Without a word, Holmes moved through the room, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. He inspected Estalia's violin case, the shattered device, and the strange ID card now lying under a cracked glass paperweight.
He picked up the ID between two fingers, his mouth twisting slightly in disdain.
"A children's toy," he muttered, his voice carrying easily through the silence. "Or a magician's prop, perhaps."
Estalia, exhausted and cornered, forced herself to speak. "It's real," she said, her voice trembling but defiant. "I don't know how I got here, but I'm not lying."
Holmes' gaze shifted to her fully now, assessing her.
There was no sympathy in his stare — only cold analysis.
"And yet," he murmured, "you lie.
Or worse — you believe your own delusions."
Estalia flinched, the sharpness of his words cutting deeper than she expected. She opened her mouth to defend herself again, but Holmes silenced her with a single raised finger.
"Not my concern," he said flatly, turning away as though she were no more than a puzzle piece that did not fit.
He addressed the senior sergeant without looking back.
"Send for Mr. Edwin Blackwood. You'll find him at that absurd little antique shop on Millstone Street — the one cluttered with western curiosities and trinkets. He has a talent for distinguishing between genuine relics and clever fakes."
The sergeant hesitated, clearly unsure. "But sir, he's just a—"
Holmes cut him off with a thin, humorless smile.
"Exactly.
Sometimes it takes a man drowning in frauds to recognize a treasure... or a lie."
Without another word, Holmes adjusted his coat and disappeared into the fog once more, leaving behind a charged silence.
Estalia sat frozen on the bench, her thoughts racing.
She had crossed into a different time — and a different kind of danger.
And soon, she would meet the man who might decide her fate: Edwin Blackwood.
The minutes stretched endlessly.
The cold of the station seeped into Estalia's bones as she sat on the rough bench, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying not to tremble — whether from the chill or the fear, she wasn't sure anymore.
Around her, the policemen spoke in low, grim voices, casting occasional glances her way.
Snippets of conversation drifted to her ears.
"Another body found in Whitechapel this morning..."
"Same marks — throat cut, and the symbol carved into the skin."
"Inspector Lestrade's pulling his hair out. The papers are calling it The Crescent Killer now."
Estalia stiffened. Murder? Symbols?
She looked down at her violin case, feeling suddenly and absurdly vulnerable.
What have I stumbled into?
The door creaked open again.
This time, a man in his early forties entered, carrying with him the heavy scent of old parchment and wood varnish.
Edwin Blackwood did not look like a savior.
He wore a simple brown overcoat and dark trousers dusted with the faint powder of old wood shavings. His hair was peppered with gray at the temples, and a pair of thin spectacles perched precariously on his nose. Sharp blue eyes swept over the station with a quick, precise glance — the eyes of a man used to valuing objects, not people.
A sergeant approached him quickly.
"Mr. Blackwood. Thank you for coming. She's the... subject Holmes wanted you to see."
Blackwood's gaze landed on Estalia, curious but not immediately hostile.
He approached, his boots tapping softly against the cracked stone floor.
"So," he said, voice low and even, "you're the lost traveler."
Estalia hesitated. Then she nodded, clutching her violin case closer.
Blackwood knelt slightly, inspecting the case and the broken phone without touching them.
He murmured almost to himself, "Materials... craftsmanship... neither English nor of this century."
Rising, he studied her face more closely.
"What's your name?"
"...Estalia," she said after a pause.
"Unusual."
He straightened and addressed the sergeant:
"I'll take responsibility for her, for now. She won't get any answers rotting behind your bars."
The sergeant looked reluctant. "Orders?"
"Holmes gave me authority," Blackwood said curtly. "You can lodge a formal complaint if you wish. Good day, gentlemen."
Before Estalia could protest, Blackwood gestured for her to follow.
Stumbling a little, she obeyed, desperate to escape the oppressive walls.
---
Outside, the evening was falling fast.
The sky was a bruised purple, the lamplighters moving through the mist with long poles, kindling tiny golden flames against the encroaching darkness.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Estalia kept stealing glances at Blackwood — this stranger who had plucked her from one danger, but might be leading her into another.
Finally, he spoke without looking at her.
"You're not from here. That much is obvious.
