Chapter Text
The officer in charge of the station phone was nearing the end of his shift that evening and thinking of the nice, long weekend he was going to spend catching up on much needed sleep when the phone rang.
"New York PD, Officer Edwards speaking, how can I help?" he answered dully, chewing on a wad of tobacco as he glanced out the window. It was raining quite hard, and Edwards was dreading having to go out there on his way home. The city was hard enough to navigate on a normal night, but traffic accidents went up exponentially in the rain.
"Good evening, Constable," came a high prim voice through the receiver. Edwards might've mistaken the accent for a Brit, except there was a fluid quality to the words that didn't seem quite right.
"We don't really use the word 'constable' to refer to the city police, ma'am," he replied, bored. "That's the English."
"I could care less," the woman scoffed, and Edwards raised an eyebrow, though she obviously couldn't see it.
"Did you have business with the police, ma'am?" He asked, wanting to get it over with. He didn't want to get saddled with an overtime assignment if he could help it.
"As a matter of fact, yes. Two orders of business, as it were." There was a faint clinking sound, like porcelain on wood. "Firstly, I'd like to report an incident of police misconduct and trespassing. A certain Officer Maddox was skulking around my home this evening when I returned, and he helpfully left his department-issued lantern behind as proof. I can read his badge number for you if you like."
Edwards blinked. "Hal Maddox? What for?" He glanced up around the office, and sure enough, Maddox's desk was empty. Was he on patrol today?
"Does it seem like a lady would be privy to the thought processes of incompetent policemen?!" the woman bristled. "That's your job, isn't it?! All I want is to file an official complaint."
"Er, alright yeah, sure. I'll transfer you to my superior officer-"
"I am not done speaking!" The woman snarled, so angry that Edwards instinctively leaned away from the receiver.
"O-oh, I'm sorry-"
"Americans, so quick to make assumptions," she huffed, and though Edwards had no idea who this woman was, he could imagine a great English noblewoman sniffing down at him with barely concealed disgust. "The second order of business concerns an event that will come to pass very shortly," the woman continued, sounding as bored as Edwards had felt just a minute ago. "A young gentleman of Asian descent will arrive at the station in... No more than ten minutes, I'd wager. He will be desperately searching for someone, concerned for their safety. I would like you to assure him that his wife is perfectly well and waiting for him at home, but that he'd best bring a peace offering if he plans to sleep in his own bed tonight."
The police officer furrowed his brow. "What is this, a joke? Who even is this?"
"Just pass on the message, Constable," the woman sighed. "Kujo will understand. Now, about speaking to your superior..."
Edwards had just transferred the mysterious caller to his boss, scratching the dark hair under his cap in confusion, when the door to the station was thrown open and a tall, dark haired man with distinctly Eastern features hurried in, soaked to the bone and clutching his dripping hat in his pale hands.
"Excuse me, I need to speak to a constable," he said without preamble in that same, strange British accent, his slanted eyes wide with worry. "My wife has gone missing!"
Kazuya felt very foolish indeed when he walked into his own parlor a little under an hour later and found Victorique smoking thoughtfully on the chaise in her nightgown, her nose buried in a book.
"Really, Victorique? Don't you know how worried I was?" he asked tiredly, hanging up his wet hat and tugging his coat off in the hall to avoid dripping over the carpet. "I thought you'd been kidnapped, abducted!"
"No one asked you to make stupid assumptions," she scoffed, giving him a cursory glance before turning a page. "It's your own fault, really."
Kazuya sighed, hands on his hips. "You are a terror, Victorique."
"I take offense to that," she said, glaring at him. A moment later she held out her palm expectantly. "Where's my bribe?" She demanded.
"Who said I brought you one?" He asked, folding his arms with a frown.
"You took twenty extra minutes from the station to get here, which suggests you stopped somewhere," Victorique explained simply, chewing on the end of her pipe. "In addition, the scent of cinnamon wafted in when you removed your coat, and I do believe I saw a sizeable lump in the breast pocket. French pastries, if I'm not mistaken? A dollar's worth?"
Kazuya blinked at her, stunned. "How...?"
"Kujo, do you really need me to go over every tawdry detail?" she asked exasperatedly. "You really should be used to such simple deductions by now."
