Chapter 5: Shadows Beneath the Surface

The scent of hyacinth and ink still clung to the collar of Esther’s coat as he stepped into the misted street. The encounter from the previous day remained sharp in his mind—not just the strange visitor, but the feeling that something unseen had begun to stir beneath the surface of his quiet life. A name spoken without introduction. A ring worn deliberately. A smile that hadn’t reached the eyes.

Esther had replayed the conversation more times than he cared to admit. The silver ring, with its peculiar crest, gleamed still in his memory like a shard of ice under a winter sun.

By midmorning, unable to suppress the unease gnawing at him, he found himself turning off Bloomsberg Street toward the home of Detective Alfred Seymour

The townhouse was modest but impeccably kept, its dark brick façade softened by ivy and the faint bloom of winter roses along the fence. Esther hesitated only briefly before lifting his hand to the polished brass knocker.

A few moments later, the door opened—and Alfred stood there, still in shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unfastened and dark curls slightly tousled, as though he'd been deep in thought over one of his case files.

“Mr. Thorne,” Alfred said, voice calm but faintly surprised. “This is unexpected.”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Esther said softly, lifting his coat collar against the wind.

“Not at all. Come in.” Alfred stepped aside, ushering him into the entry hall where the warmth of a low-burning hearth curled through the air.

Esther removed his gloves slowly, feeling the sting of lingering cold in his fingertips. Alfred observed him with a subtle shift in posture—ever perceptive, ever grounded in quiet calculation.

They moved toward the study, where a pot of coffee sat already brewed, its scent rich and grounding.

“I hadn’t planned to call so soon,” Esther said, accepting a cup as Alfred poured, “but something odd happened yesterday. And I thought... perhaps it was best you knew.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow as he passed him the cup. “Go on.”

Esther recounted the incident—his voice measured, but the tension clear in the way his hands curled slightly around the porcelain. He spoke of the man who came into his shop, the odd familiarity in his tone, the glances, the small talk that circled nothing—and finally, the ring.

“A silver crest ring,” Alfred echoed, brow furrowed now. “Worn openly?”

“Yes. No gloves. Almost as though he meant for me to see it.”

Alfred set his cup down and reached for a notebook from the side table, flipping through pages until he found a blank one. “Can you describe the shape?”

Esther hesitated, then took the offered pencil, sketching with tentative strokes. “It was something like this… the edges were sharp, almost thorn-like. A serpent motif, I think, coiled around a bell-shaped flower.”

Alfred studied the crude drawing, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s not a family crest I recognize. Not an official one, at least. But it’s… deliberate. Symbolic.”

He rose from his seat and crossed to a drawer, pulling out a pair of gloves and slipping them on before lifting a folder marked with pressed wax. “I’ve seen a similar motif before—though not in a proper registry. Something older… from one of my previous cases. Hidden societies, coded messages, flower sigils.”

Esther’s eyes flicked up. “So there is a pattern.”

“There’s always a pattern,” Alfred murmured, opening the file. “The trick is knowing where to look.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled gently behind them, and the ticking of the mantle clock filled the silence.

Then, without turning, Alfred said, “I want you to be careful, Mr. Thorne.”

Esther’s voice was quiet. “Do you believe I’m in danger?”

“I believe,” Alfred said, turning back to him, “that danger rarely announces itself loudly. It slips in through cracks in the door and pretends to be polite company.”

Esther gave a faint, almost rueful smile. “A poetic warning, coming from you.”

“I’m surrounded by florists lately,” Alfred replied dryly. “It’s starting to affect me.”

The moment softened between them—just briefly—but the air still held weight. Esther reached for his gloves again, preparing to leave, but Alfred’s voice stopped him.

“If anything else happens,” the detective said, more quietly now, “don’t wait to come to me.”

Esther nodded. “I won’t.”

As he stepped back into the foggy street, the warmth of the hearth faded, but Alfred’s words echoed faintly behind him—like a promise stitched into the mist.

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