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No matter how many times you read the letter, it always hits like a blow from a closed fist – your father is dead, and your sister is missing. The House of Pale now rests upon your shoulders.
That's all the letter says. It's almost funny, how just a few words can bring your entire world crashing down around you. You don't even know who wrote the damn thing, although the letter is marked with the sign of the King's own office. Since the letter arrived this morning, your mind has been a blank. Now this, under the cover of darkness, a further message summoning you to one of the lecture theatres.
Brushing past the cowled servant who brought the unwelcome message, you force a suitably aristocratic sneer onto your face and make your way towards the mysterious rendezvous. You don't quite know what will await you there, but you're determined to meet it with the pride that your noble House once embodied.
Though you've told nobody else about the letter, the other students of Coral House sense your troubles and steer well clear of you as you advance through the darkened hallways with only the guttering flame of a single candle to light your way.
The first thing you see upon arriving at the lecture theatre is the white sheet draped across the main table at the furthest end of the room, and the suggestive shape concealed beneath it. Irrational though it may be, your thoughts leap to the most unsightly of assumptions as you stare at the unblemished white linen. Setting your candle aside and letting the silver moonlight guide you instead, you march down the stairs and reach out to rip away the sheet. Just as your hand brushes against the cloth, though, you sense another presence in the room.
“Young Master Pale,” the man begins, in his deep rumble of a voice.
You turn, studying the tall man with a cautious curiosity. He's dressed well, impeccably in fact, but his skin is a rare sight – as dark as polished mahogany. His hair, just as dark, is tied like bundles of stubby rope, and his face is virtually expressionless. “Isambard is fine,” you reply, after you realise that you've been staring in silence.
“Young Master Pale,” he repeats slowly, mournfully, “My name is Sakhalin. I have been sent to...”
But he pauses here, as if he doesn't quite know why he's here – or as if he's not permitted to tell you.
“Were you the one who sent me this letter?” you demand, waving the crumpled sheet of paper in front of him. He doesn't flinch at your sharp tone, his expression never even wavering.
“Not I,” he answers with a slow shake of his head, “But it was sent with my knowledge. That letter is why I am here.”
Having said this, Sakhalin reaches out and pulls away the sheet to reveal what it was concealing. Not the fresh cadaver of your fevered imagination, but three boxes of varying size. Nothing more.