"I will never not be amazed by you, Victorique," he said, shaking his head with wonder. His wife flushed slightly and pointedly looked away.
"Just give me my pastries already," she mumbled. He chuckled at her flustered expression.
"Fine, but I really shouldn't spoil you so much," he admitted, pulling a brown paper package from the inside of his coat breast pocket. "At least put some tea on so it's ready when I'm done changing, would you?"
Victorique huffed, but nevertheless put her pipe down on the tea table and got to her feet, sweeping her silver hair over her shoulder.
"Fine, but I won't wait any longer than ten minutes for you."
Kazuya grimaced. "At least give me fifteen-"
"Ten, and not a second more," she said, snatching the package out of his hands as she passed him on the way to the kitchen. Her bare feet made a soft padding sound against the wooden panels, making Kazuya pause on the stairs, unnerved.
"For God's sake, Victorique, I know we changed the floors, but at least wear shoes in the murder house!!" he called after her.
"Oh do grow up, Kujo," she replied with a snort, her voice echoing in the hall.
Ten minutes later, his hair vigorously dried with a towel and his clothes hung to dry over the bathtub, Kazuya hopped the stairs down two at a time in a clean white shirt and trousers and just barely made it in time for Victorique to grudgingly slip a canelé onto his plate.
"Mm, do I smell Darjeeling?" he asked as he bent down to kiss her, in a much better mood now that he wasn't soaked to the bone. She didn't even turn or close her eyes; she was too preoccupied by the contents of the package he'd brought.
"Macarons!" she said, her eyes bright as she popped one whole into her mouth. Kazuya had no idea how she did that; she had such a tiny mouth to begin with, but when it came to sweets... he sighed but in a contented sort of way and took a seat in the armchair across the tea table.
"I take it I'm forgiven?" he asked pointedly as he rested his cheek on his open palm and watched her eat with gusto.
"Mm," she agreed. "For now."
"How magnanimous," he said sarcastically, stirring a lump of sugar into his tea. It smelled lovely, if indulgent. Victorique had probably bought it when he hadn't been paying attention; Kazuya was a lot more frugal with their savings than she was. He bit into the pastry she'd deemed to share with him, the familiar taste bringing him right back to those mornings spent at the student dorm canteen in Saubure.
"Why is it that I'm always more homesick for a country I only lived in for a short time than my actual homeland?" he asked wistfully, putting the canelé down.
"Perhaps your time in Saubure was simply more meaningful to you," Victorique said in that cool, matter-of-fact way of hers. "It probably helps that you don't have war trauma there either," she added as an afterthought. Kazuya grimaced.
"Delicate as ever, Victorique."
"Delicacy is for idiots. I speak my mind as I please."
"A fact I am only too aware of."
"Which reminds me," she said, putting down her teacup, her pinky touching down elegantly like a true noblewoman. She reached over to the chaise, where she'd left a small pile of books and a few other personal items. A moment later she picked something out and placed it on the table next to the teapot.
Kazuya saw it, was unable to process it as he raised his cup to his lips, and almost choked on his tea when recognition hit him a moment later.
"Is- IS THAT MY REVOLVER, VICTORIQUE?!" he cried, blanching.
"It is," she said simply, cutting up her pastry with a butter knife. "With a full chamber as of an hour ago," she explained as easily as if they were discussing the weather.
"B-but why?! I didn't even know you knew where I kept it!!"
Victorique gave him a pitying sort of look. "Really, Kujo, what a thing to say. Of course I know where you keep the revolver, the whole point of having it is in case of emergencies."
Kazuya spluttered, still trying to come to terms with the loaded gun on his parlor table. "W-Well, yes, but why is it here now?!"
Victorique shrugged, sipping her tea. "In case I need to shoot someone, isn't that obvious?"
He gaped at her, utterly lost. "You're going to have to explain in much more detail than that," he groaned, gingerly picking up the revolver to ensure the safety was engaged. A soldier he might have been, but Kazuya hated firearms with a passion. He kept one only out of an excess of caution; after everything he and Victorique had been through, he felt it would be the height of idiocy not to keep at least one readily available weapon to protect themselves with.
