Lucy plopped down on the sofa where Alistair usually slept, causing an eerie creak. She opened the small sachet offered by Nana and began to swallow the contents, sparing nothing. Alistair sat down in a chair with holes in it, moss sticking out from various places like an old man's beard or like stubborn leafy bushes, and began to read the newspaper. At the end of his reading, he sighed and put the paper on the table in front of him.

 - This is hardly ideal. We pass for complete charlatans. It's like reading an unbelievable fairy tale, we will never be taken seriously this way.

 - It's already satisfying that they wrote an article about us, isn't it? Anyway, I wasn't expecting more, she said, swallowing another candy and eyeing Alistair's bag hungrily.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway and the door opened as Maude appeared. She had swapped her servant's outfit for a simple black dress with white gloves that came to her elbows. Her hair had grown out slightly and she had tied it at the nape of her neck with a red ribbon.

 - What are you talking about?

 - Someone wrote an article about us!

 - Ah, she said simply. I have again posted messages in the newspaper offering our services, as you requested.

 - Maude, do you want to taste candy from Nana?

 - Impossible, I can't eat.

 - Yes, but you can smell it at least! Lucy offered in desperation.

Maude shrugged, not tempted by the idea.

At the same time, knocks sounded at the door. Alistair got up from his seat and went to answer. Behind was a child, a filthy street kid with a beret on his head and a dusty jacket on his back, handing him something. Alistair gave him a coin before grabbing the item. When he came back into the room, it was with a letter in his hand.

 - What is it ? What is it ? Lucy asked excitedly.

Alistair opened the envelope and took out the paper.

 - Our services are requested, he replied.

Lucy began to squeal with delight and jumped off the sofa to run around the room.

 - Who is it this time around? A crank? A madman released from an asylum? Maude asked.

 - No, it's... Martha Delaway, he said, re-reading the letter. All her jewelry is gone and she suspects her deceased great-aunt, Victoria Carrey, that's why she calls us.

Maude gave a rather wry little laugh, a slight grimace on her lips.

 - I think that's the only kind of customers we can attract. Well... Is the pay any good ?

 - Pretty much. It's a good deal, let's accept it, Alistair suggested, having much more in mind their current finances than the veracity of the mystery in front of them.

Lucy, who had stopped doing her dance of joy, sighed, as if she had been suddenly sapped of all her energy.

 - I would have preferred to have to solve a serious matter, not the delusions of old Martha about her aunt. With any luck, she will have dropped her jewelry in the gutter.

Alistair shrugged, looking like they couldn't expect better.

 - When does she want to meet us?

 - Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock sharp.

Lucy sat back and stretched, getting comfortable to think about her new and grand adventure, which she hoped would turn out a little better than the last. However, as she reflected, it was normal for famous sleuths to experience a few setbacks at first, while they managed to adjust their genius to the world around them. Leaving these thoughts aside, she began to envision what the new apartment they could rent might look like when they could afford it, following a succession of well-conducted investigations, decorating it already in advance without having the least penny that could have paid for it. Silence settled in the room, while Maude went back to one of her household chores, Alistair continued reading the newspaper and Lucy was deep in thought, something that rarely happened given the young girl's propensity to chat. So, after only a few minutes had passed, a time that was already too huge, she raised her head, determined to break this unbearable blank.

 - We accept a new case but can we really consider that the previous one has been resolved?

 - What do you mean ? Alistair asked, his mind half elsewhere.

 - There are things we have never been able to answer. Who, for example, sent the letter? As a future detective with a worldwide reputation, I cannot afford to have the slightest gap in my past files, she declaimed, putting all the seriousness she could in these words.

Alistair gave her a wary look, raising an eyebrow as usual when his partner launched into her great musings about her future as an investigator.

 - I'm sorry, Maude began. I haven't broached the subject with all that's happened lately, it even slipped my mind.

 - It's nothing Maude, I've established several theories myself, answered Alistair quietly who doubted that the servant could bring him additional information concerning this subject.

 - The Countess has not sent you any letter, as you might've guessed. She couldn't. It's not me either. I was very surprised when I saw you for the first time. I preferred not to ask myself any questions, hoping that you could help us.

 - So who wrote it? The count ? Lucy wondered.

 - We don't know, Alistair said. He didn't mention it in his diary. This question remains unanswered. The handwriting was identical in all aspects to that of the Countess, and on the envelope the address of the Count's residence was inscribed. It must have been someone close enough to the Count to know the whole thing, but I don't see who in his entourage could have fulfilled these conditions. He didn't have for a long time the slightest relationship with the outside world, except for his commercial exchanges, which he carried out from a distance. Moreover, I was unable to obtain any information concerning the strange company with which the count was in contact. There is not the slightest trace of them. Even by consulting the count's bank accounts, I could not learn the identity of those who deposited such sums of money. Maude couldn't tell me anything. Being a simple servant, the count didn't consult her about his business. I don't know either how the transactions were carried out or even what the contents of this alliance were.

