“Mimics,” Mabel replied primly, sitting upright and tucking the handkerchief away.

The [Detective] sighed. “You say you saw yourself in the mirror, no?”

“Yes, of course. Everyone knows mimics can make a perfect mimicry of whatever they take the form of. Most commonly treasure chests, but certainly a mirror is within their ability,” Mabel said.

“You’re knowledgeable for a [Maid],” the detective noted.

Mabel sniffed, looking down at the detective. “I’ve been the maid of the kingdom’s [Hero] for more than four decades. A woman picks up a few things, believe it or not.”

“Your [Skill], right? A maid should have [Personal Knowledge],” the detective guessed, sitting back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and peered over them. “Allows you to remember infinitesimal details about the daily life and preferences of your employer.”

“That as well,” Mabel said, sitting upright.

The detective waved his hand. “In any case, it cannot be a mimic.”

She crossed her arms. “Why can’t it be a mimic?”

“Mimics can be anything inanimate, yes. Most commonly chests, or other chest-like furniture. It’s hypothesized they use the apertures in the hollow objects they’re mimicking to store their organs when they aren’t in predation mode. However, they absolutely cannot be mirrors.”

“Why not?” Mabel asked. “It seems like they can. Mirrors are inanimate.”

“Mimics are incapable of forming a perfectly smooth, shiny surface. They cannot reflect. I’m sure Harold, the Hero, would have told you—one of the easy ways to find a mimic is to see if the metal parts of the item shine or reflect,” the detective explained. “A mimic can mimic almost anything, but it cannot reflect.”

“Then maybe they put a piece of glass in the mirror frame—”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Mabel. The mirror surface had blood on it. if the mimic was the mirror frame and the mirror was an ordinary piece of glass, then the mirror surface would not have blood on it. The mimic would have to cast it aside to attack, and would not be able to replace the reflective surface afterward. Mimics are primitive creatures, and lack the higher mental function to accomplish such tasks.” The detective sat forward.

“Then… what was it that killed Harold? Or… who?” Mabel asked nervously.

The detective spread his hands. Spider-like, they sported long, slender fingers with knobby knuckles and small palms, pale as the rest of him, backs crisscrossed with thin ice-white scars that vanished into his sleeves. “I have no idea.”

Mabel’s face crumpled. “Even you don’t know? There’s no hope.”

“Not at all. I’m taking your case,” the detective declared, jumping to his feet.

“Eh? But you just said—”

“I cannot solve it from where I sit. That’s enough to entice me into action,” the detective declared, flashing a bright smile. He snatched a business card off his desk with a flash of his pale hands and offered it to her. “Apologies for the late introduction. Alistair Norwich, [Detective]. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I… I know. You’re the only person to ever earn the [Detective] class,” Mabel stammered.

“Ah, well. It never hurts to introduce oneself,” Alistair said, unbothered. Grabbing a chocolate-brown coat off the back of his chair to compliment his green vest, he nodded at Mabel. “Shall we?”

“Right now?” Mabel asked, startled.

“Is there a better time? The body grows old, the room grows dusty, and by the gods, someone might go in there and disturb something.” Alistair shuddered at the thought. “No, the sooner we arrive, the better.”

“There’s a teleportation node just outside Campden, where the manor is. It’s a ten-minute walk from there,” Mabel said, standing.

“Wonderful. I believe there’s a node just around the corner.” Alistair plucked a tan hat from a nearby rack and settled it atop his head. Nodding at Mabel, he led the way out of his apartment and into the city.

A gray sky and thin drizzle awaited them. Alistair plunged into it as though he felt nothing, while Mabel shuddered and paused, turning aside to open an umbrella before she bustled after him.

“Horribly inconvenient, how they can’t build teleportation nodes inside buildings,” Mabel commented.

“Mmm. It would make my job almost impossible if they could,” Alistair commented. “Imagine, being able to escape the scene of a crime without a single soul laying eyes on you.”

Mabel looked at him, her brows faintly furrowed, then chuckled under her breath. “I suppose it is your job, to think about things like that.”

“Indeed. This world doesn’t have nearly enough [Detectives],” Alistair said dryly, flicking moisture off his shoulder.

Cheerfully, Mabel thumped Alistair on the shoulder. “Clearly the System thinks we have enough.”

“The System isn’t the world’s lone Detective,” Alistair replied. He looked up, squinting against the drizzle. “There it is. Just up ahead.”

A round blue crystal slab with ornate silver metalwork over top of it glowed in the near distance, hissing where the rain struck it. About large enough for two people, barely larger than a manhole, it awaited fresh patrons. Beside it, the teleportation attendant stood in their shiny stiff uniform, blue to match the crystal, lines piped in silver. She tipped her hat to them and lifted a slender silver staff. “Where to?”

