Ivy was still thinking about how Ash had offered his arm. The last time a boy had done that was at her senior prom, and both she and her date had been so awkward about the whole thing, she had gone and hid and in the restroom during the first dance. The poor guy had been so crushed—Trent Booker had been his name, god, she hadn’t thought of him in years—he left the dance, and she didn’t see him the rest of the night. They had apologized to each other at school later, but the regrets were too steep a hill to climb for any further romance.

Ash had done it as a gentlemanly, Old School gesture. She had taken it as a nice one, an innocuous one, a bit of roleplaying fun. But it had been her prosthetic arm. The thought of anyone else touching it, especially Ash, made her too self-conscious. Then again, maybe he had offered that arm on purpose. Maybe he was trying to put her at ease. Or maybe along with his misplaced Alastair Marquand worship, he had some sort of weird fetish for prosthetics. The internet could always be trusted to show her the weirdest shit. Some things couldn’t be unseen.

God, she was a hot mess. She shouldn’t be here. She wasn’t ready to date, wasn’t in the right head space.

But then they reached the plateau and the grounds of Château de Delacroix stretched before them. At the head of the path stood a wrought-iron gate hanging between pillars of cut stone. Engraved in a stone arch above the gate were the words “Delacroix, ODERINT DUM METUANT.”

“Anybody speak Latin?” Ivy asked.

“I do!” James said. He peered at the phrase for a moment. “It means…whoa, that’s heavy.”

“It doesn’t mean, ‘whoa, that’s heavy,’” Ivy said.

“No, goofus, it means, ‘Let them hate, so long as they fear.’”

“Whoa is right,” Ash said. “The Delacroix family saw fit to engrave that in stone.”

“Maybe they didn’t get along with the neighbors,” James said.

They all chuckled.

The plateau’s top was more expansive than it looked from below, even as the house looked smaller, as if it had been compressed, a trick of perspective maybe. It was a mansion of brick and rough-cut stone, slated roofs, and spired turrets. Atop the spires, stone-faced gargoyles the size of monkeys squatted and peered down. Tall, shuttered windows of leaded glass revealed no lights visibly burning within. A cobblestone walk led to the entrance, a heavy, iron-bound set of double-doors that stood closed in the most forbidding possible way.

Beyond the house stretched the grounds, the visible portion of which appeared to be remnants of a garden sloping down out of sight toward the sea. The garden’s look of overgrown neglect proclaimed more attention long since passed. Half-glimpsed topiaries and hedgerows meandered among trees twisted by wind and surf.

A shudder swept through her with the sensation that the single, circular window in the third-floor gable above the front door was watching her like a cyclops’s eye. She tugged at Ash’s sleeve, marveling that it felt like fabric between her fingers. He turned with a raised eyebrow.

“I was just thinking,” she said, “maybe we shouldn’t Leeroy Jenkins this. We should have a plan, or else this could turn into a horror movie super-quick.”

“You’re right,” he said, “but where’s Ellie?”

“She was right behind me,” James said as he peered over the edge.

“I’m right here,” Ellie said, climbing into view. “Give an old man a break, I’m not as young as the rest of you.”

Ivy laughed. Leave it to Ellie to stay in character.

“So, what do you have in mind for a plan?” Ash asked them. “I was thinking—”

A loud clunk came from the front door and opened noiselessly inward. A pale, narrow face appeared in the gap. A man’s face with gaunt, aquiline features and watery, colorless eyes.

“You are from the bank,” the man said in a deep, stentorian voice, his lips full and strangely wet. Ivy realized then, as he stepped farther into to the gap, that he was incredibly tall, six-feet-six at least. He had a widow’s peak of thinning, steel-gray hair, much more meticulously manicured than the mansion’s grounds. He looked down on them with an imperious disdain she’d never before encountered, as if they were all something to be scraped off one’s feet.

Oh, game on, buddy! she thought.

“Yes,” Ash said, stepping forward. “We’re just here to ask you a few questions. Hopefully we can quickly be on our way. Ash Blackburn.” He extended a hand.

The man stepped back with a sniff. “Come in, if you must.”

The four of them shuffled into a dim foyer, complete with a suit of half-rusted plate armor. The only light came from a single window above the door. The interior was dreadfully chilly. The man’s black, woolen suit blended him into the shadows. “I am Gilbert Delacroix.” He pronounced it Geel-bear.

The four of them introduced themselves with their character names, even “James the Magician-al.”

Gilbert Delacroix sniffed again, even more disdainfully this time. “I know not why Winthrop insists on this pretense. It is a simple tale and a catastrophic loss.”

This guy was getting on Ivy’s nerves. “So are you going to invite us in or continue to impede our investigation? Your insurance claim hinges upon our goodwill.”

