Hendrick reported the information he had gathered, most of it useless. Anger didn't interrupt him, simply letting the lad recount everything he'd seen and heard.
"Look up the East India Company's port arrival records. The E.I.C.," Anger said.
Hendrick looked puzzled. "...The E.I.C.?"
"We're going to the docks tomorrow. This afternoon, you'll accompany me to the church first."
Upon hearing he could go out with Detective Hastings, Hendrick nearly jumped for joy but managed—just—to keep a lid on it.
The foreman at the Full Moon Laundry, however, was in a rather less cheerful disposition.
Cedric Hopewell stared at the glass bottle, the letter of introduction concerning Lord Rossetti's antique formal wear, and the lab report on his desk. He very nearly dashed his teacup to the floor.
The report stated the liquid possessed no discernible cleaning properties whatsoever and was most likely waste wash water flushed from some foul drain.
As for Harrington Textiles Co., it had gone bankrupt three years prior. It was merely a tannery, and there certainly was no 'Lord Rossetti'.
He must have been off his head that day.
Mr. Hopewell sat in his chair, listening as the frecklefaced lad reported that the Council had acknowledged the matter and would send someone to investigate, and that someone had been asking about missing persons and East India Company spies that very morning.
"Alright, alright," Hopewell cut in. "If anyone from above inquires, you tell them we haven't received any unusual visitors lately. Only some… insufficiently professional salesmen. Understood? Now get out."
Not daring to meet Hopewell's eye, the frecklefaced lad retreated.
******
The next time Anger took Hendrick to St. Mary's Church, its spire pierced the rain and fog like a needle.
They stood far at the back, behind the last row of pews.
The church was packed—nobles, merchants, clergy, and servants—every soul in town who owned a decent waistcoat and a claim to respectability.
Lord Arthur Vinter stood at the front, his back straight—or as straight as a man under such circumstances could manage. His butler, Valentine, stood half a pace behind him, hands clasped, the picture of solemn efficiency.
Upon the dais lay the coffin, draped in a pall. Embroidered upon it in silver thread was the Vinter family crest—a twisted anchor entwined with thorns.
Candles flickered on either side, making the silver threads shimmer faintly, as if the crest itself were breathing.
"Let there be silence,"
intoned the parish priest as he ascended the steps to the bier. He unrolled a scroll of parchment.
"In accordance with the deceased's wishes, I shall now read the final letter left by Lady Elizabeth Vinter for her husband."
A hush fell over the congregation, broken only by the minute crackling of candle wicks.
The priest cleared his throat and began.
To my dear Arthur,
When you read these words, I shall have chosen my departure. Do not seek the reasons, I beg you. Some answers are poison in their own right.
I have grown weary of the face in the mirror—a face that becomes less familiar with each passing day.
Something not my own has taken root within me. It feeds upon my fears and blooms roses whose thorns pierce my very heart.
Do you remember the white rose bush you gave me when we wed? You said its petals would never fade, just as you promised I would remain by your side in the bloom of my youth.
I have torn out the three ugliest pages from my journal. Not to conceal, but because the words upon them took on a life of their own. They would crawl across the paper and take root in the dreams of any who read them.
You already carry burdens enough. I could not bear to add another.
Finally, forgive this method of farewell. A chain of guilt binds me, but at least its links are real.
May God forgive me, and may He also forgive this city that feeds on moonlight and sighs.
And when you at last step onto the shores of the New World, if you would… have my favorite flowers sent to me.
Yours,
Elizabeth"
As the priest spoke the last word, a collective, almost imperceptible sigh seemed to pass through the cold, damp air of the chapel.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
******
Anger Hastings saw the parchment slip from the priest’s hand, drifting lightly onto the steps of the altar.
From inside the coffin came dull, heavy thuds—one, two. All the candles lit around the room simultaneously leaned toward the casket, their flames tugged by an invisible force into blue tongues.
Then the coffin toppled from its stand on the altar, crashing onto the stone floor with a roar that exploded in Anger’s ears. The echo slammed against the stained glass, cracking the faces of the saintly portraits with fine lines.
Ten ruststained voidchains descended from the dome above the altar, their metallic shrieks tearing through the air. The chains precisely locked onto the four corners of the coffin, hoisting it off its stand.
Anger stood frozen.
“Back—get back!” Lord Arthur Vinter’s was drowned in the sounds of panic.
Countless iron thorns, barbed and vicious, burst outward from inside the coffin lid, splintering wood everywhere.
Immediately after, a grotesquely lush cluster of black rosebuds madly forced their way through the breach. They bloomed at a visible pace, petals gleaming with a dark crimson sheen.
And at the center of this black rose cluster, the largest bloom cradled a faintly pulsing heart—now slowly withering.
It was the heart of Lady Vinter.
As rose petals fell, Anger caught the scent of the foreverwithered white roses from the windowsill of his childhood bedroom.
With each beat, the heart released a ripple of soundwaves. Anger saw a weeping woman, heard countless inhuman whispers, and a child’s scream—his own sevenyearold self.
“Inspector… Inspector!” Hendrick wasn’t sure how many times he had called out. He whispered, watching Anger sway unsteadily.
Then—the roseheart contracted one last time violently.
All ten chains pulled taut at once.
The heart exploded.
A storm of rose petals—each petal reflecting a memory of Anger’s own.
As the final petal drifted down, the vision shattered abruptly.
Anger staggered backward. His sight returned to normal, but the church was in chaos: the priest crossing himself, a noblewoman fainted, the Viscount kneeling beside the coffin, shoulders trembling violently.
