Darwin slipped into plain clothes before leaving his flat.
His shirt was no better than everyday wear, with loosely sewn buttons.
The grey waistcoat he donned was modest, the patch beneath the pocket serving more as a tool than a piece of tailoring.
He didn't bother taming his hair, as the hour granted no leisure for such affectation.
Once he was outside, he strode several paces before raising a hand to flag a cab.
Fortunately, he merely waited a small juncture before one had come to a gradual halt.
The iron-shod hooves tapped over cobbles like anxious fingertips.
Without a word, Darwin bowed his head forward and swung himself in.
The driver offered a sharp, assessing glance but remained silent.
"The Hall," Darwin said in a deep voice. "Near the old printworks."
Darwin had a working map of the city in his head.
Though Gabriel had merely referred to a mirror seller, the one nearest his lodging seemed the likeliest.
As the cab lurched into motion, Darwin leaned into the narrow seat, keeping a boot braced for turns, while his other leg grew restless in time with the horse's gait.
They passed a number of shuttered shop fronts that had brittle scraps of paper swirling by the gutters.
He brushed away the thought of money after he fled his flat.
There was no need to empty his pockets when he already knew they were light.
Therein lay his excuse to either claim that he'd forgotten his funds in haste or promise to repay at a future encounter.
By good luck, the driver made no mention of the fare.
Perhaps Darwin's eyes conveyed enough, or perhaps the man simply didn't care.
When the cab slowed by the alley he'd scoped, Darwin dropped out before it fully stopped.
He left the door swinging. Behind him, the driver gave a single, knowing chuckle and departed before he'd even rounded the corner.
Darwin pressed onward along a narrow lane where the tenements leaned precariously, their upper panes sullied by soot.
A lingering drizzle from earlier had silvered the cobbles, blurring his reflection into anonymity.
At the lane's terminus stood the mirror‑seller's shop, an edifice so slender it might have been carved from a coffin.
The ash‑stone towered four stories, rising defiantly where the street closed to cart traffic.
He approached, noting that there wasn't a signboard on the heavy, black‑oak door.
The only detail that truly belonged to the entrance was the woodwork on the façade, curled into arabesques.
Gazing upward, Darwin observed that the windows were set at uneven heights, while the ground floor bore none at all.
The whole structure carried the impression of hasty contrivance.
He paused for a heartbeat before coiling his fingers about the iron knocker and jiggling the latch.
'Locked…' Darwin frowned and exhaled in a thin sigh.
He raised a fingertip to a peephole at the door's centre and pressed his forehead against it with a quiet thud, before stepping back to survey the upper windows.
There was a single gas lamp, affixed near a pane that revealed a thick film of dust across its inner glass.
Suddenly, a dark silhouette darted past from behind a gauzy curtain, snuffing out the lamp's glow for an instant.
Darwin stiffened and struck the door in rapid succession.
As he palmed the wood, he cocked his ear for a response, but alas, the lane lay mute.
Before he could strike again, a long, ominous creak sounded overhead.
Darwin stepped back and parted his lips to call out, but then came a series of clicks elsewhere, followed by a groan of hinges that reverberated through the narrow alley.
His gaze flicked to the place from which the sound had arisen, and he swiftly pivoted on his heel and began to retrace his steps.
Though Darwin was uncertain of its exact origin, he proceeded to the halt of the street, where a slender lane curled behind the front of the building.
Its door hung ajar, no more than the width of three fingers.
Darwin hesitated, regarding it with measured suspicion, before sealing his lips with resolve and stepping over the threshold without announcement.
The moment his foot touched the floorboards, he was on high alert.
Despite the shop's modest exterior, its interior retained an unexpected warmth.
Rows of unlabeled boxes lined the shelves, and an umbrella lay against a wooden mannequin's leg, the handle looped backward.
The showroom itself was more intimate than it appeared from the outside.
In one shadowed corner, two tall mirrors stood opposite each other, their opposing surfaces folding space into the illusion of an infinite corridor, and though he did not look directly, Darwin felt its deceptive pull in his peripheral vision.
He averted his gaze and directed his attention to the counter.
Not a speck of clutter marred its surface: there was no register, no brass bell, nor clipboard or sign‑in ledger.
Only a pale, unaccounted-for discoloration on the wood that appeared much like a bleached square.
Darwin presumed as he swept over it, 'Something heavy must have rested for so long that it drained the varnish away.'
Darwin circled the counter, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets.
With the light dull, he narrowed his gaze in search of finer detail—until a singular object caught his attention on the shelf beyond.
He raised a measured eyebrow and stepped back, closing the distance to inspect further.
There lay a small book with a navy blue cover and a spine crudely reinforced with scuffed tape.
Its immaculate appearance made it stand out amid the otherwise unassuming surroundings.
