Chapter 4: The Mark Beneath the Silver

The lamplight in Alfred’s study flickered gently as dusk settled over Bloomsberg. Outside, the fog rolled in thick and low, blurring the ironwork of the railings and turning gaslamps into haloed orbs of gold.

Alfred stood by his desk, the delicate Belladonna flower still sealed beneath glass, resting beside a neatly sketched drawing: a silver ring, worn on the index finger, bearing an unfamiliar sigil. He’d redrawn it from memory—based on Esther’s graceful description and the shadow of an old instinct that told him this symbol wasn’t merely ornamental.

He poured himself another cup of coffee, bitter and dark, then carefully turned the pages of his old Heraldic Reference Codex, a thick, leather-bound tome marked by years of use. His gloved fingers moved with precision over the faded vellum.

And then—he paused.

There it was.

A serpent coiled around a lily, etched in fine detail beneath a crest once belonging to an obscure, now-defunct noble house—House Levanth. The marginal note beside the entry read: “Disbanded after the War of Succession. Rumored ties to esoteric orders and underground circles.”

Alfred leaned back, brow furrowing. “Levanth… That name hasn’t surfaced in decades.”

He turned toward his bookshelf, retrieving a second volume—Records of Secret Societies and Unlawful Assemblies, 1810–1860. Page by page, he followed the trail: cryptic mentions of The Serpent Lily, a clandestine faction once tied to certain political uprisings, suspected to traffic in forbidden alchemy, underground medicine…and omega trafficking.

His jaw tensed.

The implications wrapped around him like smoke. This wasn’t merely about strange men lurking in alleyways or poetic threats tucked in flower stems. This was something older, hidden beneath layers of civility and myth.

“Esther saw more than he should have,” Alfred muttered. “And whoever left that flower knew exactly what they were referencing.”

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

Francis Ashford entered, impeccably dressed and gloved as always, his expression a touch grim. “The sigil?”

Alfred turned the book toward him. “Levanth.”

Francis whistled under his breath. “That’s not a name I expected to hear again.”

“Nor I,” Alfred replied. “But it’s resurfacing. And not by chance.”

Francis hesitated, then added, “There’s something else, sir. I had Emil run a search through the old registry archives. There’s a pattern forming—small, forgotten properties around Whitechapel, sold under shell names… All once owned by families tied to Levanth.”

Alfred’s expression turned flint-sharp. “Someone is building a web under our noses.”

“And Mr. Thorne?” Francis asked cautiously.

Alfred was silent for a moment. Then, softly, almost like an admission: “He’s already tangled in it.”

Francis studied him a moment longer. “You’ve taken a peculiar interest in this one.”

“Not peculiar,” Alfred said simply. “Necessary.”

Meanwhile, across the city—The Blossom & Verse

The wind had grown colder by morning, rattling softly against the windowpanes of The Blossom & Verse. Esther stood behind the counter, flipping through an aged, cloth-bound book—The Language of Flowers: A Compendium of Sentiments and Secrets—its pages yellowed and fragrant with age.

He traced the ink illustrations gently.

Belladonna — Silence. Danger. Deception.

He frowned, thumb lingering on the margin.

“Hidden truths in bloom,” he murmured under his breath, the phrase catching oddly in his throat.

Just then, the bell above the shop door gave its delicate chime.

A stranger stepped in—tall, trim, dressed in a fine wool coat. His face wore the practiced ease of polite civility, but something about the way his eyes moved—slow, sweeping, cataloguing—made Lucien’s fingers tense around the book’s edge.

“Good morning,” the man said pleasantly. “Such a charming place you’ve made here.”

“Thank you,” Esther replied, offering a small nod. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“Oh, no,” the man said, wandering slowly through the shop, eyes grazing each shelf and bouquet as though searching for a secret message tucked between petals. “Just admiring. You don’t see such arrangements often anymore. There’s poetry in it.”

Esther kept his tone calm. “That’s the intention.”

The man paused near a display of lilies, brushing a fingertip just close enough to stir a petal.

Then, with a slight bow of his head, he turned back toward the door. “You have a good eye, Mr. Thorne.”

As the man reached the doorframe, one hand lifted to rest briefly against the wood—and that’s when Esther saw it.

A silver ring. Worn on the index finger. No gloves, no pretense—just a fleeting glimpse, catching the filtered light like a quiet whisper of intent. It was not merely decorative; the design carved into its surface looked like a sigil, arcane and deliberate. The shape unsettled him—something old, something that did not belong among flowers.

And then the man was gone, the bell above the door trailing a final chime in his wake.

Esther stood frozen in place, a faint chill prickling at the nape of his neck.

He hadn’t introduced himself.

He hadn’t offered a name, hadn’t asked Esther’s—but had spoken it with effortless familiarity, as though plucked from a list, or whispered from somewhere behind a closed door.

Esther’s fingers hovered over the pages of his book, but his mind had drifted far from Belladonna now. A quiet unease crept through his chest, not sharp like fear, but slow and dense, like fog curling beneath a locked door.

He moved toward the window on instinct, peering through the pale reflection of himself in the glass, but the man was already gone—lost in the murky rhythm of foot traffic and passing carriages. Still,

Esther’s eyes scanned the street with quiet urgency, searching for the faintest hint of a trailing coat or familiar gait.

Nothing.

Only the low hum of London life continued outside, indifferent to the lingering tension left in that man’s wake.

Esther returned to his worktable, though his hands trembled faintly now.

The flower book still lay open, the delicate print unchanged:

Belladonna: Danger in disguise.

A coincidence, perhaps.But the ring. The sigil. The knowing voice.

Esther closed the book softly, the whisper of turning pages somehow louder than it should have been.

But now, for the first time in a long while, Esther considered opening it.

Not because of fear.

But because the petals in his shop weren’t the only things speaking in coded language anymore.

And danger, it seemed, had found its way to his doorstep—not with guns or raised voices, but with a ring, a glance, and a name spoken too easily..