Carter Fellows stood at the window, watching the streets outside grow dim. Whitechapel's slums had always been like this—full of pubs, pawnshops, and brothels with lights that never wished to go out. These days, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was quietly changing.

  "Perkins."

  Perkins' head immediately appeared around the doorframe. "Sir?"

  "Where has the gossip spread to?"

  "The whole East End is talking about the 'Whitechapel DevilSurgeon Killer.' This morning, down at the fish market, some even started a tale that the killer specifically targets redheaded women. Said people with red hair have... unclean souls."

  "Unclean souls." Carter spat the word like a bad seed. "Who's spreading it?"

  "A few dockworkers were saying it in a pub. Source is unclear." Perkins hesitated. "But this morning, two redhaired women did come to the station asking if they could apply for protection. They were terrified."

  Carter walked to his desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and extracted three summons forms. Then, from his purse, he counted out six shillings in coins, divided them into two stacks, and pushed them towards Perkins.

  "Take two men. First, find the three dockworkers spreading that fish market rumour the loudest. Bring them in 'to assist with inquiries' on a charge of disturbing the peace. No need to actually file a case. Just let them sober up in a holding cell overnight and release them tomorrow morning."

  He tapped a cigarette from its case but didn't light it yet, continuing. "Make it clear to them: if we hear half a word about any case details from their mouths again, the next invitation won't be a summons. It'll be an arrest warrant."

  Perkins looked at the two stacks of money on the desk, understanding. "And the other sum, sir? This is for..."

  "Find that old Samuel. The old coot selling cursed dustcoins under the bridge. Give him three shillings. Tell him that starting today, his stall will have a few more... regular patrons. Anyone who comes to buy dustcoins, asks questions, or looks suspicious—he's to make a note of it. Report to me once a week."

  "Is that... informant fee?"

  "Call it hush money. That old man's lips are loose. Detective Hastings went to see him. That can't get around. Give him the coin, and give him a reminder: Scotland Yard has its eye on Whitechapel now. If he wants to keep his little enterprise running, he'd best learn who really keeps order in Whitechapel."

  Perkins picked up the summons and the coins. Seeing his superior had nothing more to add, he turned to leave.

  "One more thing," Carter called out, stopping Perkins at the door. "Tell the lads: starting tonight, the night patrol adds one more team. They're not to arrest anyone specific. Just walk back and forth... on the streets where the rumours are thickest."

  Perkins left. Carter returned to the window. Night had completely swallowed Whitechapel.

  These were Whitechapel's laws of survival. Here, the truth was often less important than stability. Justice was often cheaper than order.

  For now, he had only one demand: the truth could wait. But panic could not.

  ******

  Anger did not press too hard on the Whitechapel case. The information Carter provided was sparse at best, and cooperation there was not as forthcoming as in his own Scotland Yard. After all, Whitechapel was, to put it bluntly, its own little world. No one wanted an outsider copper poking about.

  When Anger pushed open the door, Hendrick was asleep, head pillowed on a stack of open files sprawled across the desk beside the records cabinet.

  "Hendrick," Anger called.

  The young man jerked awake. "Detective Hastings! You're back. I, I wasn't slacking, I just—"

  "I know." Anger settled into his own chair. "Has Professor Croft sent any word?"

  "Yes!" Hendrick hurriedly straightened the papers on his desk and pulled out a folder. "A messenger brought this. Said it was the materials you requested."

  Anger took the folder. The cover bore no markings. It held a fair number of pages—mostly printed archive copies, a few handwritten notes, and several sketches.

  He opened it.

  Detective Hastings,

  1. The Twin Moons Convergence Window:

  Crossreferencing astronomical almanacs with local meteorological records indicates the next qualifying Fog Moon will reach peak intensity in approximately 17 days. The Blood Moon cycle falls 22 days hence. The overlapping window of peak efficacy is centered around this period.