He noted it quietly as he reached out: 'It doesn't appear to have been intentionally hidden… nor exactly meant for display.'
The spine of the book yielded with a soft snap, as though decaying slightly with neglect.
Darwin slid his fingernail into the fold and eased the cover open, releasing the scent of old paper into the air.
"A ledger?" he murmured, though it resembled more a catalog of names than a merchant's accounts.
He thumbed through the pages of names, dates, and times that were carefully penciled in. But there were no entries for goods exchanged, nor any records of payments.
Darwin pondered for a moment, '… Might this be but a ledger of appointment entries?'
His brow furrowed.
As the thought settled over him, he tore ahead several pages at a time, toward the end.
There, he stilled, lifting a fragment of parchment to his face.
"Darwin Asrael – 11:00 PM." Beneath it, scrawled in darker ink was an addendum: "may be 2 or 3 hours late."
His finger curled, pressing into the paper.
Darwin's gaze turned distant as the desolate lamplight seemed to press upon him.
He closed the ledger with deliberate calm before sliding it back in its place.
Then, he raised his posture and crossed the room toward the stairwell.
The grotty steps groaned beneath Darwin's weight as the second floor.
Before his foot even crossed the threshold, he discerned an amber radiance tracing a single, golden seam along the floorboards and descending into the first step.
Yet, the instant his boot touched the worn parquet, he perceived immediately that this level was anything but orderly.
The mirrors had accumulated greatly.
Darwin stood at the threshold with his hand raised to cover his lower face, as though he could ward off something intangible.
He swept his gaze across the emptiness between them and swallowed.
The room was unremarkable, yet marked by subtle peculiarity.
Although some of the mirrors had been shrouded in dusty cloth, the majority were left bare.
Numerous doors punctuated the walls, and at the far end stood a desk before a wooden chair, both aligned to overlook a solitary window in the corridor-like chamber.
Upon making a slightly closer inspection, Darwin discovered that the desk bore a studied disarray of quills pooled in inkpots, tomes which were piled in disjointed stacks, and sheets of blueprint-sized paper that were awash with meticulous ink strokes.
And a small round mirror lay askew beside a gas lamp.
Darwin's eyes narrowed. "This must be the very room I spied from outside."
His mind lingered on the shadow's fleeting passage at the window. "I'm certain I glimpsed something… Yet would any hide after bidding me welcome? Unless… they already know I'm here." He dismissed the thought with a shake of his head.
"Revealing myself first would hardly be prudent. Perhaps… a discreet search might—"
"Mr Darwin…?"
He paused, though his countenance betrayed nothing, keeping his shoulders squared and posture rigid.
From somewhere behind came a youthful voice, seemingly refined yet curious.
As Darwin turned his gaze alighted upon a figure who seemed plucked from a genteel portrait— 'A Young Gentleman Destined to Spoil Every Ballroom,' he mused silently.
The newcomer had auburn hair, nearly coppered in the lamp's glow, and hazel eyes alight with studied mirth.
The lad bore a confident grin, and his coat was sharper still; a tailored black trench of wool, its lapels threaded with discreet crimson streaks; heraldry, perhaps, or careful flamboyance.
Darwin blinked twice, measuring him. 'Quiet as a mouse…how could he have approached me without so much as a creak?'
The young man frowned briefly, raising his palms in a display of feigned innocence, before inclining his head with the politeness of a gentleman crossing the street.
"Pardon my abruptness," he began in a steady and courteous voice. "If I startled you into silence, do forgive me, I meant no offence. I'd only wished to confirm your identity. One can scarcely be certain who prowls in the night."
Darwin cleared his throat, the low sound punctuating the air as he reined in his thoughts.
Then, with languid politeness, he remarked, "My apologies, I was under the impression that children were not deputed to fetch strangers by moonlight. Is this some charitable initiative, or merely an economising measure?"
The boy who was a shade younger than Darwin, but achingly fresh, offered a gaudy grin, prompting an involuntary itch at Darwin's cheek. "Even from a distance, I recognised you, Darwin Asrael; Mr Gabriel was right to trust his instincts." He stifled a chuckle behind his hand.
Darwin glinted at the offered hand for a heartbeat too long, before accepting it with a firm, though decidedly reluctant, grip. "Indeed. Though I suspect you're not here to persuade me you are Mr Gabriel," he observed coolly.
"I am Benedict White, sir," came the courteous reply.
"Gabriel delegated this task to me since he's otherwise indisposed at night."
Darwin allowed a silent nod. "I anticipated as much, judging by the expedient manner in which his absence was communicated."
"It would be ironic otherwise," Benedict chuckled. "Since I am ostensibly covering his night-watch."
That earned a mild blink from Darwin, followed by a delicate, crooked smile. "Quite. You are perceptive."
