The cab screeched to a stop beside the murky river. The driver, a burly man with a perpetual scowl, twisted in his seat to glance back at Isabelle. “This is it,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as they flicked to the slumped figure beside her. “He better not be bleeding on my seats.”
Isabelle leaned closer to the window, her stomach tightening into a knot as she took in the scene outside. The structure loomed over them, its red brick towers and gothic arches cloaked in shadow. The building exuded an ominous presence, like something out of a forgotten era.
“Come on, I don’t got all night,” the driver snapped, breaking her trance. “Take your man and get out.” He turned back toward the wheel, muttering under his breath.
It took effort, but Isabelle managed to haul Virgil, barely conscious, from the cab and onto the pavement. His weight was unwieldy, his head lolling as he fought to stay upright. “Thank you…” he wheezed, his voice like gravel, as the cab sped off down the deserted street.
Virgil lifted his gaze to the towering building before them, a faint grin splitting his bloodied lips. “Good girl,” he murmured, pointing weakly to a small, unassuming door tucked into the corner of the brick facade. “This is where we need to be.”
Isabelle half-dragged him toward the door, her eyes darting to the dark, empty windows overhead. Not a single light stirred within the structure, and the silence pressed in around them. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” she muttered as they reached the door. “This place looks abandoned.”
Virgil stiffened, lifting a trembling hand to knock on the door in a deliberate, intricate rhythm. Nothing happened. No lights flickered to life, no footsteps echoed from inside.
“I really don’t think—” Isabelle began, but Virgil cut her off, his voice firmer now. “Wait. They’re not used to visitors this late.”
She hesitated, but before she could protest, the latch on the door slid back with a low, metallic scrape.
The man who appeared in the doorway was striking, almost otherworldly. He stood tall, dressed in a tailored suit that seemed decades out of date but impeccably kept. His white hair cascaded to his shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes locked onto Virgil with an intensity that sent a shiver down Isabelle’s spine.
“Virgil!” the man exclaimed, his voice tinged with both relief and alarm. He stepped through the doorway, swiftly taking Virgil’s other arm to help Isabelle support him.
“I’m fine, Olby,” Virgil muttered, wincing as they guided him inside. “Just a bit… worse for wear.”
The stairs led them into a room that seemed to belong in a grand estate rather than hidden beneath the streets of London. The walls glowed with the soft flicker of gilded sconces lit by actual flame. Overhead, a crystal chandelier shimmered, casting fractured light across an ornate table at the room’s center. Every detail spoke of wealth and meticulous care, from the lush carpet beneath their feet to the claw-footed sofa draped in deep crimson fabric.
Olby guided Virgil to the sofa, where he collapsed, his body sinking into the plush upholstery as if surrendering to its embrace.
Straightening, Olby turned to Isabelle. “Thank you,” he said, his tone refined yet hurried. “You’ll forgive the lack of formalities, but I must fetch my physician before our friend here expires on my furniture. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“What was your name dear?”
Isabelle blinked, still processing the surreal environment and the enigmatic man before her. “Oh… Isabelle,” she stammered.
“Isabelle,” Olby repeated with a faint smile. “A pleasure. You may call me Olberon. I’ll be back shortly.” With that, he disappeared through a door at the far end of the room, leaving her alone with the unconscious Virgil and the unsettling quiet of the gilded chamber.
—
The chamber had a peculiar chill, not the kind that bit to the bone but one that prickled the skin and brought a blush to Isabelle’s cheeks. The air felt almost alive, a whisper of something unspoken brushing against her senses. Virgil lay slumped on the ornate sofa, his breathing steady but shallow. Left with little more than her thoughts and the strange ambiance of the room, Isabelle began to grapple with the sheer absurdity of her situation. Here she was, standing in a grand, almost palatial chamber beneath the streets of London, as though she had stepped into the pages of some darkly magical tale.
Without realizing it, she began to pace. Her eyes, sharp and searching, took in the intricate details of the room. The chandelier, at first glance crystalline, revealed itself to be crafted from what appeared to be ice—its sharp, frosted edges refracting the dim, ghostly light. The sconces on the walls burned steadily, but their flames gave no warmth, their eerie glow illuminating the room like frozen fire. Even the lush carpet beneath her feet defied expectation; despite its thickness, it left no trace of her footsteps, as though the fibers refused to yield to her presence.
Her aimless wandering brought her to a series of framed sketches on the far wall. The drawings were delicate, precise, clearly the work of a skilled hand. One caught her attention immediately: a stunning woman with features strikingly similar to Olberon, dressed in an opulent ballroom gown. She seemed to radiate elegance and mystery. A relative, Isabelle thought, a sister, perhaps, or a cousin? Her gaze flicked to the other sketches. They all bore a family resemblance, their faces echoing the aristocratic beauty and otherworldly quality of Olberon himself.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion. The heavy chamber door burst open, its sound reverberating through the quiet space. A portly gentleman entered, his presence as abrupt as his appearance. He was dressed in the attire of a Victorian-era physician, complete with a waistcoat and small, round glasses perched precariously on a bulbous nose. His coarse voice filled the chamber as he called out, “Don’t worry, sire, I’ll see to it that your man is well cared for.”