Not just London... ."
She swallowed hard. "I... I don't know how to explain it."
"I don't need you to."
He stopped walking and turned to her, his face serious under the flickering lamplight.
"But you must be careful.
London is no safe place right now — especially not for a girl carrying unknown devices, speaking strangely, and drawing attention."
Estalia hugged herself, her thin jacket no protection against the cold. "I heard... at the station. Murders?"
Blackwood nodded grimly.
"Six bodies so far.
All women.
All mutilated — a crescent symbol carved over their hearts."
Estalia's breath caught. "That's horrible..."
"And worse," he added, voice dropping lower, "some say the symbols are not random. They're old — older than the city itself.
Symbols of forbidden things.
Some whisper that the killer is not... entirely human."
The streetlamp above them buzzed and flickered. Estalia shivered.
Blackwood noticed, and with an unexpected gentleness, he shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.
"You'll stay at my shop tonight," he said.
"At least there, you'll have walls between you and the fog."
Estalia clutched the coat gratefully, feeling the first stirrings of hope since this nightmare began.
But deep inside, fear coiled like a living thing.
She had crossed through time itself... only to find herself in a city gripped by terror — and by something far darker than she could have imagined.
Blackwood stopped walking, turning fully toward her beneath the flickering light of a gas lamp.
"That violin," he said slowly, voice low and cautious, "it's unusual."
Estalia hugged it closer to her chest, the worn leather case brushing against her coat.
"It belonged to my grandfather," she said quietly.
Blackwood's breath caught almost imperceptibly.
"Your grandfather?" he echoed.
She nodded, her voice gaining strength.
"His name was Alaric Blackwood.
He gave it to me when I was little... though I don't remember him well. I was told he traveled a lot. Always moving from place to place."
At the mention of the name, a visible shudder ran through Blackwood.
He stumbled back a step, his face losing color as though he had seen a ghost.
"Alaric..." he murmured, almost to himself.
"My brother."
Estalia looked up at him, startled by the raw emotion tightening his face.
Blackwood stared at the violin case, his hands trembling slightly.
"May I?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Estalia hesitated, then slowly opened the worn case.
Inside, the violin rested, polished lovingly, bearing the faded mark of intertwined crescent moons and vines.
Blackwood's hand hovered above it, his eyes filling with a glossy sheen.
"It's his," he said hoarsely.
"I'd know it anywhere."
He looked back at Estalia, something breaking open in his gaze — grief, wonder, something too old and deep for easy words.
"You're his granddaughter..." he said, his voice cracking slightly.
"My niece."
Estalia's breath hitched, a sudden warmth flooding through her — and an ache of belonging she hadn't realized she craved.
Blackwood stepped closer, his expression softening into something almost paternal.
"You're family," he said firmly.
"And you are not alone anymore."
He glanced down the misty road, then back at her, offering his arm like a proper gentleman.
"Come.
It's time you met the rest of us.
The home was warm, filled with the scent of firewood and faint traces of cinnamon.
Children's laughter echoed faintly from upstairs.
His wife, Marian, a woman with kind yet sharp eyes, met them at the door, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
"Another stray?" she teased warmly — until she saw Estalia's violin case and the look on her husband's face.
"No," Blackwood said, voice thick.
"This is Estalia.
Alaric's granddaughter."
Marian gasped softly, bringing a hand to her mouth.
"My God..." she whispered.
Estalia shifted awkwardly, overwhelmed by the sudden weight of their stares.
"And she's ours now," Blackwood said, with a gentle finality.
Inside, the Blackwood house was warm and surprisingly well-kept, though the furnishings spoke of a once-grand past now slightly faded. Heavy velvet drapes covered the windows, and a large fireplace crackled in the sitting room to the right, casting long dancing shadows against the walls lined with books and old paintings.
"Take off your coat, child," Blackwood said, his voice less formal now, with a note of tired kindness.
He hung her damp cloak on a brass hook near the door before leading her deeper inside.
Marian approached and offered a gentle hand.
"Welcome to our home, dear. You must be cold and hungry."
Estalia hesitated, then shook her hand lightly, murmuring, "Thank you… Mrs. Blackwood."
