The candlelight crawled up the wall as Alistair spiraled up the staircase. Old wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet, narrow slats barely wide enough for his feet at their widest part. Alistair tapped the wall. “This house is old?”

“Oh, indeed. Harold grew up here, and his parents did as well. I believe his grandfather built this house, and his father… and Harold himself, added onto it through the years. This tower is part of the original house,” Mabel offered.

“Built during the Long Dark, then?” Alistair asked, running his hand over the wall.

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Mabel said.

He fell silent. His feet paused, and he drew the candle toward the wall. As it grew close, the light from the candle dimmed, though the flame burned just as brightly. “This is dire wood. Wood infected by the miasma of the Long Dark. The trees must have grown deep in the Demon Lord’s territory.”

“Yes. Harold was the [Hero], but his family had a long history of fighting the Demon Lord, even back when the Demon Lord was so powerful he seemed impossible to defeat,” Mabel said, nodding. “The legend goes that his grandfather discovered that trees grown in the Demon Lord’s miasma formed stronger and taller than trees outside, perhaps due to the miasma’s corrosive influence killing off any weak trees. Ultimately, he formed a lumber company that harvested trees from the borders of the Dark Lands and made his fortune from that.”

“Back then, no one knew how corrosive miasma could be,” Alistair murmured softly.

“Hmm?” Mabel asked.

“Even wood infected by miasma when it grows can exude miasma as a slow poison for hundreds of years. We’re fortunate that builders cannot perfectly fit their construction together, or else we would all go mad. It’s the gaps and drafts in buildings that save us from that residual miasma. A drafty building allows enough clean air in to clear the miasma away,” Alistair stated. Lifting his hand off the wall, he turned away and walked on.

Mabel froze. She stared at the wall, her lips twisted in a grimace. Subtly, she shied away from the wall as she continued up the stairs.

Alistair reached the top of the stairs. He stopped.

“The study has been left exactly as it was,” Mabel called after him. “I ran to find you first, without tidying anything…”

Alistair stepped aside. Mabel peeped up around him.

A twenty-something woman in a French maid outfit froze, a mop in one hand, a bucket beside her, in the midst of wringing the mop into the bucket. Dark ringlets cascaded down the side of her face, the rest of her hair twisted into a neat bun. Her dark dress and white apron highlighted her slender frame, her brows knit slightly, biting her lip just a little. Harold’s body laid beside her, stiff with rigor mortis.

“Millie! What are you doing?” Mabel shouted, aghast.

“I… I was cleaning. You said an important guest was coming, so I—”

“I never told you to disturb Harold’s body!” Mabel said, scowling.

Millie backed away, putting her hands up. “I, I didn’t mean any harm, I just—”

“Out. Get out!” Mabel snapped, pointing over her shoulder.

Millie curtsied. Snatching up the mop and bucket, she scurried away.

“Wait,” Alistair said.

Millie jumped. Big doe eyes wide, she stared blankly at him.

“Did you touch the mirror?” he asked, pointing.

She turned. The mirror reflected her face, hanging to the left of the window ahead of the stairs on the empty wall between it and the left window. She bit her lip, then shook her head. “No.”

“You didn’t clean it?” Alistair asked.

Millie shook her head again.

Alistair put a hand on his chin. After a moment, he waved dismissively, stepping up into the study to allow her to pass on the narrow stairs. “Begone.”

With another curtsy, Millie vanished down the stairs, shuffling past Mabel on her way out.

“Latrines for a week,” Mabel stated as she passed.

Millie stiffened, then bowed her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Climbing up beside Alistair, Mabel shook her head apologetically. “My apologies, Mr. Norwich. The girl only started a few weeks ago. She’s still green to the job, and now this…” She sighed. “I’d recommend we find a new scullery maid, but… who knows how much longer the estate will exist.”

“Did Harold have no children?” Alistair asked.

“Plenty… but that’s the problem. The eldest son, who should receive the estate, is pursuing politics in the city, and has little interest in a country home. He’s already waived the property away. The eldest daughter is already married. The second son is sailing the seas in the navy, with no time to keep up the estate. Which leaves the third son, but…” Mabel pursed her lips.

