Torhan climbs the stairs and enters the floor-filling chamber above. The scent grows stronger in the studio above; hints of flowers, honey, sweat... it is somewhat dizzying. The studio is not neat. Clothes are strewn all over, and the bed is unmade. A large desk takes up the majority of the room, and on it are the paraphernalia of an alchemist--the tubes, bowls, bubbles, burners... They all have names, surely. And yes, there, in the center of the desk, a paper filled with crystal. A lovely, pink crystal, that smells so sweet... And an open journal. What does it say?
* * *
"Something to hide? Off my chest? No sir! I, uh, just came here to see how Ada was. You are one of the officers with her, right? Is she in any trouble?"
The jester cowers by the alley door, his key slipping from his fingers and landing in the dirt.
* * *
Perrin heads off in a flash with the gnomes and driver. Ru and Fr. Berman stand their ground as the mystery carriage turns slightly to face them. The coach is black, unadorned. It looks like it may have been converted from a funerary cart. The driver looks at the two policemen. He is big, larger than most humans, and beefy. He wears a black mask with a long nose--easily a foot long--and a wide-brimmed hat. Whip in hand, he puts a finger against his lips.
* * *
(the journal reads)
Success! There must have always been a point at which life could be simulated. Our blood flows without our will, we do not need to remember to breathe, and all the functions of life do not require our conscious effort. How simple, therefore, to create a fly or a bird? Yet even then, can a bird smile? Can a fly understand its existence? Are these deeper emotions solely the domain of the living? No, for the vampire is a mockery of life, yet can sustain itself on a diet of blood. Blood is where the secret lies, and with the blood, there is life.
Yet still, my other research has shown that the higher emotions are governed by simple, predictable rules. A man wronged becomes angry. His heart races as a lovely woman passes. He enjoys a good day's work, a filling meal... all these are well known. With the inclusion of life, all these can be simulated.
I must repeat that these emotions can be simulated. Anger can be misplaced. Love can be created through seduction. People can fool themselves to be happy, trick themselves into sorrow. A bard can elicit exultation or disgust with a few words.
In all my research there is but one feeling that cannot be simulated. There is one state that cannot be faked, and can only be felt when it is real.
There is truth in pain.
* * *
Darian feels a cool strength. The mists are hiding the sight, muffling the sound of the encounter. Hieran may have been following, but he would have come by now. No, the shape of things is Darian's, and Darian's alone to mold. Even the sounds of the revelry are far away, and even the pop of fireworks cannot be heard... Darian flexes his hand on his whip...
* * *
SNAP! The driver's whip cracks!
Ru and Fr. Berman watch as the horses are lashed to an instant gallop. The carriage starts heading straight for them at top speed. The wheels and hooves clatter against the cobblestones in a staccato. The driver raises his whip again, and...
* * *
SNAP!
Torhan turns quickly, a sudden sound breaking the reverie. What was that? A window... The shuttered window suddenly flew open! Instincts aflare, Torhan quickly notices a small hand disappear from just outside the window.
Just outside the top of the window.
