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You barely have a chance to realise what you're holding before you hear the distant murmur of footsteps coming from the dining room. Moving faster than you've ever moved before, you grab a random pair of socks and roll them up, one pair after another, before shoving everything back into the first bag. You're in so much of a hurry that you nearly forget the revolver. Without enough time to pack it away again, you hurriedly tuck it into your belt and tug down your coat to cover it.
Fleeing the bedroom and tugging the door back into place, you pick another room at random and throw yourself down on the bed with the door just slightly ajar. Barely a minute later, there is a soft knock at the door.
“Hello?” Constance asks, her voice sickly sweet, “Master Pale, are you well?”
“A little nauseous, I'm afraid,” you rasp, fighting to keep your voice level, “Too much fine dining, I think. I'm not used to such things.”
A long pause. “So long as you're well,” the noblewoman says, the note of doubt plain in her voice, “I can call Master Hauberk if you're not well. Oh, but I suppose he's not really that sort of doctor. Silly me.”
There's a shrillness in her voice that could be knowing mockery or just bad acting, and you can't tell which. Choosing to hold your tongue instead, you wait until you finally hear the heavy padding of Constance's footsteps fade to silence. Then, and only then, do you take the scrap of letter back out again for a closer look. Between the necklace and the letter, you've certainly got evidence that something strange is going on. The question is, what? The letter alone doesn't tell the whole story, and even with the necklace Hauberk might still be able to explain it away as the delusional writings of a nervous patient.
You'll have to wait for Daniel to finish his dinner. Then, provided you can shake him out of his strange passivity, you'll plan your next move.
-
Hours go by, marked by the ticking of an unseen clock, before you finally hear Daniel's boot stomping down the hall. Judging by how heavy his stride is, you'd guess he's been drinking. That might spur him into action, or he might just sink into a haze of self-pity. From past experience, either one is equally possible.
“You!” you hiss, sticking your head out into the corridor as Daniel lumbers over, “Get in here!”
“Hey Bard, don't make it sound so weird...” he murmurs, allowing you to steer him into the bedroom. You stare at his bleary eyes for a moment before slapping him hard across the face. That shakes some life into him, the drunken confusion replaced by a petulant anger. “That was uncalled for,” he spits, “You're an ass.”
“I'm an ass, sure,” you point out, “But you're a drunk.”
“I'll be sober tomorrow,” Daniel grumbles, “You'll still be an ass.”
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