“But?” Alistair prompted her.

She waved her hand. “You’ll meet him soon enough. He’s downstairs. He’d finally come to visit his father after so long, but then… this.”

Alistair nodded, a thoughtful hand on his chin. “And the last two?”

“Oh! One is Lord Faitan, the man leading our charge into magic technology. He single-handedly researched and installed the teleportation pads around the country. Before Lord Faitan’s research, only [Grand Mages] could cast [Teleportation]. Now, any old mage can feed magic into a teleportation pad, and poof! Little old Mabel can teleport around the country in style.” Mabel nodded approvingly.

Leaning in conspiratorally, she added, “Just between you and me, Harold was a little jealous of the whole situation. Always used to grumble, ‘Where was this when I was fighting the Demon Lord?’

“After all, even [Grand Mage] Deskar Rone would have to spend a full day casting teleportation, and he could only teleport to places he’d been before. With the new infrastructure, any mage can teleport anyone to anywhere. It’s incredible.”

Alistair nodded. “A formidable figure indeed. He’s a favorite for Prime Minister next year, I’ve heard. Do you know why he was visiting with the ex-[Hero]?”

“Oh, people come and visit Harold all the time, dear! The politicians like to have him on their side. The people still love the [Hero]. Loved… the [Hero],” Mabel added sadly, looking at Harold’s body.

“Naturally. Was there a particular reason for this visit?” Alistair queried a second time.

Mabel pinched her chin. “Hmm… Oh! The teleportation pad! The teleportation pad for Campden was installed last month. Lord Faitan likes to visit each teleportation pad, to vouch for its safety and ensure it functions as required. He was making his inaugural visit to Campden’s, and decided to drop by Harold while he was here.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“And I’m sure the upcoming elections in the Lords’ House have nothing to do with it,” Alistair muttered under his breath. He nodded at Mabel. “You mentioned there was one more guest?”

“Ah, I—no I didn’t. How did you know?” Mabel asked, taken aback.

Alistair coughed into his hand. “My apologies. I meant to introduce it naturally, but it seems I’ve stumbled. I noticed there were four coats on the rack, one of them a woman’s. Since you took your coat to the back, I doubt the final coat belongs to yourself or Millie. So far, you’ve introduced me to three men: Bjorn, the third son, and Lord Faitan. It’s possible one of them wore two coats, but since the coat is a woman’s coat, and a petite one at that, I doubt that hypothesis. So, who is the lady visiting the ex-[Hero]?”

Mabel wrinkled her nose. “A Dark Elf.”

“Dark Elf? Ah… the race aligned with the Demon Lord, who later claimed to be held in his thrall after he was defeated. A wily race, if nothing else,” Alistair remarked neutrally.

“Too opportunistic for my liking, but Harold believed in forgiveness. He’s been something of a champion of the Dark Elves in the last few years. Thinks we should give them a second chance.”

“Them, but not Deskar Rone?” Alistair queried.

Mabel spread her hands. “I asked the same. Harold… to him, Deskar’s betrayal was personal. He killed Celine because he wanted power, not because he saw no other way out. The Dark Elves, on the other hand… their race spent so long in the miasma that they mutated from the beautiful creatures of our myths to the twisted beings they are now. Harold pitied them, saw them as victims as much as the Stained Men… that is, humans caught in the miasma during the Long Dark, with those horrible black stains on their skin….”

“I know of the Stained Men,” Alistair said. Subconsciously, he touched the back of his hand, fingers tracing those slender scars. He took a deep breath and forced his hand away. “Last night. What was the schedule?”

“Ah? Hmm… let’s see. First, Bjorn arrived. He stops by at times, often unannounced. Luckily, we were already preparing for visitors. I had to send Millie out to buy more meat… Bjorn’s appetite is still a [Barbarian]’s, even after all this time.” She chuckled, shaking her head.

“Visitors… Lord Faitan?” Alistair guessed.