  The optimal observation location, theoretically, should be at a higher elevation within the city where fog flow exhibits regularity. Initial conjecture points to the vicinity of Parliament Hill. Note: nearby villages exhibit ritualistic practices and are notably sensitive to outsiders. Field verification is required.

  2. The Bellatus Family Dossier:

  Public records are regrettably thin. The information below is sourced from the Royal Society's internal catalogue, old newspaper reports, and certain… informal channels of my own. Treat with appropriate caution.

  3. Regarding the 'dice' you mentioned:

  The correspondence of 'ribs as keys, dice as pupils' strongly suggests a resonator of singular properties—an artifact capable of storing, amplifying, or directing specific energies. Its value may far exceed your initial estimation.

  Sebastian Croft

  Anger's gaze lingered on the information about the dice. The die recovered from the BoneBird killer, and the Viscountess's notebook… It seemed a return to The Spindle of Oblivion was in order. But with them watching now, gaining access would be tricky.

  He flipped to the subsequent pages, the appended materials on the Bellatus family. The public record was indeed thin as rainwater.

  The first page was a copy from a peerage register. The last listed head was Sir Lucian Bellatus, with a note appended: This family's entry has not been updated for over thirty years. Presumed effectively defunct.

  Following that was a newspaper clipping:

  A Loss to Academia

  It is understood that Sir Lucian Bellatus, the noted scholar of astronomy and archaeology, has formally withdrawn from Royal Society activities due to health reasons. The Knight, author of several controversial papers on celestial phenomena and ancient civilizations, was a divisive figure in academic circles. A Society spokesperson stated they respect the Knight's personal choice and wish him a swift recovery.

  Flipping further revealed Croft's own handwritten notes, pieced together from scattered clues.

  The Bellatus family, while superficially defunct, maintains activity in specific circles: art appraisal, rare book auctions, private collection consultancy.

  —Suspected fixed collaboration with several auction houses, including Herron's.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  —They appear to be attempting to construct a scientific framework to describe and measure manifestations of… unusual energies.

  —Evidence suggests specialised research projects, connections to larger consortia.

  —Known Associations: Funding/research ties to several 'underground' families.

  —Suspected involvement in human experimentation.

  —High correlation with a leaked project designation: 'Wolf'sHead Lantern'.

  Anger closed the folder.

  "Hendrick," he said. "What did you find in the Central Archives?"

  Hendrick hauled over a thick ledger. "As you requested, I checked all Public Security records and business registrations related to art consultants, auction houses, and appraisals for the last three years."

  He flipped to a marked page, pointing at a list.

  "Lorenzo Bellatus appears as a speciallyappointed consultant for Herron's Auction House in records for at least twelve highprofile auctions over this period. In June of this year, following one auction, he was questioned by police over a dispute regarding an item's provenance. However, the record shows the inquiry was terminated on orders from above within half an hour. Reason given: insufficient evidence. The order was signed by… Chief Inspector Schneider."

  Schneider?!

  "Go on."

  "There's another individual consistently linked to Bellatus. I dug a bit deeper." Hendrick's finger moved to a name. "Edwin Lyle. I ran a crosscheck in the census archives. The name Edwin Lyle only appears in Londinium's residential registers at a later date. Prior to that, there is a birth record for an Edwin Bellatus, father being Algernon—Lucian's brother. That Edwin Bellatus has no further records after that point."

  A name change. Shedding the family.

  Anger recalled the conversation overheard after the auction, mentioning a manuscript. If Edwin truly was a Bellatus family defector, then the manuscript in his possession might be Anger's way into this secretive clan.

  "Well done, Hendrick."

  Anger nodded. According to Croft's calculations, the twin moons convergence was roughly twenty days away.

  "Hendrick, tomorrow you have two tasks. First, ascertain Lorenzo Bellatus's public movements over the last three months—meeting records with other family members, etc. Second, find a way to get Edwin Lyle's current address. Don't approach him. Just the address."

  "Understood, Detective. And you?"

  "I have a private meeting to attend." Anger picked up his overcoat.

