West Coast,
Devonshire, 
Dartmoor, St George,
November 3, 1898, 8:10 p.m.

The musty smell of the carriage, mixed with sweat and a hint of bog on their footwear made the walls of his patience thin. The long journey was sapping his strength and the event in the forest was wearing on his nerves. It was a feeling of ambivalence. His instinct screamed that it was better to turn around and run away. But at the same time, there was this strange excitement. The curiosity drove one on and a sense of duty towards those who were even less equal to the things that might be going on here. It was a puzzle to be solved and Kyle loved mind games. He enjoyed it when his mind hit corners and had to seek new paths. But he was most exhilarated when he found the solution at the end. It was a great feeling to be smarter than the others in the room. And there was so much more at stake here than just an assignment. That was another reason why restlessness fluttered invisibly to his fingertips.

At some point, Kyle leaned his head against the carriage wall. He listened to the sounds outside and his thoughts. Numerous minutes flowed by, then the darkness around them cleared. The mist no longer bumped up against countless rows of trees or dense patches of reeds and marsh grass. Instead, it poured onto flat rolling hills and the forest finally released the clattering vehicle and its occupants from its clutches. Here the veil no longer hung so high and Kyle would have loved to jump up from the uncomfortable bench, exulting, because light shining from windows, smoke from chimneys and the silhouette of the small village finally came into view.

The carriage bumped along the path, with piles of earth piled up at its sides. Rectangular lumps of poked-out peat sod leaned against posts there, and the mist tumbled as a white-silk waterfall into the road-wide ditches from which the blocks had been lifted. In the little light and blurred by the veil of mist, it almost looked as if the flat fields were littered with graves.

The flat pastureland and drainage ditches remained behind them. The coachman slowed his pace as the first houses passed them. The homesteads were scattered around the village and a good distance apart. Flattened paths and small avenues led past wooden pasture fences and half-high, partly collapsed walls. Overgrown with lichen and moss, the border guards looked as if they had been carelessly splashed with paint. Next to them lined up the small cottages covered with reeds and thatch. Most of them were brightly whitewashed with rounded roofs.

It was a typical small peasant village, not particularly large and inhabited by a manageable community. A well-trodden path, which could hardly have been called the main road, ran through the tiny settlement and turned into a few side streets leading to backyards, back entrances, or gardens. Many of the shutters were closed and in some, even the lights were already extinguished.

They're already folding up the pavements here at eight, Kyle thought contemptuously and sat up a little straighter on the carriage bench. For someone like him, who came from London and thus the ceaselessly throbbing heart of the Empire, this was more than unusual. The person sitting next to him glanced at him. He hid the small flame of amusement at Kyle's behavior, which at that moment reminded him of a dog staring out of the window, too quickly for anyone to notice.

The cart rattled noisily through the muddy, unpaved streets. The clattering only dissipated in the silence of the village at night until they reached the square. A young woman in an apron was shooing an old woman away in a harsh tone. Her gaze seemed to linger only briefly on the carriage, then she went on her way and turned into one of the side paths. The carriage made a half turn around the small fountain in the tiny market square and finally stopped in front of the building in front of which the old woman had just been driven away. The large, ornately curved letters "SKIRRID INN" on the façade above the entrance door immediately announced to everyone that this was the inn. At last, he would get out of that dreadful box!

"Thank heavens!" One could hardly blink as fast as Kyle was about to leap out of the quickly opened carriage door.

Instantly, fresh country air wafted around his nose. The typical peaty smell of wet earth and gathering rain replaced the mustiness of the carriage. Scents of grasses and bogs drifted up to here, the ground was comparatively soft but fortunately no longer as muddy as in the forest. From inside the inn sounded the noise of conviviality. Laughter and the clinking of glasses came from the door of the tavern.

Suddenly, conspicuously hurried footsteps approached from his right. Just as he was about to turn his head, someone already reached for his hand and shook it with a firm grip. The left one at that. Immediately the mage stiffened. He hated it when people just touched him and even more when they dared to grab his hands without being asked.

"Welcome to St. George! We've been eagerly awaiting you!" a busy voice rang out and Kyle's features turned to uncomprehending irritation. He just barely resisted the urge to jerk his hand back. Instead, a blank expression stood on his features as he faced an elderly gentleman. His clothes were exactly what Kyle had expected from a resident of such a backwoods backwater: knee breeches with high stockings, a dark green cutaway, and a brown velvet waistcoat with a red scarf. On his head rested a tall hat with a few silly green and blue feathers that bobbed at his exuberant head nod. Kyle's fashion sense writhed sufferingly like a dying animal at the sight. Traditional dress.

"We're very glad you could come so quickly, Father." the man continued and then paused. His gaze slid over Kyle's face, flitted over the fine clothing, lingered a little longer than necessary on the walking stick with the silver pommel, and then climbed back up him to linger on his collar with the silk scarf. Clearly, he was not finding what he was looking for. Kyle could see the moment of realization in the latter's eyes before the other man released his hand as quickly as he had taken it.