“Campden,” Mabel said primly, stepping atop the medallion.

Alistair hopped up beside her. “The same, thanks.”

“Two pounds,” the attendant said.

Alistair reached into his pocket and tossed her a coin. Beside him, Mabel dug around in her purse, then gently handed her fare to the attendant.

“Thank you very much!” The attendant swept her staff. Blue light shone, and the city around them dissolved into blue particles. The particles swirled around them, blurring into a blizzard of blue motes, then settled into place again.

Instead of the gray city, with its gray sky, gray buildings, and gray cobble streets, they stood nestled in green. Quaint thatched houses wandered off before them, and hedges lined the roads, creating nearly a tunnel of vibrant green. The gray sky overhead remained overcast, but here, the drizzle misted down, gentler.

Closing her umbrella, Mabel nodded. She gestured him on, up the hill toward the manor. “This way.”

Alistair nodded. He strode forth, pulling ahead of Mabel. Mabel struggled to keep up with him at first, then, with a sigh, fell back, content to watch him march away. She waved after him. “I’ll meet you there.”

Alistair waved without turning back.

The newspaper boy, a young lad named Jack with freckles and red-fading-to-blond hair, paused as Alistair passed. He stared after the man, then ran up to Mabel. “Mabel, was that who I think it was?”

“The [Detective],” Mabel announced proudly.

Jack whistled, gazing after Alistair. “That maniac? Why?”

Mabel whacked him with her umbrella. “Mind your words. He has a tough job, and he does it well.”

“Why work so hard for such a pointless Class? Even the police don’t bother classing into [Detective]. The requirements are far too stringent, and I’ve heard it doesn’t do much for you even once you get it,” Jack said, tucking his next newspaper under his arm to wipe damp hands on his trousers.

“Let me know when you class into [Hero],” Mabel said primly, following after Alistair.

“Oy. I’m only a [Newspaper Boy] because it gives [Perfect Throw]! Just wait. I’ll show you all!” Jack shouted after her.

Mabel caught up with Alistair at the gate. An iron gate marked the boundary of the estate, a stone wall curling away from it to draw a circle around the top of the hill. Reaching into her skirts, she pulled out a ring of keys and reached up to unlock the gate.

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“Was the gate locked?” Alistair asked.

“Yes, it was. I lock the gates every night at seven p.m.,” Mabel said. The lock clunked, and the gate swung open, creaking loudly on its hinges.

“As a Level 99 Maid, you have the skill [Lock Up], correct?” Alistair queried.

“I do. I manually lock the doors as a measure of professionalism, but I use my skill every night just in case I forget. I am getting on in years, after all. I used [Lock Up] last night at seven p.m., the same as I do every night,” Mabel declared. She pushed the gates open, and they slid open smoothly at a touch.

“[Greased Hinge]?” Alistair asked.

“You know more about my skills than I do!” Mabel exclaimed. She nodded, gesturing for him to step up. “Try the gate yourself.”

Alistair stepped forward and swung the gate. Even at his full strength, as an athletic man in his mid-twenties, he barely succeeded at budging the gate. The hinges squealed loudly, sharp and rusty.

“Clever. A good way to know if someone is entering the manor from afar,” Alistair commented.

Mabel nodded proudly, pointing over her shoulder down the hill. “You can hear it clear across the town.”

Alistair turned. From where they stood, near the top of the hill, he had a clear view of the town. Thatched roofs wound around cobbled roads. From above, the hills formed a shallow bowl around the town.

“I see. The hills form a sort of natural amplifier, echoing the sound around,” Alistair commented, nodding. He lifted his hand off the gate. “If anyone entered after you used [Lock Up], even if they picked the gate’s lock…”

“We would have heard it,” Mabel confirmed, nodding.

“It’s possible a mage or rogue could have stifled the sound, but unless they were familiar with the estate, they wouldn’t know about the gate squeaking. We can assume that, if someone entered the estate after you used [Lock Up], they either knew the estate well enough to prepare to counter the squeaky gate, or they were a professional assassin who could handle the squeak after they encountered it,” Alistair deduced.

“A professional assassin?” Mabel asked, shocked.

Alistair spread his spidery hands. “I’m merely considering all angles. Harold was a [Hero]. He must have had powerful enemies.”

“No, no! Not Harold. He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Mabel said, shaking her head.

“Any public figure will have their detractors,” Alistair countered.