  He had considered going to see the Chief Inspector, to ask why the Chief's office had halted the questioning of Lorenzo.

  In this whirlpool, where did the institution he'd served for seven years truly stand? But on second thought, he couldn't open that door. If it became known he was investigating the Bellatus family, they would be alerted. There was no guarantee Schneider wasn't entangled himself. Better not to muddy the waters just yet. Better not to tip one's hand.

  ******

  Anger waited until the night's chill had properly set in before approaching the mouth of an unremarkable alley. From an inner pocket of his overcoat, he drew the temporary guest badge obtained from the woman at the BoneBird's gambling den.

  He knocked. The doorman opened a sliver. "Badge."

  Anger presented the guest badge. The doorman took it, examined it with a solemn air, pocketed it directly, and then handed over a single key.

  "Through the anteroom, sir. Find the third door. This key opens it. As you're a firsttimer… remember. The mirror only shows truth to those who are ready. And truth is often far harder to bear than lies."

  Even the doormen speak in riddles and portents here, Anger thought. He took the key without comment.

  He entered the passageway. The key was for the inner door, not the one leading off the main hall. The space beyond opened up with a disquieting suddenness, a stark contrast to the cramped anteroom.

  It was a rectangular hall, perhaps twenty feet high. The walls on either side were hung with mirrors in frames of bizarre design. Some were inlaid with shards of coloured glass; others were edged with relief carvings of infant or aged faces; still others had mirrors webbed with fine cracks that themselves seemed to form peculiar patterns.

  About thirty people occupied the hall, evenly split between men and women, all in sumptuous evening wear. Yet none conversed. They stood in small clusters before the mirrors. Some gazed in silent contemplation; others reached out fingers to trace unseen lines upon the glass; a few even pressed their cheeks against the cold surface. The scene was not unlike the Herron's auctions he'd attended—another display of the privileged and powerful at their peculiar hobbies.

  Anger noted details.

  A society matron’s pearl necklace was interspersed with beads shaped like human molars.

  A gentleman’s walking cane was topped with a silverplated carving of a uterus.

  In a corner, a gaunt young man gently scored his own palm with a penknife, smearing droplets of blood onto a palmsized shard of mirror.

  Then, his eye gave an uncontrollable, violent twitch.

  In that instant, the appearance of the hall shifted before his vision. The edges of the mirror frames glowed with halos of coloured mist. He tried to pull his gaze back, to force his sight to settle, but it was too late.

  By the large mirror at the far end of the hall, swathed in an aura of structured force, a figure standing with its back to him slowly turned.

  Anger saw the face.

  Lorenzo Bellatus.

  Art Consultant. Special Appraiser for Herron's Auction House. The Bellatus family’s public face.

  Their eyes met briefly across the space. A faint, knowing smile touched Lorenzo’s lips. He offered a slight, elegant nod of recognition, then turned back to his contemplation of the mirror.

  A cold sweat broke out on Anger’s back. He’d been recognised. Not as Detective Hastings, but as the troublesome individual who had contacted Edwin Lyle after the auction. It meant his movements had been known from the moment he entered this alley.

  He moved through the crowd, skirting mirrors that pulsed with aberrant energy, and found the third door indicated by the doorman. Inscribed upon the lintel was a single word: TWINMIRROR.

  The room within contained only one mirror. Its frame was fashioned from intertwined branches, their surfaces covered in strange glyphs. Dozens of teeth—whether human or not was unknown, though the likelihood was high—were set amongst the wood.

  A mirror. I’m to look at myself?

  He stepped before it, meeting his own reflection’s gaze.

  For the first three seconds, all was normal. The Anger Hastings in the mirror was twentynine, with dark hair and green eyes, wearing his black overcoat—utterly ordinary, no different from the man on the street.

  Then the change began.

  The reflection’s hair visibly lost its pigment from the roots upwards, bleaching to a deathly white. Wrinkles spread from the corners of the eyes, across the forehead. The skin lost its elasticity, sagging against the skull. The sensation was akin to the timestasis bubbles encountered at the Mute Tower, yet different—less violent, almost… gentle.