"He's not the new Father." sounded dryly behind Kyle, and he realized that Dr. Archer had exited. "This gentleman here is," he added, pointing over his shoulder at the man who was the last to climb out of the carriage.

"Oh. I beg your pardon." The kindness fell from the man's features. It didn't fade entirely, but Kyle could swear he heard the clink as it hit the floor and the oh-so-fine china of decorum took a deep crack. The gentleman let a glance sweep over him and now there was a far less friendly, let alone respectful, attitude in it. Still, Kyle wasn't sure if it was instant dislike or plain skepticism.

"I am Mister Joseph Mosten, the Mayor of St George." With each word of the sentence, his chin slid up a little more. The man stretched his back through and stretched his thin neck up from his collar like a turtle as if to add importance to his figure. He wore slight shadows under his eyes and his features looked hardened. "And you are?" he asked then, leaving no room for misunderstanding that strangers were by all accounts not really welcome here.

Kyle tried to be indulgent. Maybe the man was counting on some colporteurs and no one liked the vultures of the press. Somewhere nearby, a shutter slammed audibly. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an elderly lady wrinkling her nose not far away in another lit window and then quickly drawing the curtains. The gentleman stared impatiently at Kyle's features.

His lips twisted into an expressionless line. Some people were nobody important and yet possessed such charisma and effect on others that one felt carried away by their words. Others, on the other hand, possessed a position of power that they had rarely earned and enjoyed looking down on others and thinking they were better than others. It was not difficult to see which kind this gentleman belonged to.

The curved corners of the seeker's mouth dropped briefly, obviously testifying for that moment to the displeasure the ill-concealed rudeness aroused in him. He did not like this man. He had simply decided that the way one looked at a jacket and just knew from the first moment that it looked hideous no matter what one wore with it. Then the corners of Kyle's mouth slid up again and formed a smile. It was so fake that no spark in it could have stoked the fire, and it didn't even begin to reach his eyes.

"Kyle Crowford." he then pointed to the gentleman next to him "And this is Mr. Archer."Kyle obviously didn't elaborate on the appeal or the reason for their presence. It wasn't so much that Kyle would have wanted to keep anything secret, but simply the principle.

The man nodded as if he had to authenticate the statement officially. The large feathers bobbed as he did so, then the Father joined the small group. Behind them, the coachman cursed like a sailor as he unloaded the numerous pieces of luggage.

"Father. Welcome to St. George." the sheriff repeated, this time addressing the proper one. His tone was distinctly more friendly and polite. This time it was the Father who reached out and grasped the Mayor's hands as if they had known each other for many years.

"Thank you, my son. I am glad to be here." the new village priest replied. He sounded genuinely relieved at this.

"We are very grateful that you are here. I will personally escort you to our chapel and show you the rectory," Mayor Mosten explained before turning his gaze back to the other two guests. "May I ask for what reason gentlemen like you come to our humble parish?" he asked a little more dashingly.

"You are here at my request!" another rushed voice now interfered. It belonged to a figure who came hurriedly out of the tavern and ran to the little group. The breathless gentleman wore a knee-length coat of thick black wool with prominent silver letters and numbers on the collar. From his wide belt of dark leather, dangled a police truncheon and although he did not wear the significant helmet of a policeman, he was instantly recognizable even without the thing. He was around 40 years old and had served as a lad under Lord Sunderbrandy, as he had reported to them in London, in the 2nd Anglo-Afghan War. Now the man with the slightly crooked nose and the bushy mustache glanced briefly at the guests. Honest relief glowed in his eyes at the arrival of the two gentlemen.

"They are acquaintances of a very good friend of mine. And my guests," the constable continued, and now the mayor frowned. Apparently, he suspected what the reason for the new visitors might be. He gave a low, thoughtful hum, then nodded.

"Well. I'll escort the Father to his house. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Come with your guests to my office afternoon."

"Of course Joseph, as you wish." the constable said and Kyle could see the mayor's lips quirk in disapproval for a moment. This was a small village, everyone knew everyone and in the middle of nowhere, titles were far less weighty. Even that of a mayor. But it seemed that the gentleman would have liked to maintain his authority in front of the newcomers. Instead, the priest took his leave, shaking hands with the doctor and Kyle and explaining that he hoped to see them again soon in the chapel. Then the two departed at a sauntering pace.

"Excuse me, please. People are a little tense at the moment." the police officer explained afterward. "I'm Constable Henry Baltimore."

He shook hands politely with both gentlemen. Then his fingers slid through his dark brown curly hair, visibly tense. "You must be exhausted from your long journey." he continued indulgently, gesturing towards the inn. "Please, come. It is warmer in the inn and you can arrive first." glancing at the luggage the gentlemen had with them. 

"I'll help you with the luggage." The pile was considerable: a large and a smaller traveling suitcase, a traveling bag, a leather briefcase, and a doctor's bag."

There are also two rooms already prepared for you. We will have another opportunity to talk at length tomorrow." he elaborated and Dr. Archer nodded in agreement while Kyle tipped the poor coachman a little more for his trouble. Then they followed the constable to the inn.