The Chronicles of Van Deloney-Chapter 24: TRAVERSE THE SEA OF PIRATES

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AT THE PUBLIC library of Luxtonia, buried within the austere architecture of stone and ivy, Charlotte sat demurely upon a carved walnut chair, her countenance partially concealed beneath a modest veil. Across from her, Saevionh—still cloaked in the unassuming demeanor of a gentleman with no claim to title—examined a tome with such deliberate precision that it seemed almost reverent.

The silence between them was broken only by the whisper of parchment and the muffled tick of the grandfather clock above the mantle. A dozen volumes lay open in their midst—some brittle and yellowed, others freshly bound yet no less barren of the truth they sought.

Charlotte closed her book with a quiet sigh, her gloved hand lingering atop the cover.

"It is most disheartening," she said, her tone composed but frayed with fatigue, "that we have devoted the last three months to this pursuit, and yet, of all the chronicles contained within this city, not one yields the faintest trace of Viktor's lineage. It is as though the man never existed."

Saevionh did not immediately respond. His eyes had fixed themselves to a line of text he had already read thrice, and his fingers once again turned back the page—as if some hidden clue might emerge upon the fourth inspection.

"Perhaps," he said at last, with a tone hushed and distant, "the records were not lost, but rather... purposefully erased."

Charlotte raised her gaze, startled by the suggestion.

"Reduced to ash and silence? Then what purpose is there in continuing to sift through these halls of knowledge, if their very memory has been consigned to oblivion?"

Saevionh's gloved hand hovered above the parchment before lowering once more. He re-read the same sentence with almost painful care.

"Because," he murmured, "if I do not read them again, I shall lie awake with the tormenting thought that I overlooked some vital truth. Each page echoes in my mind, Charlotte. Even as I sleep."

He looked at her now, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the veil of his usual composure.

"Order must be restored. I must be certain. Certainty silences the noise. At least... for a while."

Charlotte observed him with growing unease, though she said nothing. She had noticed before the way he would trace the margins of documents more times than necessary, the way his eyes would scan and rescan the same passage with quiet desperation. Now, perhaps, she understood why.

"I do feel the fret within yours, Lady Charlotte, but remain calm," Saevionh intoned gently, the cadence of his voice betraying a calculated effort to anchor himself as much as to soothe her, "for the absence of visible knowledge does not denote the utter loss of all truth. Have you not considered that certain clues may yet be hidden—disguised in art, or language, or allegory?"

As he spoke, he delicately turned a page and presented to her a richly illustrated plate—an image rendered in muted yet vivid hues, a haunting tableau entitled The Dance of the Living and Dead: A Pas de Deux in the Lake of Wine. The depiction was peculiar, unsettling, and strangely compelling. A pair of figures—one cloaked in skeletal bone, the other adorned in regal attire—waltzed upon a mirror-like lake of crimson. Above them, winged masks bore witness from a blood-red sky.

Saevionh's gloved hand did not release the page. He held it there, his fingers pressing lightly against the corners, as though unwilling to trust the book to remain still unless held down.

Charlotte leaned forward, her brow furrowed.

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"Is this not the magnum opus of the painter Alonzo de Calart—executed in the year 1847?" she asked with faint astonishment. Her hand lifted the heavy folio, familiar lines returning to her memory. "I recall this piece well. But why now, Saevionh? We have poured over this library for weeks, and this work has long been known to us."

Saevionh's gaze did not waver.

"Because," he said, "Alonzo de Calart never existed."

He paused for effect, but also because his mind required the moment—to confirm, to reassert the fact against the dozen doubts that clamored in his thoughts.

"It is a pseudonym," he continued at last, with quiet conviction, "employed by none other than Vincent Fritzner Calestinia himself."

Charlotte's lips parted in disbelief.

"Vincent... the patriarch?"

Saevionh gave the faintest nod.

"The name was buried—like so much else in this matter. But the style, the symbolism, the recurring figures... I have seen them too often in his other documented commissions. I have compared them. Repeatedly."

He did not mention that he had spent nearly a fortnight analyzing brushstrokes and signature placement under candlelight, obsessively mapping consistencies between the known and the obscure—until the connection had become undeniable, or rather, until he could not bear the thought of it being false.

Charlotte sat back, shaken by the notion, and observed him in silence. There was a restlessness in him—refined and cloaked in manners, yes—but unmistakable now, as though his very sanity demanded he chase every whisper of a pattern until it rendered truth.

"He is a Calestinia?" Charlotte's expression was one of surprise, as the revelation that she had just come to was rather surprising. "Precisely, his artwork was showcased in the El Daumier-Gaston Gallery, which may be the source of valuable information we require." Saevionh spoke with a certain degree of assurance, while closing the book as they came to a consensus about their next plan of action.

"As of the present moment, the painting remains our most reliable piece of information." Saevionh replied in a matter-of-fact tone, referring to the painting showcased in the book. "However, the place must be sought through overseas." He even added to his statement.

"I guess I should inform the Countess to give us some assistance to go overseas. After that I must inquire from the coordinator, Mister Miller, regarding the chances of us obtaining a private invitation to access the painting in greater detail and to discover any further information that it may provide us." The man spoke with a sense of urgency as he picked up the leader-bound ledger from the table.

In the hushed stillness of the Luxtonia public library, where dust danced gently in the shafts of afternoon light and the scent of old parchment lingered in the air, Charlotte adjusted the veil that concealed her face and glanced toward Saevionh, who stood a few paces away, leafing through the ledger with almost surgical precision.

