Alive At Crepusculum ✓ [TPL Book One]

XIII

Weeks later, and now May was coming to an end. A new organization sprung up, inspired or not by the Red Circle, they called themselves the 'Gold Circle'. Individuals who whispered, 'rum is gold' as a secret password, were spotted gathering behind rum houses up north in Aimland for a few days and grumbling that there was not enough rum. But no one shared their sentiments. Not even the alcohol-loving Montgomerians deep down south.

Despite being a bit of an abyss of a southern state, Montgomery was sneakily divided. The northern half, especially along the coastal town of Bayland, was strangely progressive, but the southern bit was proslavery. Once one headed into the corn fields and sugar plantations, they would find themselves in Sawyer. Between coastal and field, was the grassy outskirts of Bayland called Bayland Cusp. Within a cozy community of just ten progressive little families sat an ancient cottage overlooking the ocean.

Connie House, with it's thatched roof and stone walls, might be reminiscent of an Evrenland-type architecture. In fact, Patrick O'Conner, the founder, was from Evrenland. The inn dated back a hundred years, surviving a couple onsets of wars. It was here that Anastasia Nikolaeva found work cleaning and sometimes singing in Roktion for the travelers or local patrons.

"Ah Vy, Seni, Moi Seni" was a popular song for visitors. It was about a girl in love with a young brewer that her father forbade her to be with. Upbeat, it put a smile on people's face. Such a contrast to working as a slave where not a single word of Roktion had been allowed. Here it wasn't only welcomed but encouraged. People loved Anastasia. Her long black hair, fierce eyes, and snow-white skin. A rarity and beautiful she was among the tanned fishers or farmers of Bayland Cusp.

Day in and day out she cleaned or sang. She borrowed an empty room to sleep in. She cooked her meals. But most of all she waited. When Anastasia arrived here, there was no news of the Florence or when it would come. After saying goodbye to Allen and Owen, she had found a newer newspaper with a column on the Florence. It was advertised as a ship for slave trade, but Anastasia knew there was something more.

She had gotten the help of a nosey gossiper, but kind old woman called Mary Smith. She was a fisher's wife, but her fish was gossip, rumors, and news from the north where her sons worked.

One day she came to Connie House after closing hours as usual, but with a cheeky grin upon her wrinkled face. "The Heather Hero, have you heard? Ani, come here my dear, you must hear this."

"Is it good news?"

"Mallord Beagle!" Mary declared and slapped a newspaper on the table. It was a copy of the Westerfield Gazette from a few weeks ago. Headlines about the Heather Hero filled the front page.

Mary went on. "Bandits swarmed the little café in Old Quarrie State and killed all of the people that were standing. The sitting ones, some of them got down to save themselves, but it was looking very grim indeed! It was looking like a warzone with all the bodies on the floor, and tables and chairs crushed! The bodies were so bloody you couldn't tell apart man from woman. Can you just imagine?" Her voice rose and she flapped her hands. "And you know who swooped in to save them? None other than the Great Detective Mallord Beagle. Oh," She gave a giddy smile, "his wife must be so lucky to have such a heroic, handsome man as a husband."

Anastasia was transfixed to the article. She repeated the name over and over in her head, making sure it was the right one and that she wasn't dreaming. After all this time, she had finally found him, and he would help her find her husband.

"Kostya," she whispered, clasping her hands. "I need to get in touch. A telegraph."

"Pray to the Lord," Mary said, "that old detective's been in hiding for decades."