From the Journal of Atticus Holden
"There is a peculiar moment in every investigation when the case stops belonging solely to the victim. A name appears. A memory resurfaces. A door that should have remained closed is found standing slightly ajar. In my first case, that name was my own. I wish I could say I walked through that door willingly."
HOLDEN
The word remained black against the cover of the laboratory manual.
Atticus stared at it.
Tulbe stood beside the ceramic crucible, unusually silent.
Lyra was the first to move.
She stepped between Atticus and the table.
"Don't touch it."
"I wasn't going to."
"You reached for a vial of murderous ash ten minutes ago."
"I was going to move the stand."
"With your hand."
"Yes."
"No."
Atticus looked at her.
"We've had this conversation."
"And apparently it requires repetition."
Tulbe raised one finger.
"For scientific accuracy, the ash has not technically murdered anyone."
Lyra turned.
Tulbe lowered his finger.
"Yet."
Atticus crouched beside the table without touching the book.
The letters were uneven.
Not written with ink.
Individual particles of ash had somehow escaped the sealed crucible and arranged themselves across the cover.
He removed his notebook.
Observation #6
The ash recognizes—or reacts to—the name Holden.
He stopped.
Then added:
Do not assume it means me.
Lyra read over his shoulder.
"You think it meant your father."
"I think assumptions are dangerous."
"That wasn't my question."
Atticus closed the notebook.
"No."
A pause.
"I think it may have meant my father."
Tulbe looked toward him.
"You said Tomas knew Elias."
"Mrs. Alder said the entire neighborhood did."
"That doesn't mean much," Lyra said. "Your father was an investigator."
"Exactly."
Atticus stood.
"If Elias investigated something involving Tomas, there should be a record."
Tulbe looked toward the crucible.
Tick.
All three froze.
The ash struck once.
Then fell silent.
Tulbe slowly placed another book on top of the first.
"Additional science."
They left Laboratory Three under guard.
Tulbe objected to leaving the ash.
Lyra objected to Tulbe remaining with it.
Lyra won.
The three of them crossed the Grand Hall together.
Atticus walked ahead.
Too quickly.
He knew it.
So did Lyra.
She caught up without effort.
"You're angry."
"I'm walking."
"Angrily."
"I wasn't aware walking possessed an emotional classification."
"Yours does."
Tulbe hurried behind them.
"His left foot is landing harder."
Atticus looked back.
"Why are you studying my feet?"
"I study everything."
"That is deeply unsettling."
"Thank you."
They reached the eastern archive.
Atticus stopped before the doors.
Locked.
A brass plaque read:
ARCHIVAL RECORDS
AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY
Atticus removed his temporary badge.
The lock remained closed.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Tulbe leaned closer.
"Have you considered that the door doesn't like you?"
"Frequently."
Lyra folded her arms.
"Who has access?"
"Senior investigators. Archivists."
"And Dewey."
Atticus looked toward the upper floors.
"And Dewey."
Inspector Tierney was still in his office.
He looked up as the three entered.
His gaze moved from Lyra's expression...
to Tulbe's soot-covered coat...
to Atticus.
Then to the faint silver scorch mark on Atticus's sleeve.
Dewey set down his pen.
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"You used magic."
Atticus stopped.
Lyra looked at him.
Tulbe whispered, "Well, that was fast."
Atticus closed the door.
"You knew I carried a wand."
"I know many things."
"That isn't an answer."
"No."
Dewey leaned back.
"It isn't."
Atticus placed his notebook on the desk.
He opened it to the latest observation.
Dewey read the words.
His expression did not change.
That was the problem.
Atticus knew Dewey.
He knew the slight lift of an eyebrow when surprised.
The tightening at the corner of his mouth when worried.
The almost invisible narrowing of his eyes when suspicious.
Dewey did none of them.
He simply read.
"You aren't surprised," Atticus said.
Lyra looked sharply toward the Lord Investigator.
Tulbe stopped smiling.
Dewey closed the notebook.
"No."
The room became very quiet.
Atticus felt something inside him sink.
"What was my father investigating?"
Dewey stood.
"Atticus—"
"What was Elias investigating?"
Dewey crossed to the window.
Rain streaked the glass.
For several seconds, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on his mantel.
"Your father investigated hundreds of cases."
"Tomas Vale."
The clock continued ticking.
Dewey said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Atticus stepped closer.
"You knew."
"I knew they had met."
"That isn't what I asked."
"No."
Dewey turned.
His face looked older than it had that morning.
"I knew Tomas Vale was connected to one of your father's investigations."
Tulbe glanced at Lyra.
Neither interrupted.
Atticus's voice became quieter.
"Which investigation?"
Dewey walked toward the nearly empty shelf.
The shelf holding Elias's journal.
He did not pick it up.
Instead, he reached behind it.
There was a soft click.
A hidden compartment opened.
Inside rested a black case file.
Dust covered its edges.
A broken crescent had been stamped into the leather.
Around it...
Seven stars.
Atticus stopped breathing.
Lyra whispered, "The fragment."
Dewey placed the file on his desk.
Atticus reached toward it.
Dewey put one hand over the cover.
"No."
Atticus stared at him.
"No?"
"This case was sealed."
"By whom?"
"The Grand Hall."
"Why?"
Dewey's jaw tightened.
"Because your father asked us to."
That hurt more than Atticus expected.
"My father?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Atticus laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to decide for yourself what you believe."
Dewey removed his hand.
Atticus opened the file.
The first page contained only a case number.
No title.
No victim.
No official summary.
The second page held a list of names.
Most had been crossed out.
One had not.
Tomas Vale.
Atticus turned the page.
Empty.
Another.
Empty.
Someone had removed the investigation.
Not closed it.
Removed it.
Near the back, one final sheet remained.
A note.
Written by hand.
Atticus knew the handwriting immediately.
His father's.
Three words.
DO NOT SING.
Tulbe stopped breathing.
Lyra looked toward Atticus.
Dewey closed his eyes.
And somewhere far below them...
from the direction of Laboratory Three...
a music box began to play.
Journal Addendum
"My father taught me that a sealed door was not necessarily hiding a secret. Sometimes it was protecting you from one. At twenty-three, I considered this an argument for opening doors. Age has made me wiser. Unfortunately, wisdom usually arrives after the door has already been opened."