A boy about seventeen appeared at the top of the stairs, curious. His features mirrored his father's — sharp, angular — but his gaze was softer, more questioning. Behind him, a younger boy, perhaps fifteen, peered out shyly.
"Edward, Thomas," Marian called, "come greet our guest."
The boys descended, offering polite nods and reserved smiles.
"Come," Blackwood said, motioning toward the dining room.
"Let us sit and eat. There's time for questions later."
---
The dining room was a narrow, dim space lined with more bookshelves and a worn but sturdy table at its center. Estalia slid onto one of the chairs, her violin bag carefully laid across her lap like a shield.
Dinner was simple but hearty: beef stew with thick slices of bread, roasted potatoes, and a dark, fragrant tea.
As the family settled, Marian served portions with a mother's efficiency, while Edwin poured wine into simple, mismatched goblets.
Conversation began slowly, cautiously.
"You've come a long way," Edward remarked between mouthfuls, his voice curious but polite.
"From which part of the Latin countries do you hail?"
Estalia stirred her tea carefully before answering.
"I lived... near the southern coasts. Near the forests and rivers. It is warmer there than here."
"Must be strange for you," Thomas said, wide-eyed.
"London is all smoke and fog, isn't it?"
Estalia allowed herself a small smile.
"Yes... and cold," she said, rubbing her hands for effect, drawing light laughter from the boys.
Marian smiled warmly at her.
"You are most welcome here, Estalia. You must think of this house as your home, for however long you need."
Estalia bowed her head slightly in gratitude, even as her heart twisted with guilt at the half-truths she had to tell.
---
As the meal progressed, the conversation shifted.
"There was another murder last night," Edwin said grimly, setting down his goblet.
"Whitechapel again. The papers say it was... worse than the others."
Marian flinched slightly.
"I wish you wouldn't talk of such things at the table, Edwin."
"It's better she knows, Marian," he said firmly, his gaze shifting to Estalia.
"These streets aren't safe. Especially for young women."
Edward leaned in, his voice lowered as if the fog might carry their words beyond the house.
"Some say it's a creature, not a man. Some say... it's the work of the devil."
Thomas scoffed but glanced nervously at the curtained windows.
Estalia sipped her tea slowly, hiding her unease.
She had witnessed horrors before — strange things — but nothing about this place felt stable. The air was thick, as if something unseen watched from the mist outside.
"We lock the doors at night," Marian said reassuringly to her.
"And Alaric has his hunting rifle if need be."
The talk faded into quieter discussions — work at the antique shop, supplies needed for winter, Edward's interest in studying engineering, Thomas's mischievous tales of misadventures at the market.
For the first time, Estalia allowed herself to relax slightly, basking in the warm, imperfect humanity of the Blackwood family.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the fireplace burned low, Marian guided Estalia to a small guest room upstairs. The bed was narrow but clean, piled with thick quilts. A single oil lamp burned on a low dresser beside the window.
"Rest well, dear," Marian said, brushing Estalia's hair from her forehead in a motherly gesture before quietly leaving.
Estalia stood for a long time, staring out into the foggy London night.
The lamplight from the streets painted long ribbons of gold through the mist.
Far away, a church bell tolled midnight.
She tightened her arms around herself, feeling the chill of the unknown press against the window glass.
She was safe for now.
But the night, and the city beyond, were restless.
In the Blackwood household — no, the Edwin Blackwood household — she found herself gradually stitched into the family's daily life like a piece of mismatched cloth into an old, beloved quilt.
The first morning after her arrival, Marian appeared at her door with an armful of clothes.
"They're not new," she said apologetically, "but they are clean and decent. I've mended them myself."
The garments were plain: a high-necked blouse of soft cream linen, a dark gray skirt that brushed the tops of her boots, and a heavy woolen shawl for the biting London cold. Still, to Estalia, they felt like costumes for a life she had never dreamed she would play.
Standing before the cracked mirror in her small room, she barely recognized herself.
Gone were the foreign fabrics, the strange modern cuts of her old clothes.
Here stood a young woman of London — modest, anonymous, quietly woven into the city's grayness.
Her violin case still rested under the bed, a hidden reminder of the world she had lost.
