worn; the coachman was right, for Limmere had been established many years before. A staple of the greater community, hidden away in the Harthwaite-Ascott-countryside.

I stowed my valuables and was there for a month—not a month explicitly within my dormitory, no. I stayed on the grounds of Limmere on a month before I exited for the first time, and that was simply only to wander off to wander past the grand-lake that sat in the rain-shadow of Limmere and into the outer-rim of Ascott. Bound in old leathers I took with me I forced myself to slug through muddied streets in paths drawn out by months and years of repetitive walking feet and drawing carriages. After three months at Limmere—two months after my first expedition out of its walls—I published my initial work: A Treatise on Modern Thaumaturgy, I. W. Larkin. To my surprise I was given subsequent recognition from multiple scholars such as myself within Limmere. Because I was there on a self-lead scholarly expedition I had but one class to attend and the library and all other resources the college had to provide were at my disposal, a notion which I almost abused. Never before had I ever seen such collections of vastly different works, and their stockpile of books and tomes on the practices of contemporary alchemy was engrossing.

The first letter I received within my first year of Limmere was from Ms. Werthman, now two months after my first publishing; I was violently taken out of my studies by a racking at my door only to be met with the unkempt message-courier behind it.

Dear Mr. Larkin,

I hope that this letter finds you well—and just as so, I hope that Limmere has been treating you well. I heart tell of a little work published not but a week ago by an I. W. Larkin. It was Chester who told me, of course. If I can, I will pick it up, but you know that your studies involve nothing that will enchant me.

Pray, do tell, is it as beautiful as everyone says it is? I’ve been to Harthwaite once, and never did I step foot near Limmere; I was far too young, I had no interest.

You fancy that I have contracted for an extension to be put out of the parlor, a second wing perhaps. I visited Mrs. Harriet a month ago—she has the most beautiful manor—and I fell in love with what she called her salon. A glorified solarium is what it was, but the eastern sun in the morning was tantalizing. When it’s finished you’ll have to see the new wing for yourself.

Do treat yourself kindly, I can’t have you becoming ill.

Cordially, Agnes C. C. Werthman.

My second letter came not but a short week later, by the same weathered hands of the same courier-boy. It was from a name that I had heard many times before, yet a name that I never wanted to associate myself with. Before, never had I spoken to him nor reached out to him according to my own will; to me, he was a pretentious, self-righteous bastard who wanted nothing but his own desires and was shorn of all assortments of empathy. That is not to say, however, that the words within his letter did not peak my interest, that they did not lay within the depths of my mind as I slept five nights thereafter and whispered and mumbled until I was forced by a hand that was not my own to blot ink with my pen and write him back. Yes—of course I had written Ms. Werthman back, I wrote her back immediately after reading hers, though it was a brief scrawling as I had other matters to attend to. Yet his letter brought from within me a deepest desire for further inquiry.

I. W. Larkin,

I write to you this night with fervor. I have put down your A Treatise on Modern Thaumaturgy almost a minute before now. I broke my first quill and spilled my ink across my varnished table and paper on my first attempt at writing this letter. Because of that, I will be making this one brief so that I do not have to tire my hand. I invite you to come to my manse, near the sea coast, by Sablecroft. I invite you to come on the 25th of the coming month. I wish to discuss what you have written and offer to you a venture that I would think of you foolish if you were to deny. No need to write me back. If you do not arrive I will take it that you have denied yourself of this potential.

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Ludwig Elemier Byrgenman, Count of Limdol

Many find geography and toponymy to be rather daze-inducing, pushing one into the calm hands of slumber—I, on the other hand, find it to be quite the opposite. Limdol was once known as the realm of witches, a place where wayfaring men would be stolen away in their travels guided by moonlight. I knew of two tales of some sort of coven within the forests of Limdol that came out when the moon was full—or, perhaps, rather it was when there was no moon in the night sky at all—and would perform rituals of the dark arts under shaded trees. I reckon it, instead, to be that the forests of Limdol are maze-like. It is ridiculous to even call Sablecroft a part of Limdol, for it is on the far reaches of the region, on the shore. The town of Sablecroft is older than Limmere, it would seem. A fishing hamlet that has yet to see the changing tides of industrialization; that is what I’ve been told, never have I stepped foot in it. Never have I stepped foot in Limdol either, yet now, so curiously I found myself with the desire to do so.