Alistair ran his hand through his hair. He was exhausted. Since their return from the manor more than a month ago, he had spent his days working tirelessly. He had first had to inform the relatives of the Count and Countess of their death, explain the circumstances, answer questions from the police, and do more in-depth research on what had happened... For hours, alone in his office, he had tried to understand the functioning of the count's automata, to find out about their possible use, without arriving at any conclusive answers. The systems deployed on these human-like automatons were nothing like anything he had seen before. He couldn't understand how the Count had come up with such... sophisticated, almost human-like creatures. And he could not understand the cause of their sudden and brutal death in the small village either, finding no dysfunction in them. There was also the case of the count's domain, with its supernatural landscapes which they too could not find an explanation for.

He couldn't find a moment to rest. It always seemed to him that there was something he was missing, something he should have seen. He felt like he wasn't doing enough. It was as if he was late, as if he couldn't get through his workload no matter how hard he tried.

And he saw Maude and Lucy worrying about him. This enerved him more than anything. He wished he hadn't caused them any trouble. Above all, he wished he could be the one to comfort them. Not the one they needed to watch out for.

Another proof of his incompetence, he grimaced inwardly.

While he wished he had enough time to discuss his situation with Maude, he couldn't find even a second to talk to her. Time seemed to run and run, endlessly spinning to escape him. The grains of the hourglass slipped between his fingers without him being able to stop their course. Quite ironic that he, for whom time no longer counted for a long time, had the feeling of running out of it.

It made him want to tear his hair out. He had trouble falling asleep. He had always had trouble sleeping, but lately he's been finding it even more difficult than usual. He wished he could, as an old friend of his could, fall asleep with the snap of a finger. He spent hours at night racking his brains, working without being able to stop, without managing to see the end to this mountain of tasks which never shrunk, permanently profiling its dark giant shadow over him. He still had this feeling of incompleteness which tortured him, which prevented him from being able to rest. He climbed without ever stopping a gigantic staircase which did not seem to arrive at the slightest destination, a new step always coming to replace the one he had just taken. In the end, this was how his path had always been, a race that didn't have an end, an aimless wandering.

Inside of him, having to solve another wacky mystery was the last thing he wanted. But, seeing the joy that this prospect brought to Lucy, he felt obliged to offer her this pleasure.

He felt that, at this moment, Lucy seemed even more in the clouds than usual. She was dreamy, she had trouble concentrating and she was even more impatient than usual, unable to fix her attention on anything for too long, flitting from subject to subject like a flying butterfly.

It worried him to see her like this when he didn't have a moment to devote to her. Besides, he had no idea what he might have said to her. He had trouble finding the right words. Communicating had never been his forte. He could easily analyze situations, solve problems, see hidden clues... But expressing his feelings or comforting someone was much more difficult for him. He was a man of few words, taciturn, and did not shine with eloquent speeches but rather with reasoning. Deliberating on a subject was not for him. He only worked with facts, not with speculation.

Lucy, on the contrary, easily knew how to find the speech to hold, the words to encourage. It was instinctive with her. She had this strange intuition that Alistair lacked. She found the answers by logic and calculation, she felt things, found the paths by a sort of controlled chance. It wasn't even really a chaotic method of deduction but rather like a leaf carried by the wind, she let herself be carried and lifted by the air currents, until at last the breeze led her on the path that she was looking for. Yet she never really got lost, as if the zephyr obeyed her will in the movements it gave her. Above all, Lucy was a free creature, who belonged to nothing and no one. A being without chains, spinning like an incarnation of Boreas with nothing able to catch her insistent and unleashed breath, she was a stallion faster than lightning, galloping, overcoming the slightest obstacle that chance would place on her path. She was the spark of life, an ember that burned with all its heat. Child of the wind, child of the sun, she was the spear of light which the ray of the Sun swept over the plain, she was the ceaselessly moving dust which covered the earth, she was the sea in full turmoil, the waves rushing one on top of the other, fringed with foam and pushed by the blowing and howling swell in an eternal roll and a permanent assault of the water which seeks to overcome the bay. The adventure she was pursuing was not to solve cases, but to go in search of the future, the endless quest towards the bright future of a dream that she wanted to make come true. This little being, when she was by his side, seemed to be able to give life to the light that exploded in waves of joy, to make the lightning speak. Her overflowing imagination was like a chariot hurtling down a hill at full speed, drawn by horses who used all the power of their legs in a race that had no goal or end except the pleasure of dash through the earth as fast as they could, not feeling the ground under their feet, until they were feeling like they were flying. Such was Lucy Moon.

If this way of doing remained a mystery for Alistair, he had already seen the effects.

He looked again at the only clue he had about this secret society he couldn't find anymore: the white lily. A flower that was painfully familiar to him. A flower that was almost hard to look at. This feeling he had for the plant must have been, without a doubt, distorting his judgment and disturbing his sense of deduction, since, instinctively, he gave it a meaning that was perhaps not its own. It was very difficult for him to rid his mind of all the connotations that this symbol had acquired.

He rubbed his temples and looked out the window. The dirty, opaque glass almost reminded him of snow falling in big flakes, in cotton balls that smothered everything with their white mass. He felt like he felt the bite of cold on his skin, of the wind making his cheeks blush. The cold, probably one of the most familiar sensations of his life.