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As Sakhalin is marching out to his carriage, you hurry after him and call his name. With a quick backwards glance to make sure that you're not overheard, you take out Moreau's letter and hold it out to the older man. “I'd like to get your opinion on this,” you explain, “Ah, just the first part. Ignore the second part of the letter, that's... not relevant.”
With a curious expression, Sakhalin takes the letter and slowly reads it. “It would appear, Master Pale, that Choirmaster Moreau is concerned about your recent conduct,” he remarks, “That is understandable, given her position.”
“Whatever her intentions may be, she's interfering with my investigation,” you complain, “It makes me wonder what else she might be interfering with.”
Sakhalin looks up at you. “The missing files?” he asks quietly.
“The Choir is her territory. If anyone had the authority to remove certain prophecies from the archives, it would be her,” you point out, “What I can't be certain of, though, is why.”
You both lapse into silence here. Whatever his thoughts on the subject, Sakhalin keeps them to himself for now.
“There was one other question I had,” you continue, “This is obviously a sensitive matter, so I'll need to be discrete, but... what is King Albrecht's position on Calamity?”
“Calamity is a force that undermines the safety and stability of our great nation,” Sakhalin answers automatically, with the tone of a man reciting a well rehearsed script, “It must be opposed wherever it-”
“No, not the official line,” you interrupt, “I mean, what he really believes.”
“That, Master Pale, is not something I should be discussing,” he says carefully, “However... it appears to me that when men cannot achieve something through fair means, they inevitably turn to foul ones. This is true for many men, from the lowest servant to the highest of kings.”
“Farewell, Master Pale,” Sakhalin adds, giving you a firm nod before climbing into his carriage.
-
Sakhalin wasn't mistaken when he said that the Silvera lands were beautiful. Adjacent to the Teilhard territories, the Silvera lands are somewhat similar in character but with a slightly rougher cast to them – ridges of rough stone thrust up through the grasslands, while craggy cliffs loom up on the horizon. If the Teilhard family are vigilant masters of their land, the Silvera family have allowed it to grow wild and untamed – trusting, you presume, that it will flourish according to the natural order.
Off in the distance, you can hear the faint crash of the ocean waves smashing against the shore. There's a cold edge to the wind, but the weather overall is pleasant enough. It's calm, peaceful, the ideal sort of place for a hospital specialising in nervous disorders.
“I haven't been back here in a while,” Elle murmurs, leaning her head out the carriage window, “It hasn't changed a bit.”
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