He froze mid-step, his gaze falling on Isabelle. His expression shifted to surprise, and he adjusted his posture with a nervous stiffness. “Oh, I wasn’t informed there would be additional company,” he stammered. Then, bowing his head slightly, he added, “My apologies, madam. I meant no offense by my intrusion.” Without waiting for a response, he made his way to Virgil’s side, his attention quickly shifting to his patient.
Isabelle opened her mouth to reply, but Olberon spoke first, his voice cutting through the moment with a commanding urgency. “Never mind the formalities,” he said, a note of concern evident beneath his composed demeanor. “We can handle introductions properly once Virgil has been tended to.”
The physician nodded briskly. “Quite right.” With practiced efficiency, he began his work, peeling away Virgil’s shirt to reveal a physique that belied his otherwise unassuming frame. His chest was a canvas of jagged, gaping wounds, as though some beast had raked its claws through flesh and bone. The sight gave Isabelle pause, her breath catching as the full extent of the damage became clear.
The physician, assessing the injuries, glanced toward Olberon with a grave expression. “These wounds are severe. This will not be pleasant. Perhaps it’s best if you take the lady elsewhere while I work.”
Olberon’s gaze lingered on Virgil’s battered form for a moment before shifting to Isabelle. His voice softened, tinged with an unusual warmth. “You’re right, of course,” he said to the doctor. Then, turning fully to Isabelle, he added, “Come. Let us retire to the sitting room and wait this out.” He hesitated, studying her carefully. “That is, of course, if you wish to wait.”
Isabelle nodded “Of course..” unsure of why but agreeing “I will wait” Oberon nodded with approval. “This way” as he gestured through the door.
—
The room was just as opulent as the one they had just left, though this one had a more intimate charm. A collection of ornate sofas formed a semi-circle around a low table, which was adorned with crystal decanters filled with an assortment of amber, ruby, and clear liquids. Side tables held small lamps with fringed shades, casting a warm, golden light that softened the grandeur of the space.
Olberon gestured to one of the sofas, and Isabelle sank into it, her movements slow and uncertain as though she were still grappling with the surreal turn of events. Her hands rested tensely in her lap.
“Can I offer you a drink? Water, or perhaps something stronger?” he asked, his tone both inviting and disarming.
She hesitated, then forced a small smile, thinking a drink might steady her nerves. “I’ll take a gin, if you have one.”
Olberon’s lips curved into an approving smile. “Good choice. I’ve always thought gin to be the best of the bunch.” He moved with practiced ease to a sideboard, selecting a crystal glass and dropping in a handful of perfectly clear ice cubes. “Tonic?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
She nodded. “Yes, please.”
Once he had poured her drink, he handed it to her, the chilled glass cool against her fingers. Then, as tradition dictated, he prepared one for himself, taking care to measure and mix with precision.
With his own drink in hand, Olberon returned to the sofa, seating himself a polite distance away. He crossed one leg over the other, his posture relaxed but attentive. “I fear we might be here a while,” he began, his tone conversational but laced with purpose. “Why don’t we start from the top, if you don’t mind me prying?”
Isabelle sipped her drink, surprised at its quality. It was smooth and fragrant—easily one of the best gins she had ever tasted. She glanced at him, then nodded, deciding to trust him for now. “Sure, what would you like to know?”
Olberon’s expression brightened. “Well, for starters, what’s a Witness like you doing getting tangled up with the kind of people who could leave Virgil in such a state?”
She paused, her brow furrowing as she pieced her thoughts together. “I was just walking back from a… peculiar shop when I heard him cry out. He sounded like he was in pain. I ran toward the noise and found him there.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “There were two men—rough-looking types—who seemed to be attacking him, but the injuries that I saw in there… they looked nothing like what they could have done. They saw me, and for a moment, I thought they were going to come for me too. But then, they just turned and left.”
Olberon’s brows knitted in thought, but he didn’t interrupt.
“Should we file a report or… give some kind of statement?” she asked hesitantly.
His look of puzzlement shifted into something close to amusement. “My word, you really are new to all this, aren’t you? Virgil never introduced himself properly, did he?” He shook his head with a chuckle. “You mentioned a shop. What was strange about it?”
Isabelle blinked, the question pulling her mind back to McNeil & Gallagher. The memory felt distant, almost dreamlike. “It was a tailor’s shop—McNeil & Gallagher.” She paused, her voice growing softer. “This will sound silly, but I found this blanket at work…”
She trailed off, her fingers brushing the fabric of her coat as if the keys to her memory lingered in its folds. Yet Olberon’s steady gaze encouraged her to continue. Feeling unexpectedly at ease, Isabelle began recounting the strange occurrences of the past few days. She told him about the peculiar atmosphere of the shop, the enigmatic proprietor, and the odd sense of the world these last few days.
“…and then, as I was leaving, the tailor handed me this card,” she said, pulling it from her pocket and holding it up for him to see. “He said I could call them if I wanted to return it or needed their services.” She leaned back slightly, exhaling as though relieved to share the burden of her experiences. “After that, I stumbled across Virgil in that alley. And, well, here we are.”
Olberon listened intently, his expression unreadable as he absorbed every detail. When she finished, he leaned forward slightly, swirling his glass as though deep in thought. “Fascinating,” he murmured, his voice low. “There’s more to this story than meets the eye, Isabelle. Far more.”