His wife put down her fork, clearly annoyed, and recounted her run-in with the policeman and the mark she'd found in the garden.
"Victorique!" Kazuya cried, aghast. "How could you confront him by yourself like that?!"
"There wasn't any threat," she scoffed, shaking her head. "We were facing the street, and there were still passerby close enough that he wouldn't have dared to try anything violent. Besides, he wasn't carrying any weapons or tools besides the lamp. The fountain of wisdom told me he was only after something specific, something he'd been asked to find."
"...Which was?" Kazuya asked, unable to resist the allure of a mystery. He wouldn't have married a girl like Victorique if he weren't naturally attracted to the mystique of the unknown.
Victorique reached for the book she'd been reading earlier and flipped it open to a dog-eared page.
"One of these," she said, handing it to him. Kazuya took the book and read the heading:
Symboles occultes des îles nordiques : les runes
"Nordic runes?" he asked, confused.
"I believe so, though the rune in question isn't in this book or any others that I looked though," Victorique frowned as she took a piece of paper and a pen from her things. "It doesn't seem to be an alphabetic or syllabic character in any of the common sets, though it resembles them enough in shape that I'm almost certain there's a common linguistic ancestor." She carefully traced something on the paper and handed it to him. "This was the one I found, you can see the similarity."
He studied her drawing. The rune was deceptively simple, a series of short overlapping lines that formed a branch-like shape. A quick glance at the book's sparse chart confirmed that it wasn't included.
"Perhaps a runic dictionary?" he asked, flipping through the pages. "This is just an introduction on the topic, isn't it?"
"My thoughts exactly. Unfortunately, we don't have one," she said, displeased. "I've read every book in this house at least once, and that's the most comprehensive treatise we own on the subject."
"Hmm," Kazuya said, reading the section more closely. "Are runes really occult? I thought they were just an old writing system."
"They're based on Old Norse mythology," Victorique explained, spreading jam on a scone. "So some so-called practitioners of magic have incorporated them over the ages. They're thought to carry power when inscribed on things, or when used to channel spells."
"What kind of spells?"
"I'm not a witch, Kujo, how would I know?"
"You always seem to know a bit of everything," he shrugged.
"Ha ha," she said sarcastically. "I have too little information on the subject to deduce why someone would want to etch a rune on the inside of the garden wall, or why that bumbling constable knew it was there-"
"He didn't put it there?" Kazuya asked, surprised.
"The edges of the carving were smooth enough that I'm certain it's been there for quite a long time."
"How long?"
"Again, how would I know?!" Victorique snapped. "You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?!"
Kazuya coughed, pretending to be engrossed in reading.
"All I can say is that the rune might have something to do with the serial murders, though it's still possible it predates them," she said, frowning at nothing in particular, her eyes unfocused. "It's such a tiny fragment, I can't really make it fit in yet."
"What about the constable?"
Victorique chewed thoughtfully on her scone. "Well, there is a possibility he's investigating the murders, but it seems unlikely that the case is still active after two years without leads. There was also plenty of time to investigate the place before it was sold if that were the case. Why would he have waited until the new owners settled in to come looking around? That tells me he was here for something else, a personal mission of some kind. Something to do with us, or at least, something that's made our residence here troublesome. For instance, if he were convinced something valuable was hidden here, he might be trying to find it before we do. A treasure hunt, perhaps."
"Whatever for?"
"I haven't the slightest, Kujo. I'm as much a stranger to this city as you are."
"Kazuya," he corrected with a sigh. "Really, would it kill you to try to remember your own husband's name, Victorique? It does hurt my feelings somewhat that you don't seem to care."
Victorique blinked at him, bright green eyes wide with surprise. "Of course I care, what are you talking about, Kujo?!"
"... Now you're just doing that on purpose!"
"It was too perfect to pass up," she admitted with a tiny smile. She got to her feet and came around to his side of the table, holding her hand up toward him with a pretty blush on her face. "We can finish this conversation tomorrow, it's getting late. Here, I'll even let you have the honor of escorting me to bed, so stop sulking like a child, Kazuya."
Kazuya couldn't help it, he laughed.