Mabel paused a moment, her hand on the gate as she went to swing it shut once more. “Back in the day, maybe. But it’s been thirty years since he last took up his sword. If anyone wanted him dead badly enough to hire an assassin, they would have done it long ago.”

Alistair acknowledged her statement with a nod. He gestured. “To the house?”

Mabel nodded. She led the way through the gates, up toward the manor house. “Of course, of course. Silly me, standing here chattering. You’ll want to meet everyone in the house, naturally. Even if the mirror killed Harold—”

“It didn’t,” Alistair interjected.

“—someone had to have triggered it or woken it. After all, that old thing sat in his study for decades without hurting anyone. I kept all the guests around just in case.”

Alistair tipped his hat, shaking the moisture off the brim. “A wise maneuver. Who was in the manor at the time of the murder?”

“A few friends. Harold invited them over for dinner yesterday,” Mabel said.

“And where did the murder take place?” Alistair asked, glancing at the maid.

Mabel glanced up at the blue building. It towered over them, intricate gingerbread dripping in the misty atmosphere. A few of the windows glowed in the midday gloom, candles flickering within. A single tall, round tower stood tall over the rest of the two-story building.

She pointed to the tower, to the round room at the tower’s apex. “There. It’s Harold’s study.”

Alistair put a hand on his chin, squinting through the mist. “Only one route to the room, I take it?”

Mabel nodded. Lifting her keys again, she unlocked it. “Come on inside, let’s get you warmed up and dry. It’s miserable out here.”

“One moment,” Alistair requested. He circled around the tower, peering at it from all sides. “This tower, it’s not that far removed from the roof in the rear. Is it possible to climb in from there?”

“No. The windows are all on the front face,” Mabel said, shaking her head.

“Three windows,” Alistair murmured to himself. He stroked his chin, then shook his head. “So. Everyone present when Harold died is still inside?”

“Yes. Shall we go see them?” Mabel suggested.

Alistair shook his head. “First, Harold’s study. I want to see the scene of the crime.”

Mabel nodded. “You’re the detective here.” She pushed the door open and gestured for Alistair to step inside.

“Mabel! What are you thinking, locking us inside!” a bear of a man roared, his hair silver but his arms still swollen with muscle. He stomped toward the door, looming over Alistair, chest hair bursting out of his half-buttoned shirt, his neck tie gone, his jacket loose. He put his hands on his hips and glared down at them.

“Good to see you too, Bjorn,” Mabel said primly, bustling past him without a second look.

Alistair looked the man up and down. Blue boxes appeared before his eyes bearing dense white text which described the man before him.

He nodded. “Bjorn the [Barbarian], I take it? Harold’s longtime party member, famous Butcher of Black Gap?”

The huge man laughed, scratching the back of his head. “Aye, that’s me. A fan?”

“No. A detective. Alistair,” he introduced himself, offering his hand.

Bjorn took his, enormous paw swallowing Alistair’s hand whole, his grip a tad past firm. “Alistair… ah! The [Detective]. How’s that class working out for you?”

Alistair retracted his hand, shaking it with a subtle wince. He forced a smile through the pain. “It’s no combat class, but then, I’m not built for combat.”

“No, no. Look at that scrawny frame of yours! You need some muscle on those bones.” Bjorn gave Alistair a hearty thump on the back.

The detective stumbled forward, wincing a second time. Pressing his lips together, he glanced at Mabel.

“Bjorn, be gentle! Our detective is a cerebral man, not a warrior,” Mabel said, clicking her tongue.

“I do exercise, you know,” Alistair muttered to himself.

“What was that, dear?” Mabel asked.

“Nothing. The office?” Alistair suggested. He swept his hat off his head and fixed his tie, hanging his overcoat on the rack alongside his hat. Another four jackets hung on the hat rack, three of them men’s coats, one of them a woman’s.

Behind Alistair, Mabel took her coat off and folded it over her arm. Alistair cocked an eyebrow. “Not using the rack?”

“We servants have our own rack in the back,” Mabel explained.

Alistair hummed. He gestured. “Onward and upward. We have no time to lose.”

“Of course, of course. The sooner the better, right? Just a moment,” Mabel replied enthusiastically. She bustled off to the back rooms.

Bjorn glanced down at Alistair. “She called you to figure out what happened to Harold?”

“Yes,” Alistair said shortly.

“It’s some nasty work. Looks like a monster bit him. I’d say it was a mimic, but…” Bjorn shook his head.

“All the metal shines?” Alistair guessed.

Bjorn pointed at him, bearing enormous white teeth. “You’re not a [Detective] for nothing!”

Alistair cut his eyes at Bjorn. “I take it you’ve been in the study.”