"And what about myself?" she asked, her voice low yet clear, tinged with apprehension. "Am I to remain a mere shadow in this foreign town while you risk yourself further?" Her fingers tightened faintly around the spine of the book she held, betraying her worry.

Saevionh did not immediately answer. He closed the ledger with a soft thud, aligning it precisely with the edge of the shelf before turning to her. His expression was composed, yet his fingers twitched slightly at his side, as if resisting the urge to adjust the gloves tucked into his coat. "For the present," he said at last, "it would be prudent for you to return to the Grimoard residence. I would never permit a fair lady to roam alone through unfamiliar streets, least of all one who bears a face that might draw unwanted attention."

Charlotte exhaled, brushing a hand through her curls, her brow slightly furrowed. "You say that as if we were not preparing to travel overseas again," she replied with a sigh, stepping closer and pointing a delicate finger to his chest in protest. "Surely, the risks are the same, if not greater."

Saevionh blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then let a faint smile trace his lips—though it did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah," he said softly, "is my Lady implying something rather bold? I daresay if your visage were to be recognized in port or at sea, your freedom would vanish as swiftly as ink upon rain-washed parchment." He spoke with a calm self-assurance, yet one hand moved discreetly to adjust the sleeve of his coat, tugging it into place with practiced care.

"I suppose you do have a point..." Charlotte murmured, turning her gaze toward the tall windows, where sunlight spilled like gold across the pages of forgotten books. "But if we do leave the kingdom, how do you expect me to remain hidden? Those aboard the vessel may recognize me, and word of it would spread like wildfire in the Crown Gazette."

"You need not concern yourself with such matters," Saevionh replied smoothly, though his tone had an edge of sharpness—like someone rehearsing their response far too many times in their head. "I've already secured passage. One free of prying eyes."

Charlotte tilted her head. "And who, pray, would lend us such discreet service?"

He paused—briefly, yet noticeably—and placed a gloved finger to his lips in a theatrical hush. "That," he said with a playful glint in his eye, "is a secret I intend to keep. Let us simply say they are not your typical sailors... but pirates."

"Pirates?" Charlotte repeated, arching a brow, her tone skeptical. "I was under the impression such tales were meant for the nursery."

Saevionh chuckled under his breath, though the sound was a touch too calculated. "Perhaps. Or perhaps every myth holds a seed of truth. In any case, they owe me a favor."

Charlotte crossed her arms, unconvinced but amused. "You speak as if you've stepped out of one of those adventure novels yourself."

He gave a half-bow, fingers brushing over his coat lapel one last time, smoothing it flat. "And if I have? Then let us make certain this tale has a satisfying ending."

"Anyway, I think I must flip all the pages of these books again," Saevionh muttered, his voice tight with barely concealed tension. "I might have missed something. Hopefully, once more, we shall find a clue." His fingers tapped nervously against the table as he spoke, as if the rhythmic motion helped ease the anxiety churning beneath the surface. Without another word, he returned to his chair, straightening his coat with a deliberate motion before picking up a book he had already gone through. His movements were methodical, as though he had to approach each page with the precision of an artist, ensuring no detail escaped him.

Charlotte watched him for a moment, noting how his fingers trembled ever so slightly as they turned each page. He did this not once, but several times—flipping the same pages with a repetition that bordered on his compulsiveness. His brow furrowed as he paused after every few pages, his lips moving silently, as if he were mentally retracing every word, every line, ensuring that nothing had been overlooked.

She sighed softly, pushing back her chair and standing. "I'll help," she said quietly, her voice tinged with resignation, though her gaze softened at his restless demeanor. She joined him at the table, the clutter of papers and books sprawled around them, some of them already well-worn with his constant flipping. Even the papers on the edges of the desk were meticulously arranged, as though their very alignment was of paramount importance.

Saevionh didn't acknowledge her immediately, too absorbed in his task. He continued flipping through pages, his eyes scanning for the smallest inkling of a clue, while his fingers hovered over the edges of the pages as though checking for something that wasn't visible to anyone else. The action was mechanical, each movement calculated, and he seemed unable to stop himself, even when the fatigue was evident in his posture.

Charlotte sat beside him, eyeing the papers on the table with growing frustration. "We've already looked through these," she said softly, her voice a gentle intrusion on his focused silence. But he didn't respond, only continued flipping the pages with relentless determination, each turn a small echo of his internal struggle.

"I know," he finally murmured, his voice strained, "but I can't leave anything to chance. Not now."

Charlotte watched as he flipped yet another page, and despite knowing the frustration that hung thick in the air, she couldn't help but wonder if Saevionh was simply afraid of missing something—afraid of failure. She sighed again, knowing she'd have to be patient, even as his obsessive behavior stretched on.

The books, the documents, and even the painting of Calestinia seemed insignificant now to him. All that mattered was finding that one thread that could unravel the mystery—and if he had to turn the pages a thousand times to find it, so be it.

As Charlotte cast her eyes upon the wall clock, a curious thought stirred within her mind. Might it be possible, she wondered, for a pirate to offer her passage across the sea? The very notion seemed fanciful, for she had always believed pirates to be no more than tales told to frighten children — and if they did exist, surely they were wicked men.

"I do hope," she murmured softly to herself,

"That such pirates are not thieves and rogues, bent on mischief and crime."