Gilbert stiffened, then bowed. “Oh, do come in. Perhaps you can be off before high tide,” he said so snidely she wanted to punch him in the face with her cybernetic hand. She wouldn’t even feel the pain.

Ash and James followed him deeper into the house, while Ellie held Ivy back.

“You all right?” Ellie said.

Ivy said, “Can we just, you know, see that this guy comes to an unfortunate end? Joking not joking.”

Her Hugh Jackman GM voice came into her ear. “That would be considered a crime, and your characters would be arrested by the local constabulary, resulting in immediate failure of the mission.”

“Yes, I know, it would be wrong,” Ivy said. “I was mostly kidding.”

“All Crimson Castle environments, whether based on the real-world or a fully fantastical nature, have internally consistent social norms. Unjustified anti-social behavior comes with in-game consequences.”

“Who decides whether it’s ‘justified?’” Ivy found herself getting annoyed at the lecture, but then shrugged. The game had limits.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“I and the non-player characters make those determinations on a subjective basis.”

“Interesting. So it’s not just you, the A.I.?”

“Your companions are awaiting you in the study,” the GM said.

* * *

James followed Ash, the private detective, who followed the prickly toothpick douchebag into the study. He wished he knew a spell to put a jar full of fire ants into that asshole’s tighty-whities. Most people he could give a pass, even the knuckle-draggers and uptights at school, but this guy, this Geel-bear, made James’s teeth grind. The arrogance just dripped off him.

James looked around the room for any of those talisman’s like Ellie described. What he saw was a study that had been beautifully put together a hundred years ago and hadn’t been dusted since. His mom would say the same about his room. He scanned the study carefully, blinking in his skill check attempts to spot things, but nothing notable was coming up.

There was a portrait above the fireplace of an old sea captain. The facial structure made him look like he could be Gilbert’s father, with the same flinty eyes and cold, thin mouth. Long, wispy white hair was pulled into a ponytail under a tri-corner hat. Around his neck was a golden chain, from which hung a gem tinged an unwholesome green, the size of a child’s fist. The Delacroix Diamond. Even though it was just a painting, the green seemed to pulsate if he looked at it too long. An engraved bronze plaque embedded in the ornate wooden frame read: Jean-Paul Delacroix, 1782.

Ash was already asking Gilbert Delacroix questions. "Tell me the circumstances. How did you know the stone was missing?"

"I keep the family account books in the safe. It was time to see to my weekly bookkeeping," Gilbert said. “I entered the study and found the safe open. The diamond was missing.”

James couldn't help but wonder, looking around this ancient study, how anyone could live in such a place. Were they certifiably insane? Blind maybe? Because this place looked...diseased. This Gilbert guy looked like he hadn't seen the sun in a decade.

Ash was busy poking around the shelves of nautical-looking knickknacks. "So where is the safe?"

Gilbert approached the painting of the sea captain. "If you would both be so kind as to avert your eyes..."

James had had enough of this guy. "Oh, come on! You think we're here to steal from you?"

Gilbert sniffed. "We cannot be certain where the traitor lies. It could well be someone we know."

"Fine," Ask said, turning his back.

"No, not fine!" James said. "What are supposed to do? Let this guy run our investigation?"

Ivy entered behind them, along with Elli. "He's right. Mr. Delacroix. We are not here working for you. For all we know, you're a suspect or an accessory to fraud."

"I beg your pardon! Me?" Gilbert said, "I should say not!"

"You understand that we were hired to get to the bottom of this case so that you can get your money, right?" Ivy said. "To do that, we need your cooperation. You do not require ours." Gilbert stiffened as if slapped. "Very well." His lips were a tight line, and his nostrils flared.

"Do we have guests, Cousin?" said a lovely female voice. The four investigators turned to address the newcomer.

She was the most radiant spectacle of feminine beauty James had ever seen. Hair like honeyed gold, eyes the green of emerald hills, skin almost as pale as milk with a delicate flush to her cheeks. Long elegant fingers were clasped over her heart. She wore a magnificent, powder-blue dress with the full Victorian hoop skirt, lace bodice, and corset. How on earth did she get through doors wearing that thing? Then he remembered it wasn’t real, nothing that he saw was real. For all he knew, the person playing this role was a dude, the flip-side of Ellie. He felt vaguely guilty having such a reaction to a character when Ellie was going to be the love of his life.

James stepped toward her and offered his hand. "James the…um, the Magician-al." Now he felt goofy as hell, wishing he’d taken the character creation process more seriously.

She extended her hand, and he shook it, awkwardly. He could feel the lace gloves over her fingers. "Anastasia Delacroix." This close to her, he recognized the scent of shampoo, the same kind Ivy used, something vanilla and jasmine. Yes, this had to be a real female behind the augmented reality.

