"According to the rules," her face was somewhat pale, "you may ask one question."

  "Who crafted the ring?"

  The woman looked towards the old man. The old man drew from his breast pocket a palmsized notebook bound in human skin. Anger recognized the texture immediately — his colleague, the coroner Watson, fiddled with similar materials often enough.

  "The Covenant Ring," the old man recited. "Craftsman: A descendant of the Night Watchers. The specific name is lost to time. Time of creation: Early Edict Era, approximately fifteen hundred years ago."

  "Night Watchers..." Anger frowned. Wasn't this precisely what Lady Vinter had written about? The shadow Professor Croft had warned of? "What is the connection between the Order of the Taciturn and the Night Watchers?"

  "That is not for me to divulge. That would be your second question." She glanced at the scales. "Now, the first round is concluded. Do you wish to continue?"

  Anger did not answer immediately. His mind raced. The answer was far too vague. To press for more, he guessed, would be impossible — they had said they would only tell what they knew, a part of it. The whole truth, Anger simply couldn't afford.

  "I continue. But I demand a change of opponent." Anger's eyes had caught the gold coin constantly flipping in the old man's hand. "I wish to play a round with this gentleman."

  The woman raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Are you certain? His collection of pains is far more... extensive than mine."

  A glint of appreciation flashed in the old man's eyes. "Good eye." He pressed the coin onto the table. Fully exposed in the lamplight, its obverse showed the relief of a weeping infant; its reverse, a line of twisted script Anger couldn't decipher.

  "This is a Mourning Infant Coin. Cast from the first tear crystallized at the stillborn's first cry — a cry that never left the lungs. It took me forty years to collect seventeen. This one is the most special... from a pair of twins. Their mother died of blood loss. Neither child survived."

  The old man placed the coin on the left tray, replacing the woman's parchment.

  The tray did not sink immediately. Instead, it hovered, eerily suspended. The surface of the coin began to exude a clear liquid, drop by drop falling onto the boneplate, yet leaving not a single trace.

  "This is my wager."

  Anger watched the liquid. To his eyes, it swirled with red mistthreads, within which the faint, entangled outlines of two fetuses were barely visible.

  "Your turn, Mr. ," the woman reminded. "Since you've changed opponents, the scales' rules reset. You must wager a new item. You cannot reuse the paper scrap."

  "Fine." Casually, Anger thrust his hand into his pocket, reaching for the items collected from the Sunken Bell Priory. If the ring was viable, perhaps others were too.

  Scraps of cloth, a pin, a leaf, a whistle, a lens, a quill, a disc, paper, pebbles... Finally, a small, shriveled clump of petals. It seemed the most insignificant thing. But he had seen its peculiarity: an utter absence of colour. Every other item held some hue to his sight, but these petals, even then, had shown none. Partly, he wanted to use these scales to glimpse their secret.

  He held the petal clump.

  "A bunch of flowers, my boy? Have you mistaken this for a botanical exchange? Your 'blossom' appears to be merely nature taking its melancholic course." The woman and the bald man seemed equally perplexed, and equally unimpressed with Anger's choice.

  Anger offered no explanation. He merely placed the petal clump gently on the right tray.

  The scales showed no reaction.

  The Mourning Infant Coin on the left continued to weep its transparent tears.

  "See? The scales don't acknowledge—" Her words were cut short.

  The scales began to rotate. By themselves. Faster and faster. The draft they whipped up caused the wall sconces to gutter wildly.

  The surface of the old man's coin began to change. The tears no longer fell vertically but were flung outward, forming shimmering droplets. Within each droplet, a faceless infant's visage swirled into being.

  "This is impossible," the old man murmured.

  The woman stood. "The scales are refusing to weigh."

  The rotation continued, showing no sign of stopping.

  "Stop!" the old man shouted. "I... I forfeit!"

  Anger reached to retrieve the petals, but he had no idea how to halt the unfolding phenomenon.

  The old man snatched up a nearby chair and hurled it at the scales. The violent impact jarred everything back to stillness.

  "I forfeit," the old man repeated, collapsing into his seat. "Take that thing away."

  Seeing the old man barely able to stand, the woman carefully plucked the petal clump from the tray and handed it back to Anger.

  "What is this?" The old man's eyes were full of dread. "Tell me, where did you obtain this... thing?"

  Returning the petals to his evidence bag, Anger answered, "The priory cellar."