"Victorique, you're so dishonest," he chuckled, pressing a hand to her cheek as he kissed the tip of her nose. "But thank you, for using my name properly," he added, warmed by her roundabout affection.
She blushed harder, her whole face reddening.
"S-Shut up, are you going to take my hand or not?!" she insisted.
"Mm, yes, of course," he said, feeling a little hot under the collar as he placed his fingers in hers to accept her invitation.
Sometimes, Kazuya thought it was a little silly that they could still be so nervous about this sort of thing after being married for almost a year, but as the saying went, 'the more things changed...'
The finishing touches on the office downstairs were completed a week later, and all that was left before Victorique could officially go into business was the filing of her permit at city hall. Kazuya offered to take her, of course, but his job at the reporter's office was proving to be just as time-consuming as Victorique had feared it would be, and he had yet to find a suitable time to escort her.
"Forget it, I'll go by myself," Victorique announced one morning as Kazuya prepared breakfast at the stove.
"No, no, I'm sure I can get an hour or two off today, or maybe tomorrow..." he began, breaking an egg over the pan.
"No, you won't," Victorique grumbled, reading the morning paper with her pipe already lit. "You've been saying that for days, and I'm tired of sitting around, bored out of my mind while I wait for you to come home. City hall isn't that far, I can take a carriage and walk there and back easily enough."
Kazuya frowned, clearly unhappy. "I don't know, Victorique, this city is huge and-"
"I'm so small?" she finished for him, glaring over the newspaper.
"Well... it just seems unsafe to let a young lady wander around by herself in this monster of a city... Just the traffic alone is dangerous, and people are always in such a bad mood... and there are muggers, gangsters, kidnappers-"
"And serial murderers, yes, I am quite aware of that, Kujo," she scoffed. "But I'm not a helpless child, idiot."
"Obviously, I know that," he said. "And I know I'm being a little overprotective, but can you really blame me?"
Victorique sighed and folded the paper away. "I suppose I can see where you might think you need to coddle me, but don't forget Kujo, I made my way from Saubure to Japan on my own; I'm perfectly capable of walking across the city in the middle of the day without any fuss. Besides, I don't need your permission," she snapped as he opened his mouth to argue.
"Well, no, you don't," Kazuya admitted as he lowered the heat and set a kettle to boil. "You know I'd never think I could order you around-"
"Then it's settled, I'll go today. I've also been meaning to visit the library and see if I can't find a better book on runes."
He gave her an exasperated sort of grimace over his shoulder. "Will you at least take the revolver with you?"
"If it makes you feel better," she grumbled. "But I almost certainly won't use it, even in a dangerous situation. It's more efficient to think my way out of trouble."
"Take it anyway," he said firmly, sliding a plate of eggs and kippers in front of her.
A little under an hour later, they left the house together, Victorique dressed in her usual lacy finery and Kazuya in a jacket and suspenders, a fat new notepad tucked into his shirt breast pocket.
"Be careful, please," Kujo said as he tied a loose strap on her frilly hairband at the corner.
"I know," Victorique said, rolling her eyes at the fuss. "Really, Kujo, you act as though I'm completely inept by myself."
"Well... not inept, but you do like finding trouble..."
She glared at him. "I'll find you some trouble if you finish that sentence," she snapped. Kazuya huffed and bent down to kiss her cheek.
"Yes, yes. I'll see you in the evening, Victorique."
"Mm," she replied, watching as he crossed the street in the opposite direction. "Oh, and don't find any mysteries I can't help you with, Kazuya!" she called as he reached the next corner. He smiled and waved at her before turning out of sight. "Now then," she said to herself, smoothing out her skirts. She set off toward the edge of the residential district they lived in, consulting her mental map as she went.
City Hall Park was one of the best places to dive in the city, provided the thief in question was skilled enough to remain unnoticed. A lot of fancier folks came by on business, and though there wasn't much crowd cover compared to somewhere like the subway lines, fourteen-year-old Niamh had discovered that a successful dive often yielded much fatter wallets than usual; the danger of getting caught was higher though, and not that many of Niamh's usual gang were willing to risk it.