One of the supporting pillars beneath the bier had snapped, dropping the coffin squarely onto the stone floor.
Everyone had seen it.
The pall was pushed up from inside, forming sharp, pointed outlines.
The silverembroidered Vinter crest strained and twisted.
The fabric tore—one, two, three deepblack spines pierced through, extending and branching in an orderly manner, weaving a sinister pattern across the coffin lid.
The outline of a black rose.
“Holy Spirit, protect us—” An elderly priest in the front row trembled as he made the sign of the cross, the candlestick shaking in his hand.
The rose outline grew clearer.
“Back!” Lord Arthur’s voice was hoarse, almost. “Everyone, get back! Valentine—”
The butler, Valentine, had already positioned himself before the Viscount, but the commotion had already begun.
Servants at the rear pushed toward the doors; a lady collapsed onto a pew, her skirts sweeping over a prayer stool.
The chaotic footsteps and cries stretched the solemn funeral toward the edge of panic.
Anger moved with the crowd toward a side door—but just as he crossed the threshold, the inner side door of the church swung open.
******
Bishop Morris appeared, using the Veil of Hush to suppress the anomaly.
Several parish friars in deep gray robes hurried in, followed by Bishop Morris himself, who held something in his hands. All those trying to leave were blocked by the friars.
Bishop Morris stepped onto the dais and stopped. He did not look at the slowly pulsating black rose on the coffin.
“May God protect this place,” the Bishop began. “What you have witnessed today is not meant for your eyes.”
He raised his left hand, long fingernails brushing the edge of the graywhite fabric he held.
Finally, he lifted the veil—the gauze unfolded in his hands, its edges beginning to glow faintly with runes.
“The Law grants authority to protect the purity of your souls. What should not be remembered, should not be known, should not be spoken of… shall return to silence.”
He raised the Veil of Hush before his face, then slowly draped it over himself.
“All who witnessed the anomaly—your memories shall be stripped.”
Anger saw it. He saw grey mist spill from the veil.
The mist drifted over the first person’s ankles, climbed upward. The moment it touched his calf, the man stiffened, eyes widening—then his expression relaxed, his gaze turned vacant, his mouth unconsciously slack.
He forgot.
Anger saw it with perfect clarity. The merchant looked down at his trousers dusted with grey mist, frowned, then glanced around in confusion. He was puzzled—why was he standing here?
The grey tendrils of mist continued their languid drift.
Where they reached, expressions in the crowd froze like a chain of falling dominos. Panic faded, fear dissolved, and a profound blankness drowned out every sound.
A priest dropped his prayer book but only stared blankly at it, as if he could not recall why he had been holding it.
******
The moment the silver mist touched Anger’s body, the church interior faded. In its place appeared the corridor of his old, abandoned family estate in the North—the night he was seven.
Where the wallpaper peeled, a drawing of three moons was revealed, sketched in charcoal by a child.
At the end of the corridor stood Lady Elizabeth Vinter—but her face kept shifting. It morphed into the pale, beautiful porcelain face of a doll, then finally settled into the last tender smile of Anger’s mother before her mind broke.
Three faces blurred before Anger, leaving a dark shadow that whispered:
“They planted rose seeds in my heart. Now they are looking for you,”
“Bethany blood was never a blessing. It is a map—marking the path to the cage.”
“Your eyes changed that day. You see the chains because you are bound by them too.”
Second Vision?
Anger observed the crowd. Aside from the church staff, everyone stood with hands hanging limp, eyes unfocused. He mimicked them, but the notebook in his pocket grew restless again.
Anger stood still, staring vacantly ahead, but his mind raced: What is the Church hiding? What is that veil? Why does Bishop Morris have it—and where did it come from? What were those visions trying to say?
Finally, the Bishop signaled the friars to restore order to the lady’s coffin and instructed everyone to leave in an orderly manner.
Only when they were well away from the church did Anger straighten his coat and approach Hendrick, gently shaking his shoulder.
“Wake up, partner. Time to go.”
Hendrick blinked, dazed, rubbing his temples. “What… what happened to me?”
“The air in the church was too stuffy. You fainted for a bit,” Anger replied calmly. “The funeral is over.”
“Over…” Hendrick glanced back at the church entrance. The coffin was still there, the pall intact. “Oh… right. It’s over. May Lady Vinter rest in peace.”
“Let’s go. Reports won’t write themselves.”
Anger took one last look back.
Hendrick breathed the outside air and seemed to revive. “Straight back to the station?”
“No,” Anger said, reaching into his inner coat pocket. “First, we find a florist Lady Vinter frequented—one with plenty of roses. Let’s ask around there.”
"Florist?"
The last line of the suicide note replayed in his mind: “When you step onto the New World, please send me my favorite flowers.”
He looked up at the foggy sky. My sister… my mother… These visions must be connected to the Viscount. I just don’t see how yet.
“We need to find out if the Viscount has any plans to travel to the New World soon,” Anger murmured to himself.
As they passed a flower shop, Hendrick instinctively went inside to inquire. Anger took out his journal.
Two new lines had appeared on the page:
【No body in the coffin. The rose devours the heart.】
Below it, a sketch of a coffin and a rose. And beneath that, only text:
【Veil of Hush—Authority of the Law.】
So the “Veil of Hush” is a privileged secret of the Church. Why was Morris there? Planned or coincidental?
Old Morgan always said the name “Bethany” was illomened. I never looked into it deeply… seems it’s time I did. And I need to visit that professor mentioned in the journal.