Still, it was Ludwig. Originally, I would have thought of it as a terrible, disgraceful, and may I even say abhorrent idea to speak with the likes of Ludwig Elemier Byrgenman, “Count of Limdol” as he called himself; what of Limdol is there to be a count of? Nothing but bogged-myres and rotten stink. And flies, too, most likely. Though Limdol was not at all far from Limmere—Ascott, I should say—and I supposed that it would not be dreadful for me to leave the campus once more, to breath in fresh air, air not damp yet dry, and too awfully cold. The college was beautiful, a monument to human architecture and intelligence, not at all an eyesore. It stood as an impeding figure over all of Ascott and even some parts of Harthwaite, ever-present in the distance, however it was fairly aged and much like a human, it had begun to show its seniority.

I dialed the Harthwaite dial-registry from a commoner-biphone placed within one of the studies to ask to be connected with the Sablecroft dial-registry. The device was unlike any other I had used before; I could not tell if it was primitive or novel, sleek and wooden yet artisan decorated with gold plated fixtures and swirling, botanic designs. To my surprise, Sablecroft had no dial-registry—I asked the kindly voiced woman on the other end how they made connections by wire and she explained to me that there are only a few amount of biphones in Sablecroft that there was no such need for a registry. Even though I was severely disappointed I thanked the lady, placing the biphone on its holder with a stout sigh I wiped my brow. It made sense, as perhaps Ludwig did not have a biphone for himself. If he did he would have called me instead of writing a letter. Yet, if he truly did have a biphone then he would not have called me because there was no feasible way for him to have known that he would have to call Limmere, and even if he did he would have to request for a courier to fetch me.

I dialed again.

“Where would you like to be connected?”

It was in my best interest to not interrupt her yet my desire to speak was difficult to keep contained. Not even before she could finish the last word I overlapped her speech. “Yes—I received a letter from a one Mr. Byrgenman, yet it has no address that it was sent from. I was wondering, perhaps, if I could obtain that from the registry.”

Being a registry-clerk was fairly complicated, or so I assumed. From what I knew, one would have to consult the contents of varying books and volumes, all which held within them numbers, addresses, names, titles, acting as a roadmap for wherever the client needed to go. “Mr. Byrgenman,” the clerk said curtly. Even over the semi-raspy ring and buzz of the wire I could sense ice in her pattern. “You wish to confer with Mr. Byrgenman?”

“Indeed I do.”

She took me as a fool. “Excuse me sir, but I’d think that a gentleman dialing from…” she paused as I heard the noise of turning paper, “… Limmere—ah, Limmere—would know that consultation with Mr. Byrgenman requires prior appointment? Don’t mistake me, though, as I’m not his steward.”

“I know this—.” I had picked up on her terse attitude. “I know, miss. But do you not even have the address for him? For Mr. Byrgenman, I mean.”

“I can retrieve the numbers for those in neighboring towns, like Iyesgarth and Ascott; but like I said prior, Sablecroft has no registry. And it’s not in my jurisdiction either. It’d behoove you to, instead, dial Iyesgarth’s registry.” I could hear the tapping of fingers on her wooden desk—either that or the copper wire had frayed somewhere along its long journey.

“Is Iyesgarth in the same partition as Sablecroft? I thought they were far spread.”

Her hesitation made my belief in her response unstable and, therefore, ever so doubtful. “I would have to take out my map to give you that answer. Do you wish to be connected with Iyesgarth? Would that settle your troubles?”

Off putting. “Yes.” A bitter taste in my mouth.

“A moment.” After twenty-two seconds of utter silence save for the static of the wire I was greeted with a kinder, more soft-spoken woman.

“Good afternoon sir, where would you like to be connected today?” Since Iyesgarth was an industrial hub, an epicenter of change and technology, there were multiple clerks within the dial-registry. I could hear them babbling in the background even through the poor microphone on the clerk’s end, even the turning of papers and whisper-shouts.

“I was wondering if I could obtain the address for a Mr. Byrgenman of Sablecroft?’