Darwin inclined his chin, his voice dry as dust. "I've spent the day deciphering cryptic mementoes from a man who evidently believes ominous brooches and foreboding signs make suitable correspondence. Speed, I grant you, appears intrinsic to his methods."
Benedict merely raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if none of it struck him as particularly odd. "He's thorough, sir, nothing more."
Darwin's gaze hardened as he rested the bottom of his palm on the desk to assume a more serious demeanor.
"Mr Gabriel did predict your lateness, I arrived some half‑hour hence."
"Did he." Darwin's voice landed more like a verdict than a question.
"Mmm," Benedict hummed softly. "He said something to the effect of: 'Darwin's the sort who'll walk off…and circle round again. He must envisage the escape half a dozen times first.'"
A slow shadow gathered in Darwin's eyes as he listened intently to the lad's words.
It felt as if a headache were about to unfurl behind his gaze. "I understand…" His tone drew itself taut, then departed into the silence between them.
'One meeting has acquainted us sufficiently to chart each other's peculiarities…?' Darwin pondered in a manner that was more confounding than worrying.
Yet he adopted a polite disinterest. "Did he happen to include a floor plan of my flat, or merely marginal notes on my childhood?"
Benedict's lips twitched, amused. "No, but I'd not put it past him."
As Darwin leaned further back, his visage halted before a mirror that had been squeezed into a corner beside a plain door frame.
His features tightened for a scant heartbeat, as though appraising some anomaly.
Then, setting aside his half-formed thought, he drew himself up and resumed casually: "So."
He lifted his hand from the table and folded his arms together. "Let us first inquire why Gabriel dispatches a youth with dubious tailoring and an affable smirk to propose work that borders on the illicit."
Benedict arched both brows. "Illicit?"
Darwin waved a dismissive hand. "Assuming another identity, as well as forging credentials. A quaint exercise in fraud, one might call it."
"You'd be doing it during business hours," Benedict offered casually. "And you bear a striking resemblance."
Darwin showed a dry smile.
He had already inspected the flaws repeatedly, and by now they were practically rehearsed. "Save for minor distinctions. I measure an inch taller. He, I suspect, enjoys finer garb. And our hair… mine is what you might call a ghastly white; his, presumably, dark as the night outside these windows."
He gestured toward his silvery locks. "Hence, my display, I grant you, is sacrilegiously stark."
Benedict regarded him thoughtfully for a brief moment. "Ah, I believe the tone quite complements your complexion."
Darwin blinked, inwardly surprised. "Thank you. That was…exceedingly unhelpful."
An awkward qualm settled between them, yet Benedict's eyes danced with irrepressible mirth as he disregarded Darwin's mild rebuke.
He added cheerfully, "Perhaps on a finer note, I can add that you already bear the Hemlock tone."
Darwin cast him a wary glance. "And you know this…how? I assume you're not merely on the social side."
Benedict cleared his throat, as though he'd just swallowed something bitter. "Ahem. Perhaps I ought to introduce myself more properly. I work with Gabriel as his partner." His words were cautious but unembellished.
"Is your work not conducted independently?"
"Within the Hemlocks, every operative works alongside a partner. That's regulation one: no lone fieldwork." Benedict's lips curved into an easy smile. "I was appointed a few months ago, on Gabriel's recommendation."
Darwin's lips quirked in mock incredulity. "Surely a…'special' organization would not hire a man fresh from the nursery?"
"'Special' does not imply…technological," Benedict said in measured tones. "We are analysts operating beneath the surface. We don't enforce the law; we merely investigate in secrecy. Enforcement lies with other branches once identity and proof are secured. So conventional qualifications are…dispensable." He paused, then added, "My appointment was a matter of urgency and, well, my uncle vouched for me."
Darwin's expression remained calm, but his mind raced. 'What manner of organization is this? If the Hemlocks lack public recognition, what then of credibility? What happens should their covert operations unravel?' A succession of inquiries surged behind his placid façade.
Finally, Darwin stiffened and asked the question his instincts demanded…
"Gabriel is your uncle?"
Benedict shook his head dismissively.
"Not by blood," he said. "Mr. Gabriel was adopted by a minor baronial family in Westmarch, one of those well-meaning households collecting orphans as a show of charitable virtue."
Darwin hummed thoughtfully.
"Ah, yes, the 'we uplift the impoverished to burnish our moral reputations' sort. It's a regrettable trend among the aristocracy to prey upon the less fortunate for the sake of prestige."
Benedict gave a faint gesture of agreement, unfazed by his evident taunts.
"Well, Mr. Gabriel did keep in touch with some of his siblings, one of them being my father. After a certain… incident at the estate, Mr. Gabriel offered me this position. My father and I saw it as a chance to stand on our own. Most of Mr. Gabriel's siblings have cut ties with their adoptive parents, you see." He spoke with such easy familiarity that one might mistake them for old friends sharing a quiet supper.