"Just work the streets like the rest o' us," they told her, but Niamh was tired of scraping by on spare change and sleeping in dark alley corners with a bunch of other street kids. Besides, she'd started to go into puberty, and it was much harder for her to pretend to be a boy now than it used to be; the risks were much higher for a homeless girl on her own.
If I can just steal 'nough to get myself together, I can get the 'ell outta this shithole... she thought, tugging at the binding she was using to hide her burgeoning chest with a wince. The worn old suspenders she was wearing were really chafing her these days, and she was in desperate need of new clothes to accommodate her growth spurt. She pulled the patched old newsboy cap over her green eyes, watching the passerby in the park from under the brim.
Several smart-looking men in suits hurried past, checking their expensive watches and carrying their leather briefcases on their way to work, and a group of young ladies in short, fashionable dresses walked leisurely through the tree-lined paths. Neither were particularly good targets in the open. The men were irritable about getting to their destinations and over-sensitive about anything that might slow them down, while ladies in groups were terribly sharp and were wont to start loud drama if they noticed something off. Niamh scowled as she leaned against a tree, impatient.
Just a little more, a few more dollars and she could afford a train ticket out west. Niamh didn't really know where she was going, or what she would do when she got there, but anything was better than being stuck in New York for the rest of her life, where the only future she had was in a brothel somewhere, like her deadbeat, drunk mother. Niamh had escaped that life once already, and she was not about to go back if she could help it.
C'mon, c'mon, gimme a mark, anythin'... she thought as the hours ticked by slowly and her stomach started to growl. She had just about given up on the idea of stealing enough for a breakfast pastry when she noticed someone rather odd entering the park.
It was a little girl, smaller even than Niamh, dressed from head to toe in the most ridiculous getup the young thief had ever seen. Her black and white puffy skirts went all the way down to her ankles, and they were covered in lace and all sorts of flouncy decorations Niamh didn't even have names for. The girl's sleeves covered her arms down to her wrists, and there was a thick lace choker around her tiny little neck. Even then, none of that could compare to the shocking sight of her hair, an unbelievably long curtain of carefully brushed silver tresses that almost fell as far as her skirts did. An ornate hairband kept it from her face, a strangely blank sort of face, though no less beautiful for it. Her eyes were green like Niamh's, but wider, and her nose and mouth were such perfect little touches on her pale skin that if she hadn't been clearly walking down the path, Niamh would have sworn they belonged to one of those pretty old dolls she sometimes saw in shop windows.
The 'ell did this kid come from, a talkie or somethin'? She watched, awed, as the girl climbed the stairs into the city hall building and vanished behind the door. Rich people ain't got better uses for their cash than dressing their kids up in all sorts of weird crap, huh.
Niamh forgot all about the girl as she spotted her first viable target of the day and got to work. She managed to rob a couple more passerby over the next hour and was counting her spoils behind a bush when she heard a high pitched voice arguing with a man nearby, and she peeked through the foliage to find that same weird girl facing down a dapper-looking fellow.
"I said I do not require your assistance!" the girl was saying angrily. Even her accent was posh as hell, though Niamh couldn't place it. British? Def ain't Irish, at least. Sounds weird for a Brit though, like she's gargling the words or somethin'.
"Aw, don't be like that, doll, I'm just tryin' to help you out," the man was saying, his voice suspiciously over-friendly. Niamh narrowed her eyes, she'd heard men use that tone with kids before, and it never ended well.
"I neither want nor need your help, and I will call a constable if you don't leave me be this instant!" the girl threatened, bristling with indignation. Niamh was wondering why she was quite so worked up when she shifted her position slightly and realized the man had taken her wrist and was gripping it with obvious force.
Without thinking, Niamh rolled out of the bushes and ran to help.
"Oi, you! Who d'you fuckin' think you are, grabbin' someone's lil' sister!" she shouted, loud enough to attract the attention of anyone who might be passing by. She strode forward, putting on her best tough-as-nails street boy act, and shoved the man aside as she stepped between him and the girl.
The girl made a small noise, almost like a snort, but she thankfully said nothing as Niamh poked her finger into the man's chest.
"Beat it, creep!" she snarled. "Fuckin' nasty pedo, goin' after little kids in broad daylight!"
