Chapter 7: Chapter 7
Margaret walked slowly down the alley. The park around the castle smoothly turned into the forest and was so dense that she could not accidentally meet Angel here. Returning from Blackwtit, the girl gave him her uncle's suitcase and left - first to her place, then to the park to walk and think. Redfern didn't try to restrain her or talk to her — they barely exchanged a few sentences, but Miss Sheridan could feel the gaze he followed her with.
The girl plucked a sprig of jasmine. Its leaves were shaped like the medal her father had received for the battle on Rosemary Street. But he almost never put on the award - it lay in a case at her mother's bureau, as if her father was unpleasant to see it.
Margaret remembered this again today - they usually celebrated her birthday with Edwin, although the older brother was born in September, in the midst of the very battle for which the dad was presented with the award.
"Why doesn't dad wear the medal?" The girl asked her mother when they sat down to drink tea in the living room, leaving her father and brother in the dining room. "He doesn't want to celebrate even Edwin's birthday."
"Dad doesn't like to remember about it," Mom replied.
"But why? Aunties are sure that he should be proud of the fact that he himself protected you during... ahem..."
"Not everyone can be proud of killing other people," Mom said coldly. "It doesn't matter for what purpose."
"But he did it for a reason, but during the War for Independence, when everyone..."
"He killed others so that we would survive. Only those who have never had to, can so easily talk about how honorable it is to wear an award for murder."
Margaret, frowning, rested her head on her hand. She had heard many times from her aunts (from the Brennons, of course; none of the Sheridans had communicated with her) what a desperately heroic act her dad had done; and some, for example, Aunt Sarah, especially emphasized "He was only twenty years old!" As if age mattered in some way when a crowd of heavily armed soldiers is just across the street from your house.
"And your aunts," her mother added, "usually have no idea what they are talking about. Do you really think that we wouldn't give anything just to have none of this?"
"Do you think daddy would rather forget?"
"Unfortunately," Mrs. Sheridan said dryly, "there is no such option. He can only not remember. "
Margaret turned toward the castle, absentmindedly fingering a sprig of jasmine. On that day, the father's brother died in the house, after whom Edwin was named, and the girl always thought that it was the death of his brother that caused such painful memories in her father. But that means that this is not the only point...
She stopped, staring at the dark silhouette behind the glowing dining-room windows. Angel stood at the glass doors to the terrace, as if waiting for Margaret to return. How many years has he been trying not to remember? Two hundred? Less? Why did he continue, even knowing what exactly he was doing to them?
The girl turned to the path that led to the stairs to the terrace. It was already dark, and the park merged with the forest into a dark coniferous cloud, not illuminated by a single light. Margaret, climbing the steps, looked from the terrace into the thicket of spruce forest until the mentor put his hand on the railing next to her.
"Would you rather forget?" The girl asked. Angel looked at her. "Don't remember what you did? You can erase your memory, can't you?"
"Yes," he said after a pause, "but I still won't."
"Why?"
"I'd better always know about it than one day suddenly remember. Or, forgetting about everything, I will repeat again."
Margaret turned to him. This question haunted her.
"Why? You realized from the first time what you had done! Why did you continue?"
Redfern dropped his eyes and didn't answer. After waiting a minute, Margaret took the knob of the dining room door, and then he said:
"I was scared."
"From what?" She asked in amazement.
"I saw the other side. Just a few minutes or even seconds, but…" His hand clenched convulsively on the railing. "But this… this is unbearable… this is worse than hell. I looked straight into the depths of the Rift, a huge, spinning, endless vortex, and there, inside, on the other side…" He closed his eyes. "I don't want to remember."
Margaret stepped closer.
"I don't want you to know what it's like to look at the other side," Angel said. "No human should see that."
"But if you are so afraid, then why did you go to the rift in Edmoor, and even twice?"
Redfern sighed.
"And who else, if not me?"
Margaret's heart ached.
"You could ask my uncle. To say Longsdale should go there. You wouldn't have to..."
"I could not then ask your uncle for something. After all, fear... just fear. It doesn't matter."
"Oh my God!"
After all, he always did this. He was not stopped by pain or fear - and therefore he did not understand why they should stop others.
"And yet the other side scares you so much that you continued to turn people into consultants?"
"This fire, devouring from within," the mentor squeezed out, finding his words with difficulty. "When I first understood... for the first time I saw what happened - it seemed to me that it would burn me to the ashes. But every time I thought that I had to stop, I remembered this funnel and... It burns me all the time. It will never be extinguished in any way. Because nothing can be fixed."
The girl touched his hand, still gripping the railing, where the nail wounds had recently been. She, too, could not forget...
"You should have told me right away," Margaret said reproachfully. You also have to tell my uncle and the rest of the consultants, she added inwardly.
"How could I tell about this? You yourself... I thought you weren't coming back," he said quietly. "I understood what would happen if you found out."