"Let me be clear: your uncle heads a high-profile detective outfit, yet manages to remain entirely off the public record. And he casually hires his own nephew? Then entrusts the night watch to a random man stumbled upon in the street one evening?"
Benedict pondered for a moment, then nodded as he tucked his arms behind his back.
"That sums it up nicely."
Darwin stood silent for a moment, then let out an exasperated snort, a breathy laugh escaping him.
"This is a bloody circus."
Benedict stretched and lowered himself from where he'd been leaning against the wall.
"Ah, but haven't you come to enjoy the spectacle? You don't strike me as the sort to squander your time on dull affairs."
A hush fell between them.
Darwin's gaze drifted toward the line of mirrors, but he avoided meeting his own reflection.
Instead, his eyes lingered on Benedict's profile.
He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth for a moment.
'Normally, I find types like these insufferable, the sort whose jest grates beneath the patina of civility. And yet… There is a curious allure about this one. The fellow is nothing if not irritating, but there's entertainment in the dissonance, in watching him thrash against decorum, like a curious insect under glass. It's odd. I could almost consider bending my own principles solely to observe his discomfort.'
After a thoughtful silence, he broke the near-imperceptible pause in their exchange.
"How may I be confident that my appearance sufficiently resembles his for this ruse to hold?"
Benedict shrugged in mild indifference. "Mr Gabriel is the authority on that. I'm but a compromise, and a debt repaid. He outlined his course assuming you'd acquiesce, though perhaps as a contingency, should you refuse. My uncle thinks ahead. You are scarcely the first person he's prepared for in advance; rest assured."
Darwin raised an eyebrow.
"I do not concern myself with his schemes. My question is whether I can imitate a man perhaps endowed with entirely different faculties."
Benedict inclined his head. "And yet you came."
Darwin nearly flinched at his quick remark, but managed to hold it in. "I suspected him of involvement in a tragedy," he said at length. "A woman, she took her own life in her flat, not long after her kin escaped an asylum in France."
Benedict stiffened perceptibly.
"A suicide… forgive the intrusion, but how could my uncle figure in such a case?"
Darwin's expression remained unreadable.
"I had hoped... simply to ascertain whether he is investigating it." He paused, glancing away, as if to shield a greater truth. "I admit I searched the deceased's lodgings. Letters spoke of a brooch, possibly the one Gabriel had delivered..."
Benedict inclined his head from side to side, as though reordering the syllables in his mind.
"That… would hardly be a matter the Hemlocks would concern themselves with."
"I see."
Benedict studied him for a moment longer, then spoke impassively, with the faint timbre of London fog wandering through his voice:
"If the lady were kin of yours, and Mr. Gabriel had learned of the affair, you need not harbor any doubt that he'd have inquired. He's scrupulous in matters concerning those he deems worthy of his audience. If this were truly… extraordinary, he would have apprised you. He's never one to conceal a lead, but he may cover it in riddles."
Darwin almost smirked, torn between laughter and scorn, but a single writhe at his lip managed to betray his restraint.
Thus, deciding that he would extract no more on that front, he shifted the topic with the ease of a seasoned actor:
"On to more pressing matters, what's the compensation? I trust that Mr. Gabriel is not ungenerous, given the importance of the work."
At the mention of compensation, Benedict brightened. "Ah, so you truly intend to participate?"
Darwin responded with blunt economy: "I won't give you that yet. Tell me just how much I'm valued for playing men of questionable morals and divine ambition."
"Four pounds a week, plus bonuses upon successful completion of each assignment."
Darwin's pupils contracted. He drew in a shaky breath before repeating in a deep and tremulous voice, "Four?"
Benedict inclined again. "Yes! And should the case require relocation, lodgings are provided."
Darwin's lips parted, then closed as he swallowed, the sum vigorously taking root.
Despite his outward aloofness, one that would deter even the boldest from broaching a request, those who had dared learned that the easiest way to prompt his cooperation was with a few shillings.
Darwin could chide himself that granting favors was a fault of his character, yet the moment a coin was laid before him, he would already have set quill to parchment.
A long sigh escaped him before he raised a hand to his face and traced its contours as if to reclaim the composure slipping from his countenance.
Grumbling quietly, he spoke, half to himself, "I only wish he had mentioned that first, then I needn't have darted about like a moth in candlelight."
He lifted his gaze, moving his irises to one side as though pursuing a distant thought. "Very well. It seems I shall use the night to my advantage and keep my head down."
At that, Benedict uttered a delighted whoop. "That, Mr. Darwin, needn't trouble you! Most of the time, you'll be working with me. And if the Chief summons you, we can simply inform Gabriel!"
Darwin's features twisted in mild revulsion at Benedict's exuberance.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he muttered, "Perhaps I ought to petition for an early raise, given my companions, compensation seems prudent."