“Ah, no. He was also a surprise. No, no. The third son… that is, Tristan, was already here. He was staying with us for a few weeks, as he often does when Harold rescinds his allowance. Lady Aiden, the Dark Elf, had just arrived. She wanted to urgently speak with Harold about something. However, before she could, Lord Faitan came knocking. Harold couldn’t turn him away, but I don’t think he was eager to invite him in,” Mabel said thoughtfully.

“No?” Alistair wondered.

“No. Well, after all, Lord Faitan isn’t fond of non-humans. It’s known enough. Though… I didn’t see that last night. He even personally invited Lady Aiden to eat dinner with the humans, with Harold’s permission, of course. Perhaps the rumors are only rumors, after all,” Mabel mused.

“Hmm. And during dinner, did anyone get up?” Alistair asked.

“Who didn’t?” Mabel laughed. “With Bjorn at the table, dinner lasts until nightfall. He can drink and eat with the best of them. In fact, he might be the only one who didn’t leave. By the end, it was only him and Harold at the table, laughing and drinking together.”

“And after dinner, what happened?” Alistair asked.

“Everyone went to their rooms for the night. Harold went to his study. He has insomnia, terrible insomnia, so I knew he’d be up all night. Just before I headed to bed myself, I took him up some tea, and…” Mabel fell silent.

“So, during dinner, almost everyone had time alone to enter the study,” Alistair muttered to himself.

“Yes… yes, I suppose so,” Mabel said. “Would you like to speak to them?”

Alistair nodded. “I’ll see all Harold’s visitors due time. But first, the study.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mabel said, backing out.

“Mabel… could I bother you to gather everyone in the Lounge? I’ll be down in a moment,” Alistair requested.

“Yes, sir,” Mabel replied. She bustled away, leaving Alistair alone in the study.

“Fetch me when you’re done.”

Alistair slowly scanned the room. He crossed to the mirror, peering at it from all angles. His reflection stared back at him. An ornate frame of leaves, branches, and roses worked in wood and gilded surrounded the glass, the gold so dusty as to be dull. His brows furrowed, and he put a hand to the mirror’s frame. Carefully, he slid it to the side and peered behind it. His eyes darted across the darker wallpaper beneath, slightly marred by scrape marks where protrusions on the mirror’s back had rested for many years. A fresh scratch cut across the rest, in line with the other scratches. He pressed his lips together and nodded to himself.

From the mirror, he turned. Blood stretched from the mirror’s base to where Harold’s body laid. A journal laid half-open, splayed to a blood-splattered page. Beside it, a pencil had rolled away, also dotted with blood. He tilted his head, reading the journal, then turned back toward the body.

Mop strokes blurred the bloodstain. Only a little remained, pooled directly around the body. Kneeling, he took in what remained of the bloodstain on the floor. His brows furrowed faintly. He dropped to the floor, lowering his head to the level of the planks to peer down their lines. His brows raised.

Standing again, he inspected the wound. Snatching up a pencil from the desk, he tipped Harold’s head to the side to get a better look. The gory bite revealed blood and inner tissues, thickly clotted with dry blood after all the time out on the floor. Alistair nodded to himself. “Indeed.”

He stood and faced the room from the entryway. “Evidence,” he requested.

Blue boxes scrolled down beside him.

Mirror: Dusty. Scratches. Surface. Reflection.

Body: Bite wound. Vicious. Mortal.

Bloodstain: Cleaned (Millie). Cracks. Spread. Mirror: None.

Journal: Daily diary (Disregard).

Pencil: See Journal.

Circumstances: Dinner. Unexpected guests, multiple. Teleportation. Dark Elves. Son. Old Friend.

Suspects: Millie +3. Tristan +2. Lord Feitan +1. Lady Aiden +1. Bjorn +0.

“Using Evidence, Reconstruct,” he ordered.

Blue motes danced through the air. They formed the shape of Harold, sitting at his desk. The reconstruction of Harold stood, journal still clasped absent-mindedly in his hand, and moved to peer out the window ahead of him.