The man flushed with anger. "What the- I'm not doin' anythin' to her! I just thought she might be lost and needed help-"
"Oh sure ya did," Niamh scoffed. "Well she don't need you to do that, she's got 'er brother now so you better chase yourself outta 'ere before I report you for attempted kidnappin'!"
He gave a loud, rude laugh. "Brother?! Yeah, and my ma's the damn Queen of Sheba! No way a kid that well-dressed is related to you. When was the last time you took a bath, eh? And that dirty mop of red hair tells me you're just some Irish street trash. I bet you're just tryin' to rob her by playin' hero-"
There was a shrill, ear-splitting scream behind her, and Niamh jumped from the shock of it.
"HELP! THIS MAN IS TRYING TO KIDNAP MY BROTHER AND I!! HELP!!"
Several people on the street outside the park hurried toward the noise, and Niamh spotted a cop parting the crowd. The man paled and clutched his hat, trying to make a run for it.
"There he goes, Officer!" Niamh shouted, pointing at him. "Quick, 'fore he molests some other little girl!" The officer nodded at her and tipped his hat at them as he ran past.
"Oi! Stop you!"
Niamh and the girl watched them go, and the former breathed a sigh of relief.
"Molest?" the girl said with a look of distaste. "He only grabbed my wrist."
"I know 'is type," Niamh shrugged. "Still, sorry 'bout that, you copacetic?"
The girl blinked at her blankly. "Am I what?"
"You know. Copacetic. A'right."
"Well, yes, I suppose so, other than the culture shock at... whatever language that's supposed to be," the girl said, shaking her head. "He was more of a coward than I thought, but I had it under control. Still, I thank you for trying to help, Mademoiselle."
Niamh frowned. "What's that mean?"
"It's French. It means 'young lady,'" the girl said, and to Niamh's shock she pulled out a lovely ceramic pipe and a box of matches from some unfathomable pocket in her skirts. She struck the match easily and lit the pipe, lifting it to her mouth as though it were perfectly normal for little girls to smoke pipes in the middle of a park.
"How did you-?!"
"Know you were a woman? All the fragments were there, it was easy enough. You look distinctly uncomfortable in those suspenders, and your shirt is worn enough that you can just make out the bindings you're using on your chest. You should stop that, by the way, it's bad for your health," she said, blowing a puff of smoke. "That, plus the softness of your face and the high pitch of your voice, your relatively small feet and hands, and the care you've put into covering your hair; all those details are more than enough for the Fountain of Wisdom to reconstruct the truth."
Niamh frowned. This child made less sense than any adult she'd ever spoken to.
"You're too well-groomed to be a boy," the doll-girl said flatly, raising an eyebrow when it was clear Niamh was confused.
"Oh."
"Anyway, he caught me by surprise, grabbing a lady's hand like that out of nowhere, but I would've figured it out," she shrugged. "Still, I appreciate your good intentions..." she regarded Niamh carefully, lost in thought. "Hm, you live on the streets, don't you?"
Niamh snapped out of her stupor and immediately went on the defensive. "Y-yeah, what's it to you?"
"I'm just impressed," the girl said. "A young girl surviving alone in this city must have a good head on her shoulders. And a nimble hand, if the pocket of change bulging in your trousers is anything to go by."
The thief immediately clapped her hand over her pocket. "D-Don't you tell no coppers, or... or-!"
"Or you'll stammer at me?" the girl scoffed. "Spare me the intimidation tactics. I'm not easily frightened." She tapped her pipe and lazily scattered the ashes on the sidewalk. "Are you interested in earning a dollar or two doing honest work for once?"
Niamh squinted suspiciously at her. "Why?"
"I'm on my way to the public library, and I could use some help carrying books home," the doll-girl shrugged. "As you can probably surmise, I'm not particularly built for heavy lifting, and my husband is working-"
"HUSBAND?!" Niamh spluttered. "WHAT?! HOW OLD ARE YOU?!"
The girl gave her an affronted look, clearly insulted. "I am twenty-one years old, and it's rude to inquire a lady's age, girl."
"You're older than me?!" Niamh said aghast, and for the first time she noticed the wedding ring on the girl's left hand. "An adult?!"