That is why you try not to catch the eye of the consultants - you guess what they will do to you if they find out, - but this thought no longer caused a malevolent triumph in her - rather, on the contrary, vague anxiety. Margaret touched his cheek, and Angel for some reason gave a weak start.
"You would have left," the mentor said. "Anyone would leave if he found out..."
Miss Sheridan ran her hand over his cheek to his temple, to his hair, pulled him to her, and Angel suddenly dropped his head on her shoulder, hunched over tiredly. He had been dragging it all on himself for so long and was already reeling under the weight of his burden.
"I couldn't tell anyone," He whispered. "Never…"
But that's later, the girl thought, hugging him; Angel's arms wrapped around her so carefully, as if she were crystal. Or he was afraid that she would leave again. All conversations with the others - later.
13th October
Interrogating the neighbors with Valentina's help turned out to be surprisingly easy and pleasant. As soon as they looked at Vivene, they fell into a blissful, good-natured state and willingly answered any questions. Nathan thought that he would be completely lazy that way: no effort, just have time to write it down!
The Commissar paid special attention to the tenants of the house, on the roof of which Valentina found dead birds - and made the right decision. Several tenants among those who rented modest loft apartments recalled a man who wanted to go up to the roof a week or two ago. The hatch that led there was padlocked. Brennon found no signs of a break-in; so this person found another way...
And then the Commissar was even more fortunate: continuing a methodical survey, he and his wife reached a small house in which a nimble, agile, talkative old man lived. Nathan barely had time to say hello to him when he unleashed such a flood of information about all the neighbors on the Commissar that Brennon almost drowned.
The old man watched Urquiola with special passion, because he suspected that he was a spy of the enemy powers - three, and maybe four at once! The old man closely watched such an unreliable element, and soon Brannon was enriched with a lot of valuable information. With difficulty blocking the fountain of his eloquence, the commissar took his wife by the arm and walked towards Urquiola's house.
"So this is how it happens?" Valentina asked curiously. "Do you ask people you find near the crime scene?"
"Usually everything is much more difficult," the commissar grunted and stroked her hand. "Most often, it is necessary to extract information from witnesses with forceps. And many by the evening hardly remember what happened in the morning, so if it were not for you, I would have wandered here for two weeks."
Valentina smiled and immediately puzzled him with the following question:
"And how do you understand what to ask them about?"
"Uh… w-well… I guess it comes with experience… I think the questions are obvious…"
"It's a shame they couldn't remember what the man on the roof looked like," Vivene sighed. "According to the description, he looks like the one who shot you, but..."
The description consisted of the words "tall, in a raincoat, kind of skinny, and hair kind of dark... or light." In general, both the shooter and several tens of thousands of residents of Farenza approached him. But the cheerful old man was much more observant.
"But now we know how the kidnapping happened. This is already a lot."
"But how will this help us?"
"On the next time, I will ask the residents about a large dark gondola with a closed cockpit and three rowers."
They returned to the house. By this time, lunch had already been laid, at which they met with Longsdale, the hound and the witch. Jen, as always, didn't peck a crumb, and Nathan was amazed again at this, because Valentina ate with great pleasure.
"We found a witness," the Commissar said. "The old man next door saw how on the night of the abduction Urquiola ran out of the house and hung around for a while, until suddenly he fell. Obviously, because of the shot with a poisoned needle. Falcon was also hit. Immediately a large dark gondola with a cabin swam up to them, three people tied up and stuffed the consultant there, put the falcon in a cage and set sail."
Longsdale perked up briskly.
"But where exactly?"
"So far - in an unknown direction. But the main thing here is a systematic survey. In a few days I will know where they have gone."
"What if the warlock made it invisible?" Jen asked doubtfully.
"We will trace some part of the route anyway. In the morning I read the documents that Savarelli had sent. Everything seems to be clean in the history of the monastery. I did not find sorcerers and warlocks there. What do you have?"
"Camaglio's lab kept the usual amulets, books, and some potions," the consultant said. "Nothing super powerful or rare. He's not even a particularly enlightened sorcerer."
"Yeah, but here the question is whether our banker himself got all this or someone gave them to him. It would be necessary to find out whether his competitors have had any misfortunes, illnesses or ruin lately."
"I think the inquisitors can do it. Why don't you trust them?" Longsdale rebuked. "Brothers Luca and Matteo coped quite successfully yesterday..."
"Only they almost died of shock, and so, yes, quite successfully. The pyromaniac still entertains his idea," Brannon grumbled. "And I just cannot explain to him that people who for the first time..." the Commissar abruptly fell silent.
"What is it, Nathan?" Valentina asked. "Did something disturb you?"
Brannon stared down at the plate, spinning the long flour things in fish sauce onto his fork. He didn't really want to throw out his paranoia on others...