  "Ah... So that's it. They were performing a rite. A failed one. But its backlash... is not something mortals can bear." He looked utterly defeated. "My Mourning Infant Coin... lost. What did you see, precisely?"

  "I'm afraid I cannot say."

  The woman finally regarded Anger with genuine curiosity. "You've won the second round. Now you may ask your second question, or demand something else as your prize."

  "I'm looking for a die. A killer here carries one. Do others like it exist?"

  "A die? I regret I have no relevant information on that," the woman stated flatly. A pure, unadulterated lie. She clearly had no intention of revealing anything about the killer's die. After all, even the doorman at the veterinary hospital had mentioned dice to Anger — how could she be completely ignorant?

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

  "Then I'll change the question. What is the relationship between this underground den and the Bellatus family?"

  "Oh?" The woman smiled, a playing, feline expression. "It seems you know a fair bit. The Bellatus family... acquires certain things from the BoneBird. You understand. But their specific purposes... that I cannot elaborate further. However, in light of your... unique petals, I'll gift you a clue for free. A new objet d'art is in vogue among the uppercrust salons lately — a mirror, it's said, that shows amusing things. Your little petal relic might share some... ancestry with that sort of thing. Go and see."

  "And the third round?"

  ******

  I'm done. Know when to quit.

  A smart gambler knows when to fold. The house always wins in the end. If he could walk away with a few solid leads now, that was enough. Getting too deep into their game meant stepping into quicksand; by the time you realized you needed out, it'd be too late to struggle free.

  "So the transaction is concluded?" The woman seemed surprised by his abrupt decision to stop. An unexpected turn.

  "Sir," she said, not rising from her seat, "the BoneBird's tables welcome only two kinds of guests. Winners may leave with their spoils and their answers. For losers and those who withdraw prematurely... the game collects a departure fee."

  A departure fee. Right, someone had mentioned that. Leave behind something you brought with you.

  "It seems you recall the rules. Rules are rules. The Scales' Judgment may be over, but you have not yet crossed that threshold. To withdraw now, with the third round undecided, still counts as a premature exit."

  The bald bruiser merely crossed his arms over his chest, not blocking the door. The old man remained slumped on the floor.

  "Of the things on my person, beyond a few trifles, I suppose this ring holds the most value."

  So, the moment you stepped aboard, something had to be given. This was the preordained ending from the start. Most simply deluded themselves into believing they could win more.

  Anger touched the ring on his finger. It was already exposed, and the trouble it would bring was likely considerable. "Let's make a trade."

  "Speak."

  "I can leave the ring. But as an exchange, I want two things."

  "First: precise information about this salon."

  "Second: safe passage off this ship for me, and a proper introduction that will get me through that salon's door. Knowing the location isn't enough. I need a key."

  The woman paused, considering his proposal. "We do have an interest in its provenance. It touches upon certain ancient covenants, matters of importance to... friends in the shadows. But what you ask is no small price."

  "The ring's value is higher," Anger countered, certain this object was far more than it seemed.

  After a long moment, the woman finally acquiesced. "This is a temporary guest token for the Reflections Salon. The Bellatus family is indeed involved behind the scenes. Wear this, and the doorman will let you in. Once."

  She gave a slight nod to the bald man. "He will see you out through the cargo hold passage."

  The bald man didn't move. Only when Anger removed the ring and placed it on the table did the bruiser walk to the booth's door and gesture for him to follow.

  "Good luck at the Reflections Salon," the woman said. "A final piece of advice, gratis: mirrors often reflect far more than one bargains for."

  Anger offered no further words. He turned and followed the bald man out of the booth. The man who had originally escorted him in remained inside, not following.

  Board the tender. Anger, alone now with a single deckhand, left the immense bulk of the BoneBird's freighter behind.

  ******

  Disembarking the tender, his ring was gone, exchanged for an entry pass and a head full of tangled suspicions. He needed to get back to Central. Hendrick and Professor Croft might have new leads on the Bellatus family.

  “Inspector Hastings! Inspector Hastings!”

  Just as he was about to hail a cab at a street corner, young Constable Perkins rushed up to him, face flushed with a mix of excitement and palpable tension.

  “Inspector Fellows says you must come. Immediately.” Perkins grabbed Anger’s arm. “Another one. In an alley. And there’s… something else.”

  Anger shook off Perkins’s grip. He asked no questions. “Lead on.”