---
Downstairs, Edwin was already at the table, sipping thick coffee and reading the day's paper. He glanced up over the rim of his cup when she entered, setting the paper down.
"You clean up well, lass," he said gruffly, though there was a warmth behind his words that softened the roughness of his voice.
"Could almost mistake you for one of my own."
Estalia gave a small, shy smile, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.
"I'm grateful... Uncle Edwin," she said, carefully testing the new name she was allowed to use — and finding a strange comfort in it.
He chuckled under his breath.
"Uncle Edwin. That'll take some getting used to."
Marian, bustling in from the kitchen with a tray of bread and jam, shot him a look.
"It suits you. Perhaps you'll remember to behave properly for once, now that you're a role model."
The boys, Edward and Thomas, grinned from their seats.
"Don't worry," Thomas stage-whispered to Estalia.
"He's not so bad. Just loud."
"Oi!" Edwin barked in mock offense, making Thomas and Edward burst into laughter.
Estalia's laughter came more hesitantly, like a door creaking open after years of disuse. But it came nonetheless.
---
That afternoon, Marian insisted on taking her to the market for proper boots and gloves.
The streets were crowded with the restless pulse of London: newspaper boys shouting headlines about the 'Ripper' murders still unsolved, factory workers with soot-blackened faces, ladies in pressed skirts and bonnets chattering near the butcher stalls.
Estalia kept close to Marian's side, feeling the heavy gazes of strangers prickling her skin — not out of malice, but curiosity. Her features still marked her as an outsider: the olive tone of her skin, the slightly wilder curl of her dark hair, the luminous sea-glass hue of her eyes.
"Let them look," Marian whispered, squeezing her hand gently.
"You're family now. Hold your head high."
In the bustling stalls, they found her a sturdy pair of lace-up boots and a pair of thick gray gloves lined with wool. Marian even splurged on a simple ribbon of dark blue silk for her hair.
---
By the time they returned home, the sky was heavy with early evening fog.
Edwin was in the sitting room, adjusting the display of curiosities for his shop — an assortment of old books, brass instruments, worn maps, and peculiar little artifacts from forgotten times.
He looked up as they entered and gave an approving grunt.
"Now that you look the part," he said, "you'll be helping at the shop. If you like, of course."
Estalia blinked, surprised.
"You would trust me with that?"
"You've sharp eyes," Edwin replied, polishing the face of an old clock.
"And quicker wit than most. Might be good for business to have a new face behind the counter."
Marian nodded approvingly from the doorway.
"Besides, it'll do you good to keep busy. Easier to sleep when your head's tired, not your heart."
There was a silence between them, heavy but kind.
Estalia lowered her eyes, feeling an unexpected sting behind them.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt something almost like belonging — a fragile seed of home taking root among strangers who had no reason to offer her kindness.
"I'll do my best," she said softly.
---
That night, as the fog pressed thick against the windows and the city pulsed faintly in the distance, Estalia lay in her bed listening to the creak of the old house and the muffled sounds of life below.
She clutched the new gloves to her chest, feeling their rough wool beneath her fingers.
They weren't much — just simple, everyday things — but to her, they were a gift heavier and more precious than gold.
Outside, London slept uneasily, haunted by fears of unseen monsters.
But within the walls of the Blackwood house,
The early days of Estalia's new life passed with a quiet, steady rhythm.
Each morning, just as the first pale slant of sunlight struggled through the gray London mist, she would rise, tie her dark hair back with Marian's gifted ribbon, and help her uncle's wife with the housework: scrubbing the floors, polishing the worn wooden bannisters, and learning to make simple meals with the limited ingredients they could afford.
Despite the simplicity of it all, Estalia found comfort in the routine — in the smell of baking bread, the crackle of the fireplace, the faint murmur of life around her.
When the household chores were done, she would don her shawl and sturdy boots, and walk briskly down the street to Blackwood Antiques and Curiosities, where Uncle Edwin awaited her.
The little shop was a world unto itself: dim, cramped, and overflowing with relics of bygone eras. Old clocks chimed out of time, maps yellowed by age curled at the corners, and rows of glass cabinets gleamed with silver trinkets and curious artifacts.