“The bite is on his right side,” Alistair murmured.

The reconstruction shifted. Harold leaned to the left, stretching across the mirror to peer out the left window instead, exposing the right side of his neck to the mirror.

The image blurred. Harold flew backward as a bite wound opened in his neck. He flopped onto the ground and skidded, leaving a long trail of blood behind him. He laid on the floor, blood pooling around him. Dead.

“No signs of struggle. Little time between injury and death. Attacker…” Alistair lifted his eyes. “Either came from the mirror or the window.”

His eyes lifted up to the minotaur head mounted over the mirror. The projection reset. Harold leaned to the left, and the minotaur head plunged down, gaping mouth falling into his neck.

“Wrong. Bite mark isn’t blunted, as from an herbivore’s muzzle. Minotaur head shows no signs of being disturbed or cleaned. As for mimics… mimics cannot copy animate objects, even dead ones,” Alistair murmured to himself.

The minotaur head vanished from the reconstruction.

Waving his hand, Alistair dismissed the reconstruction. He moved to the wall and put his hand to it. “Here, too… dire wood. However… the miasma is not strong enough to cause hallucinations, even assuming the room sat closed for a long time. Last night, too, was a storm. We can rule out Mabel hallucinating as an explanation.”

Heavy footsteps on the stairs caught his attention. Alistair turned. In a few moments, a gray head of hair appeared over the edge of the floor. Mable hurried up the last few steps, nodding at Alistair. “They’re ready for you whenever you are.”

“Good. Mabel, I have a question for you. Is anything different in this room from when you first found the body?” Alistair asked.

Mabel paused. She looked around, then frowned. “Well, the bloodstain…”

“Aside from that,” Alistair said.

Mabel turned slowly, taking it all in. “No, no, it’s… it’s all…”

Her eyes widened. She lifted her finger. “There!”

“Where?” Alistair asked.

“The mirror. The mirror had blood on it. I’m sure of it!” Mabel said.

“Interesting,” Alistair murmured.

Mabel turned to him. “It must be a mimic. I’m sure of it. How else would the blood come off of it?”

“Perhaps Millie cleaned it,” Alistair suggested.

“With a mop?” Mabel retorted.

Alistair tilted his head. “Would she not have had time to come up with a cleaning cloth and back?”

“Not in the time I was gone. I went to get you and came back immediately. The cleaning supplies are kept in the back of the house, in the servants’ quarters, and she was in the kitchen, washing the dishes when I left. She would have had to cross the house from the kitchen to reach the cleaning supplies, then cross once more to reach the tower. Plus, fetching water from the well… No, she simply wouldn’t have enough time.”

“You don’t have water inside the house?” Alistair asked.

Mabel shook her head. “Harold disliked magic inside the house. He would never allow a water enchantment. The fireproofing was bad enough, in his eyes.”

“No practical plumbing?” Alistair asked.

“His grandfather built the original house with a water enchantment in mind. It’s Harold who refused to refresh the enchantment

“Mmm. What if she hid the cloth under her dress?” Alistair suggested.

Mabel’s brows furrowed. “I… I suppose she could, but why? Surely she would know we would notice the clean mirror.”

“In any case, she did not clean the mirror. There were no streak marks on the mirror that would indicate a quick cleaning job, nor any residue liquid on the frame, and for that matter, the dust in the cracks of the frame had not been disturbed,” Alistair said decisively, nodding.

“Then… why did you ask me…?” Mabel asked, confused.

“But neither is that mirror a mimic.” Alistair turned on his heel. “Shall we head to the lounge?”

Thoroughly confused, Mabel frowned. “Then… what killed Harold?”

“Why don’t we go ask our guests?” Alistair suggested.

Mabel nodded, relieved to return to known territory. “We’re keeping them waiting, after all.”

Pausing at the top of the stairs, Alistair turned back. “Rope off this room. Allow no one to enter.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the [Detective], after all,” Mabel said, nodding.

“Indeed,” Alistair said, a twinkle in his eye.