  “What did Fellows say?”

  “Only to find ‘that Inspector from Central’.”

  By the time they reached the mouth of the crime scene alley, it was already the next day. Fellows had called in favours; they were, after all, locals who knew the ground, and had managed to learn that Anger had boarded a ship. What he did there remained unknown, but posting Perkins to wait had been the right move.

  Fellows had two constables blocking the alley entrance, allowing no one in. The body hadn’t been touched. He’d been nearby the whole time but had found no leads.

  When Anger saw the body, even he was shocked. Fatal wound to the neck. Abdomen sliced open. Uterus excised. The methodology far exceeded the brutality of the Martha Tabram case.

  But that wasn’t what held his full attention.

  Hovering in the air, about a metre and a half above the corpse, was the phantom image of a brass set of scales.

  The Scales of Agony. To have just seen the real thing at the BoneBird’s den, and now to encounter this… the coincidence was too pointed. It had to be connected to the Bellatus family or the BoneBird itself. But to solve the puzzle, he needed evidence.

  A faint, shimmering aura outlined the scales. The central beam was tilted. The two pans hung empty, slowly rising and falling out of sync.

  Anger saw countless golden chains from the void, wrapping around the corpse’s throat and heart, their other ends vanishing into the phantom scales.

  Within the apparition, a crimson mist seemed to weep from beneath the scales, dripping onto the body’s wounds. Gold and red alternated. If Carter and the others could see this… what an unbelievable sight it would be.

  “You see it?” Carter approached the body.

  “I see it. How long?”

  “Since I entered yesterday. Hasn’t changed.” Carter finally admitted the obvious. “This isn’t normal. This… wasn’t done by a man, Inspector Hastings.”

  Anger crouched to examine the body. He avoided the spot directly under the scales; the temperature there was frightfully low.

  The method indicated extreme professionalism. The perpetrator was either a killer, or someone with surgical knowledge or butchery experience. And he couldn’t yet confirm it was the BoneBird killer. He couldn’t voice these leads, lest he misdirect Carter and his men.

  It was a lesson from years on the force: introduce a preconceived theory too early, and you risk filtering out crucial information. There was no clear profile yet.

  In the filthy water beside the body were tiny, reflective particles. Carefully, he used tweezers to place a few in his palm.

  “I’ll need samples,” Anger showed Carter the metallic grains. “And a news blackout. Every officer who’s seen this scene is under a gag order.”

  Carter stared at him. “Already done. But a few have seen it. An anomaly this… blatant… the Parish will use ‘cleansing heresy’ as an excuse to swoop in.”

  “They’ll come. But before they do, we need to know what we’re dealing with. If we want to solve this, we have to find the clues first.”

  Anger understood the Church. At the faintest whiff of the unorthodox, they descended. Past cases that defied explanation were always, mysteriously, closed. Though he’d eventually been labelled an ‘Anomaly Investigator’, it was always with the Church’s tacit approval. Looking back now, so many of those old cases weren’t solved; they were buried. Especially since the Church possessed means to… alter memories. Had his own been tampered with before?

  Suddenly, the phantom scales shuddered violently. The two constables at the alley mouth let out suppressed gasps.

  Anger and Carter both saw the scales’ glow flicker—bright, then dim. The two pans began to buck and jitter wildly.

  Anger clearly saw the golden chains and crimson mist churn together frenziedly, forming a brief vortex of energy. At its centre, a burst, and a whisper forced itself into his mind:

  …Not enough…

  …Interest…

  …Double…

  …Need more…

  …Names…

  …Give me names…

  Hmm. ‘Interest’. The same term the dying Northlands veteran had used. But here, coupled with ‘names’… These Scales of Agony were different.

  Carter’s expression finally relaxed. “Gone. It’s vanished.”

  Perkins peeked in. “Inspector! Black robes. At the end of the street.”

  Carter and Anger exchanged a look.

  “The Parish. I’ll handle them. You go.” Carter quickly assessed the stakes. For a normal case, he’d let the Church do as it pleased. But with Whitechapel… the more of these cases piled up, the worse it was for him. Better to place his bets on Hastings, who had his own case and hadn’t yet dug too deep into Whitechapel’s secrets. With anyone else, it would be harder. He decided to back the Inspector from Central.

  Anger placed the metal particles into an evidence bag, gathering what useful items he could.