Edwin would greet her with a gruff nod — which she had come to recognize as his version of affection — and set her to work dusting shelves, sorting through new acquisitions, or polishing brass instruments until they gleamed.
---
It was on one such morning, while Estalia was carefully arranging a set of ancient, leather-bound books in a display case, that the shop's bell tinkled — sharp and clear — announcing a visitor.
She glanced up, and immediately felt a curious chill ripple down her spine.
The man who entered did not belong to the ordinary crowd that usually haunted Edwin's shop.
He was tall, lean, and carried himself with a precise, effortless grace. His skin was pale under the muted light, his hair a refined mix of blond and soft brown, brushed back neatly beneath a tall black hat.
But it was his eyes that struck her most:
Dark gold, almost amber, with a cold, calculating gleam — like the eyes of a predator studying its prey.
His clothes were luxurious but restrained: a fine black coat with silver buttons, a cream waistcoat embroidered subtly with ivy patterns, and black leather gloves. Everything about him spoke of wealth, control... and something hidden.
Something dangerous.
---
Edwin looked up from behind the counter, his expression sharpening at the sight of the stranger.
"Good morning, sir," Edwin said, voice neutral but watchful. "What can I do for you?"
The man removed his hat politely, revealing neatly combed hair. His smile was courteous, almost warm, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Good morning," the man replied smoothly.
"I was told that you might be the person to speak to about certain... real estate matters."
He had an accent that Estalia couldn't quite place — English, certainly, but tinged with something else, something foreign and elegant.
"I'm seeking a residence," he continued, "something fitting. Private. And I was informed that the old Blackwood House remains vacant."
Edwin stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"The Blackwood House is not for the common market," he said gruffly. "Family property. Special conditions."
The stranger's lips curled into a slight, knowing smile.
"I assure you," he said, pulling a card from his coat and placing it on the counter, "I am not 'common market.'"
Edwin picked up the card and squinted at it.
Professor James William Moriarty
Department of Mathematics, University of Turin
There was a brief, heavy silence between them.
"I have recently relocated from Italy," Moriarty said conversationally, removing his gloves and setting them neatly beside the card. "I seek a quiet place to work. The Blackwood House is perfectly located — secluded, respectable."
He paused, his gaze flickering briefly to Estalia — studying her with the sharp precision of a knife slipping between ribs — before turning back to Edwin.
Estalia pretended to focus on the books, though every nerve in her body was alert.
---
Edwin exhaled heavily, tapping the card against the wood.
"It's not as simple as signing a lease. The Blackwood House... has a history. And obligations."
Moriarty leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
"I am not a superstitious man, Mr. Blackwood. Nor do I fear 'history.' I am offering you a respectable arrangement. Payment in advance. Discretion guaranteed."
Edwin hesitated.
Something about the man unsettled him — something hidden behind the courteous tone and polished manners. Yet the offer was generous. Very generous, if the way Moriarty spoke of money was any indication.
Still, the old shopkeeper wasn't a fool.
"You would need to abide by certain rules," Edwin said finally. "No strangers traipsing in and out. No alterations to the structure. No... disturbances."
Moriarty smiled faintly.
"You have my word," he said.
"I desire nothing but solitude."
---
At last, Edwin nodded slowly.
"We'll draft terms," he said. "Come by tomorrow. We'll talk properly."
Moriarty dipped his head in polite agreement and turned to leave. At the door, he paused, his golden eyes settling once more on Estalia.
"And you, Miss...?"
Estalia straightened instinctively under his gaze.
"Estalia," she said softly.
He inclined his head slightly, as if tucking the name away.
"A pleasure, Miss Estalia," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.
"Until we meet again."
With that, he stepped into the misty street beyond, disappearing as quickly and quietly as he had arrived.
---
As the door swung shut behind him, Estalia turned to Edwin, who was still frowning down at the card.
"Uncle..." she said hesitantly, "do you trust him?"
Edwin grunted.
"Trust? No." He slid the card into his pocket. "But sometimes, girl, you don't need to trust a man to do business with him. You just need to know how dangerous he is."
And somehow, Estalia had the gnawing, unshakable feeling that James Moriarty was more dangerous than either of them yet understood.