  The eye sockets deepened. The skin visibly stretched and distorted. He could almost feel his overcoat growing threadbare, could smell the dust upon it.

  Then, the aged Anger in the mirror opened its mouth. No sound came, yet the words formed directly in his mind.

  Too late.

  From deep within the glass, sounds emerged.

  The sharp, piercing wail of an infant—shrill, raw, brimming with primal life.

  The hoarse, crackling lament of an old man—despairing, freighted with the terror of approaching death.

  The two sounds began to weave together, becoming a dissonant chorus. The noise pierced the mirror’s surface. Dizziness washed over Anger.

  He stumbled back a step, his hand instinctively finding the wall for support.

  Martha Tabram. Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Raven……

  Martha Tabram. Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Raven……

  Martha Tabram. Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Raven……

  The first two were the true names of the Whitechapel victims.

  Annie Chapman. A new name. The third? A name yet to be claimed by Whitechapel?

  Raven. The BoneBird? Or something else?

  Before he could untangle the thought, he took another step back.

  "First time? Don't stare for more than three minutes. Unless you wish to remain there forever."

  A woman's voice sounded behind him. Anger whirled around. The dizziness receded, replaced by a persistent ringing in his ears.

  A society lady stood in the doorway.

  "Lady Emilia Worthington," the woman supplied, as if preempting any lapse in decorum. "I am one of the regulars here. You are a new face. That mirror… has certain bad habits. It tells those who approach it things they ought not to know."

  "What did it tell you?" Lady Worthington took a sip from the glass in her hand. "I saw you recoil. Most, on their first viewing, either stand transfixed until they swoon, or attempt to reach out and touch the surface. That is not advisable, by the way."

  She regarded Anger with cool appraisal. "It seems you carry enough upon yourself."

  Anger forced himself upright. "What is this mirror?"

  "A toy. A viewing pane. A trap." Lady Worthington moved to the side of the mirror, looking down at the base of the frame. "The Bellatus family call it a 'Chronal Spyglass.' It shows… glimpses of the past and future that have solidified into truth."

  She pointed a gloved finger at an inscription on the frame's base. Anger moved closer and saw a single word: NIGHTWATCHER.

  "The mirror requires a Nightwatcher. Regular maintenance. If left unattended for too long, it grows… frantic. It attacks anyone who stands before it for more than three minutes. It seems the Bellatuses know their Nightwatchers. A place of this scale would be quite a burden to maintain otherwise."

  "Why tell me this?" Anger looked at Lady Worthington with frank curiosity.

  "Because I am weary. Weary of the monthly soirées. Weary of pretending this is all just a harmless, eccentric diversion for the upper crust. Weary of watching the reflection grow closer to death each day and being powerless to stop it. This mirror is consuming us. It doesn't hasten one to the grave; it shows you the path, then leaves you to walk it, knowing the destination. I need to leave this place."

  She took a sudden step back. "Stay much longer, and it will begin reading my fears. That would be most unseemly. I suggest you depart as well. The first experience is quite enough to digest. And one more thing—"

  She turned at the doorway for a final glance. "Beware the infant's cry in the glass. If you listen too closely, one day you may find yourself answering it. You may hear a lullaby being hummed… and begin to yearn for a return to a time before you were born."

  Lady Worthington disappeared into the hall.

  Alone in the room, Anger stood before the TwinMirror. It remained, silent and imposing, reflecting his pale countenance.

  A lullaby. How does that connect to Whitechapel? The threads of this affair grew ever more tangled.

  When Anger finally broke his gaze and returned to the main salon, Lorenzo Bellatus was long gone. Of course, no one had marked his departure.

  Anger's mind churned. Annie Chapman. Was that a name for the third Whitechapel victim, or a name yet to be claimed? Should he warn Carter?

  The chill of the mirror's vision lingered in his bones.