"Peggy took the scrap of paper to Redfern. I keep wondering how ingenious the warlock must be to do such a thing - and how frightening it is that Camaglio is willing to wear it. Knowing that the contract could literally kill him."
"Dear, what are you talking about?" Valentina frowned. Longsdale and Jen looked at him blankly, but the hound stepped up warily.
"I've seen this," the commissar muttered. "In gangs, each first leader establishes similar orders. And Redfern might not be the only one who had the idea of putting together a squad of people trained in magic."
The hound nodded thoughtfully, but Longsdale remarked:
"The presence of one accomplice is not a reason to immediately think about the gang."
"You human are capable of everything," the witch said, "but sharing knowledge about magic is not stealing from a store!"
Nathan also doubted this. So far, of all the sorcerers he met, none really wanted to share their knowledge with anyone. Even Angel took up the training of just one, albeit a very naughty girl. Jen looked out the window and said with displeasure:
"The cardinal's boat is sailing towards us again. We will become monks so soon!"
"I hope he dug up something about the abbess's brother." Brannon stood up. "Will you come with me?"
"I'll stay here," Valentina replied. "It is not safe to leave the house unattended."
"I'll go," Longsdale said. "There is no point in rummaging through Camaglio's things - they are unremarkable, and only the banker himself used them."
"Our warlock is a damn quirky guy," the Commissar grumbled. "I cross my heart, he deliberately got an accomplice so as not to leave his prints anywhere."
The consultant just sighed. The hound reluctantly followed the witch, the Commissar, and Longsdale, looking like "those damned pelvis again!".
A silent rower (not brother Luca, but already another) brought them to the cardinal's palace. The clerk escorted them to His Eminence, and, barely crossing the threshold, Brennon winced in surprise: a strange, extremely vile smell, which exuded a basket on the floor, spread through the office. Savarelli, hands behind his back, gazed at it gloomily.
"Admire it," he grunted. "Today's catch of fishermen."
The hound flattened his ears and grumbled. The commissar peered into the basket, holding his nose. Something vaguely resembled a fish was swarming inside - it, or rather, they were still alive, but at the same time they literally decomposed before the eyes, turning into a brown mass. Longsdale and the hound quickly pushed Brannon away from the basket. The consultant asked sharply:
"Who brought this?"
"Fishermen. In the morning they went fishing, saw the catch and rushed to the priest..."
"Why?" Brannon did not understand. The witch opened the window without asking, because it stank famously.
"The church has a lot of influence," Savarelli explained with a grin. "Padre immediately went with the fishermen and the basket to us, and we temporarily detained everyone to find out the details. Do you want to interrogate them?"
"Maybe I will burn this filth first?" Jen suggested. "Looks like there is something infectious.
The cardinal hastily retreated."
"Has anyone touched the fish?" Longsdale asked sharply.
"We - no, but the fishermen - yes, when they pulled her out of the nets."
"Isolate the fishermen along with the padre and all the inquisitors who interrogated them. No one should contact them until I understand what it is and how contagious it is."
"But it's a fish," the cardinal said uncertainly. "What can you get infected from it?"
"I don't know," Longsdale said through set teeth. Jen, holding the basket at her outstretched hand, left Savarelli's office. "This is what worries me. I will take the basket to my laboratory immediately."
"Then," thinking, His Eminence said, "can I invite the Commissar and his wife to stay in my house?"
Brennon could not tell him that Valentina was unlikely to be in danger from a rotten fish, so he said with restraint:
"Thank you, we will think about it. Actually, our investigation finally yielded some results," he briefly spoke about the results of a survey of neighbors. "So far, I'm more interested in another question: will the warlock continue to try to exterminate us, or will he take up the case for which he killed nine girls? If he has a whole gang of accomplices, then he will have enough strength for both. Therefore, it seems to me that it will not be out of place to finally call here a couple of more consultants."
"One banker is not a gang yet," Savarelli replied with some displeasure. "Why are you dissatisfied with the work of my inquisitors?"
"If the warlock has other accomplices with magic tricks in their pocket, then I don't want to risk the lives of your people."
"I will contact my colleagues again," Longsdale said. "Where did your fishermen catch this fish? I'll send Raiden to investigate this place."
"By the way, can you temporarily suspend fishing using your church influence?" Brannon asked. "If this stuff is really infectious, then it's better not to risk it."
"I'll try," the cardinal frowned. "I will have to visit the Hounde and talk to him. It would be nice to take fish with me as a visual..."
"No!" Longsdale snapped. "Ruled out!"
Brannon lowered his head thoughtfully. In the diaries of Redfern, at the very beginning, it was indicated that in the winter of 1630-31, when the Rift appeared on Liganta, a plague was raging in the city. Although the Commissar did not really understand how a dead fish could be associated with the plague, he decided to talk to the pyromaniac about his dark past.
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