“Oh, sure. Well, not completely.” Bjorn gestured vaguely around his head. “I peeked in. Those stairs are real tight for a big guy like me. I squeezed my way up to the top and looked around, but I didn’t enter the room. Mabel told us to stay out before she left… wanted everything pristine for you.”

“When did you peek in?” Alistair asked.

“Hmm… well, I’m a man of action. I heard dear Mabel scream and went running. She was hurtling down the stairs by then, absolutely terrified. I caught her before she could hurt herself in her fear and calmed her down, then went up there to take a look, see if there was anything I could do.”

“And you found…?” Alistair prompted.

Bjorn shook his head. He swallowed, struggling to form words for a few moments. “Harold… He and I spent the better part of our lives, fighting side by side. To see him like that, cold and dead… I took one look, and I knew the battle was already over.

“I would’ve rushed in anyways, but Mabel started fussing something fierce. Told me she’d read about this [Detective] in the paper just the other day, it was better not to touch things, on and on. I mean, you know how women get—”

“How do women get?” Mabel asked primly, popping up beside Bjorn.

Bjorn cleared his throat. He glanced around, then grinned, showing those big teeth again, his blue eyes twinkling. “You know what? I hear that mead calling my name. Why don’t I leave you two to the investigation, while I go lump off to the lounge?”

“Quite so,” Mabel said. She turned to Alistair, while Bjorn’s looming form vanished off down the hallway. “Right this way, if you please.”

Alistair nodded, letting her take the lead once more.

As they walked, Mabel plucked one of the smaller fixtures off the wall and held it as she walked. The candle flickered, flame guttering in the breeze from her stride.

“No magical lights?” Alistair asked, nodding at the candle.

“Harold wasn’t fond of the tone of their light. He always said the blue felt unnatural. He preferred the warm light of candles,” Mabel explained.

“Is the house warded against flame, then?” Alistair wondered aloud.

“Oh yes, yes. Not originally, no. He said it was too expensive. But then the shed burned down, and he wised up and bought a ward. Grumbled the whole time the enchanter was working. I ended up tempting him into town to give the poor enchantress some peace,” Mabel chuckled.

Alistair quirked his brow. “Not fond of magic, then?”

“Not overly fond, no,” Mabel confirmed. “Well…”

“Well?” Alistair probed.

She sighed. Turning to look him in the eye, she shook her head. “The [Grand Mage] in his party betrayed him, long ago. Deep in some horrible dungeon, the Demon King tempted their mage with ultimate power. The mage gave in, and the Demon King took control. Celine, poor Celine, his dear [Cleric]… she didn’t stand a chance. A healer, with no defenses… and the mage targeted her first.

“Harold could never forgive that mage. He turned back, eventually, the mage. Broke free of the Demon King’s compulsion and fought for humanity once more. But as far as Harold was concerned, that mage was no more than a pawn of the Demon King… no, worse. A betrayer of all humanity.”

“Right. The Betrayal of Deskar Rone, correct? But he was executed long ago, when the war with the Demon King ended,” Alistair said, watching Mabel closely.

Mabel pursed her lips. She glanced at Alistair, then leaned in. “Between you and me? He wasn’t. He was far too valuable for the kingdom to execute him. You know how rare mages are, how powerful—let alone [Grand Mage]s. Deskar was the difference between the kingdom surviving after the Demon King’s attack depeleted its army and resources, and recovering. He maintains the kingdom’s barrier, even now. Without Deskar, the other countries would have destroyed us long ago.”

Alistair raised his brows. “Indeed?”

“Indeed. Harold wasn’t pleased about the decision, but what could he do? He loves this country, and he understood the king’s rationale. A [Hero] is a fearful force, but at the end of the day, they’re naught but one man. A [Grand Mage]… a [Grand Mage] can rival an army.” Mabel spread her hand helplessly. “What could we do?”

Alistair nodded. “I always thought it was odd that the kingdom executed a [Grand Mage], yet still possessed sufficient magic to power the [Country Barrier] without hiring dozens of [Mage]s.”

“But keep it between us,” Mabel said, lifting a finger to her lips.

Smiling a thin smile, Alistair mimicked locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

“Oh, here we are. The study.” Mabel lifted her candle, illuminating a narrow spiral staircase. Shadows clung to the stairs, the entire space dark and cramped. The candle’s flickering flame barely illuminated the stairs immediately in front of them, let alone the stairs around the corner.

Alistair nodded. He offered to take the candle. “I’ll take the lead, if you don’t mind?”

“Go ahead,” Mabel said, gesturing.

Stairs creaking, Alistair ascended toward the study.