“Of course, I’ll get that for you. Do you mind holding for just one second?” I heard some unidentified shuffling noise.

“Not a bother.”

A pound as I believe she had set down a worn registry book on her desk. “And give me a moment, what was the name again?”

I cleared my throat, my eyes fixed on the wet stones of the floor. “Mr. Ludwig Byrgenman, of Sablecroft. Ludwig—,” I looked down at the letter I clutched in my hand, now realizing how tightly I had gripped the paper, crinkling its pale form,“—Elemier Byrgenman. Of Sablecroft.”

“Gotcha—right here!” I could hear her smile. “0001 Thistlesprout Lane. Looks like he’s the only one on that drive.”

Now I sighed with relief. “Perfect, thank you.”

“You have a great rest of your night—or, I mean day—sir!” And with that a ring of the cancellation of our wire-call.

Swiftly, I rushed to my dormitory where I scribbled down the address on the letter he had sent; it would have been wise of me to bring with me materials to write with. My fingers felt as though they were not sewn upon my palms, and instead they were of their own volition, whispering away in their own dance as my mind occupied itself on a million things that I lacked the ability to distinguish. It was rather interesting how I could think of my desired interest spawned from the sparse-worded letter along with my projected travel to Sablecroft; even then I could also balance these two thoughts with my questions of Byrgenmans intentions, his reasons. Indeed, I thought, why me? My prattling, internal voice was nonsensical in its attempts at logical strategy and yet, still, I found myself with such a yearning to hear the elusive Ludwig Elemier Byrgenman explain his… intended practice.

Whatever it was, it had caught my interest in the utmost manner. He had captivated me and clearly, I did not believe that there was going to be anything that would halt me from pursuing such an endeavor. No hurtle that I would have to jump nor no wall that I would have to scale.

The next morning I set out to begin my journey to Sablecroft. I would need to take a carriage into the heart of Harthwaite, catch an engine out and into the countryside, over wheat-field pasture and verdant hills, and most likely a ferry that would take me past neighboring islets across the Gale and to the arm-peninsula that Sablecroft found itself on. If they were to go through the forests of Limdol it would halve, or even quarter, the engine ride, yet supposedly, the engine company refused to do so—twisting trees and their roots were the least of the engineer's troubles. This is why the ferry ride was necessary. And there was no use in even attempting to extend the carriage ride and go through Limdol either, as it is bad luck for any coachman to pass through; the tale goes that if any carriage-chauffeur did they would break their front-right wheel and then they would be at the pure mercy of the forest, whatever really did lie within it. Comparatively, a ferry ride was significantly cheaper than an engine, yet the fact that I had to take a carriage and then a train and then a ferry is quite bothersome. A common practice, however.

If it were not for that letter I would not have left Limmere for the next few months, continuing my deep isolation and refusal to interact with others. I considered my trip to Sablecroft and subsequent human-to-human interactions that were involved with arriving there to all be a part of a greater social interaction, all to give myself a sort of social fill.

I returned to the same biphone that I had dialed the day before, having to wait for another student to finish using it—unbridled excitement was thinly veiled. The moment they finished their dial and stepped away from the machine I scrambled to put my finger upon the turnstyle, they then being slightly disturbed by my air and leaving rather briskly. A call to the West-Engine Company, a short talk and bargain with a hostess, and I ordered my ticket in the mail to come in the next three days; I had not taken into account the amount of time it would take for the ticket to actually be within my hands. Still my anticipation ate at me. Upon the day of its arrival—the 24th—I packed my spare things, took with me my trunk with varying notes packed away and coat upon my arm, caught a carriage out of Limmere, and came into Harthwaite. There I found the engine to my ticket and came into a well-tempered coastal town known as Sattenbury, where I would catch the ferry. Unfortunately, the weather was not in the favor of the ferryman and had, instead, decided that it would go awry. Storms rolled in and sprayed the briny waters across streets of pebbles that sliced through the white-stucco homes that were lined across the seatide coast. I could get on the ferry in the morning, meaning I would arrive in Sablecroft on the 24th rather than the 25th, and I would have a small window of opportunity to get to Ludwig’s manse. Instead of my well-thought out plan I would have to resort to a contingency.