"Obviously," the girl said, irked. "Do you want the job or not?"
"W-well, I mean, I do, but... why employ a diver, er... ma'am?" Niamh said, doffing her cap nervously. "Can't you go to one of 'em labor service places and hire someone upstandin'?"
"Because I don't feel like it, simple as that. Besides, you wouldn't be able to rob me if you tried, believe me."
For some reason, Niamh did.
"Well... a'ight, I'll do it then," she said slowly. "But like you said, I'm a girl so I probably can't carry much-"
"Ha! You may be a woman, but you're clearly well built nonetheless. I'd expect nothing less from a city girl."
"Er... thanks? I guess? I s'pose I do a'ight on my own..."
"Perfect. Let's go then." The girl began to walk off briskly when she seemed to remember something and turned back to offer her hand. "Oh, my name is Victorique Kujo. I'm a private detective, and you are?"
"Oh, Niamh's my name," she said, shaking her tiny hand.
"Neev?" Victorique frowned as they set off down the street. "How is that spelled?"
"N-I-A-M-H, ma'am. 'S Irish."
"Second generation?"
"Third, s'why I ain't got an accent."
"Oh you have one," Victorique scoffed. "It's just not Irish is all."
"Well so d'you!" Niamh said, a little annoyed by the woman's snotty attitude.
"Indeed, I'm from Saubure," she said, waving the girl's irritation away. "No one seems to understand half of what I say here, I don't know how anyone can stand calling this English. Even Japanese is more elegant than this."
"You know Japanese?" Niamh asked, curious.
"I lived in Japan for a few years," she said stiffly as they made their way down the street. "But no, I don't. That's my husband's tongue, not mine."
"You're married to a Ni-?" Niamh was about to say, but the vicious glare Victorique shot her reminded her it was probably a bad idea to use a slur when talking about someone's husband to their face. "Er, I mean, to a Japanese man?"
"Yes I am, and seeing as you're also a minority in this country, Miss Niamh, I'd think you'd know better than to use hateful slurs to dehumanize others."
"S-sorry, it's just what everyone calls 'em..."
"So be better than them," the lady said simply. "Since you can spell, I assume you can read?" she asked after a moment of silence.
"Er, yeah, more or less. Why?"
"Good, it'll make finding what I need easier."
As much as Victorique was sure she could run her errands alone, she was pleasantly surprised to find that having a city-born helper like Niamh around made dealing with the various annoyances of an unfamiliar country much less troublesome. The girl was very quick on the uptake, and as soon as she'd shown her the type of rune she was looking for, she'd scurried off and roped half the library staff into helping them look for what they needed. It was a nice change; Victorique's dealings with the officials at City Hall had been a fiasco, in which she had to prove she was who she said she was, and that she was the actual person who needed the permit to open an investigator's office. Everyone seemed to take Niamh more seriously, and though that annoyed Victorique, she wasn't about to turn down good help.
"Why're you lookin' for this squiggle, ma'am?" the girl asked as they left the library several hours later, carrying several reference texts that Victorique thought might come in useful. "If you don't mind me askin'."
"Just curiosity for the most part," Victorique said vaguely. "I get bored very easily, it's a way to pass the time. The house my husband and I bought once belonged to a serial killer-"
The girl dropped the books all over the sidewalk. "You live in the Cannibal 'Ouse?!"
"The what now?"
"The Cannibal 'Ouse!! The one that belonged to that one weirdo what ate all them folks!"
Victorique raised an eyebrow. "That's a new version of the story I hadn't heard yet. I don't know about cannibalism, but a prolific murderer did dismember quite a few people there, yes."
"Why the 'ell would a fancy lady like yourself buy a creepy place like that?!"
"Simple. It was very affordable."
Niamh stared at her as though she were a madwoman, but Victorique felt no need to explain further as she bent down to pick up the borrowed books.
"It's no more haunted than my boots, I assure you," she said as she handed each volume over. "But if you're afraid, you needn't come in. I'll pay you at the gate and you can leave the things there."
"I ain't 'fraid," Niamh muttered, but Victorique wasn't fooled.
"Of course not."
And the murder house claims yet another superstitious victim, she sighed inwardly.