"May I present my underlings," James said, "Ash, uh, Iv—er, Serena, and, uh, Elwood." The way he stumbled over their names made him feel bad for glossing over the roleplaying part of this. He’d do better after this.

"Underlings, my bustle and backside," Ivy said, stepping forward. "I’m Serena Holliday. We are here to investigate the disappearance of your family jewel." She shook Anastasia’s hand much more firmly. James felt his ears heating under his visor. “James, you can pick up your jaw.”

“Hey!” James protested.

Anastasia suppressed a smile

Gilbert frowned at her. “Where is your wastrel brother?”

“Right here, Cousin,” said a young man’s voice as with a flourish he came through the same door Anastasia had. He was as tall as Gilbert, but with a little more muscle. He spun a lacy handkerchief in one hand as a he spoke. The resemblance between brother and sister was striking.

Ellie said, “Are you…twins?”

“Very observant, sir,” the brother said. “Armand Delacroix, at your service.” He bowed deeply, flourishing his handkerchief. He stood up a little unsteadily. His eyes were bloodshot. The style of his clothes was not Victorian age, but older, like Revolutionary War era, with ruffles and a waistcoat. Displays popped up in his vision, highlighting threadbare spots and repairs made to tattered hems and seams.

Successful Skill Check! Gain 2 points to increase your Investigate skill! Armand Delacroix’s clothing is far out of date and has been repaired many times, suggesting wearers that go back almost a century. Also, his physical unsteadiness indicates an excess of alcohol consumption.

That probably meant that the same could be said of Anastasia’s dress. Interesting. Had the family fallen on such hard times they couldn’t afford to buy clothes at all? That was a huge motive for faking this kind of theft. This guy was the prettiest man James had ever seen, almost androgynous, a male version of his beautiful sister, with thick, honey-blond hair tied with a black ribbon into a stubby ponytail.

But James’s gaze kept wanting to return to Anastasia. “So, uh, Anastasia,” the name felt like silk on his tongue, “can you tell us what happened?”

“Oh, it was oh so terrible!” she said breathlessly. “Cousin Delphine came into the study that morning to take her morning tea and found the safe open, as well as that window.” She pointed to one of the two high, paned windows.

“I’m sure it must have been quite traumatic,” James said, taking her hand and patting it.

He felt Ivy give him an atomic eyeroll as she passed on her way to examine the window.

Meanwhile Ash was pressuring Gilbert to open the safe. The old man finally acquiesced and slid his finger along the underside of the portrait frame. A faint click, and the frame swung away from the wall, revealing the door of a safe, about two feet square.

Ash asked, “And the safe wasn’t forced open or damaged?” He leaned closer to examine it, tapping his chin.

“See for yourself,” Gilbert snapped.

The safe looked ancient, a block of impenetrable steel with a door on it, featuring a big, brass combination knob.

Ellie said, “That model of safe dates back to 1820. How many combination numbers does it have?”

“Three,” Gilbert said through clenched teeth.

“That was top of the line back then,” Ellie said. “More than seventy years ago.”

James did some quick arithmetic. 1820s. He had to keep reminding himself this was the year 1896.

“Open it, please,” Ash said.

“I will not,” Gilbert said, his eyes sharp. “There is nothing inside pertinent to your investigation.”

“For all we know,” Ash said, “you’ve got the diamond in there, and you’re sitting on it. Open it, or we’ll head straight back to the bank and report evidence of fraud.”

Gilbert’s jaw clenched like he could bite through a mouthful of nails, but he stood before the safe, hiding the combination as he worked the knob, and opened the door. He stepped away with a derisive snort. Inside was a thick book, ancient, bound in leather. “As you can see, no diamond.”

“Fine,” Ash said, “but if the safe wasn’t damaged, there are two possibilities. The safe was cracked, or the perpetrator knew the combination.”

A sudden gust of wind outside rattled one of the windows with a plaintive moan, startling James with a chill down his arms. Damn, the creep factor in this place was high, whether or not that sensation was his or enacted by the suit. All through the process of designing Ivy’s prosthetic arm, their mother had talked incessantly about neural feedback and how it was tied together with emotions. The gamesuit could induce physical sensations, but if it did, would the emotions follow? It was a chicken-and-egg question.

“Come, sister,” Armand said, “Delphine awaits us in the music room.” He offered his hand, which Anastasia took in a way that made James skin crawl, almost like they were lovers, but that didn’t stop him from reflexively wanting her to stay.

Her eyes met James’s. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” Speaking only to him.

His heart went ka-lump, then he chided himself. It’s only a damn game! But he’d be dreaming about her long after this experience was over.