[b]Madam Cask[/b] looked at [b]Elora[/b] for a long, still moment.

There it was. The one that put a name on the board.

The ledger under her arm shifted slightly as her fingers tightened around it. [b]Mr. Orven[/b] looked at the polished floor as if suddenly fascinated by the grain.

[color=0054a6]“Carriage fourteen was received at the late return desk by Milo Wick,”[/color] Cask said at last. [color=0054a6]“Night clerk. Licensed handler. Three years with Brass Lantern.”[/color]

[b]Piero[/b]’s smile crept back by a fraction. [color=00a651]“And where is dear Milo now?”[/color]

[color=0054a6]“That,”[/color] Cask replied, voice cool, [color=0054a6]“was not the question.”[/color]

[b]Gears[/b] made a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl.

[b]Madam Cask[/b] opened the ledger, turned one page, then another. [color=0054a6]“But since I would hate for Mr. Lanza to accuse my company of obstruction, I will add this. Mr. Wick failed to report for his morning shift. His room above the south carriage house was empty when checked. His work coat was gone. His personal effects were not.”[/color]

The lobby seemed to grow quieter around that.

[b]Orven[/b] swallowed.

[b]Cask[/b] closed the ledger with a soft snap. [color=0054a6]“So either my employee has embarrassed this company in connection with your employer’s problem, or someone has gone to considerable effort to make it appear so.”[/color]

Piero adjusted his tie. [color=00a651]“See? That was painless.”[/color]

[color=0054a6]“It was not,”[/color] Cask said.

Gears cracked her gauntleted knuckles once. [color=f26522]“South carriage house?”[/color]

Cask’s eyes narrowed. [color=0054a6]“You may inspect his room with one of my men present. You will not harass my staff, damage my property, or turn my business into a Calabrese circus.”[/color]

Piero gave her a pleasant smile. [color=00a651]“No promises about the circus.”[/color]

Madam Cask did not lead them herself. That would have been too generous. Instead, she summoned the broad man from near the inner hall, a square-jawed employee with the dead-eyed patience of professional security.

[color=0054a6]“Havel,”[/color] she said. [color=0054a6]“South carriage house. Mr. Wick’s room. They look. They do not take souvenirs.”[/color]

Gears smiled at that.

[color=f26522]“No promises if the souvenir confesses.”[/color]

[hr]

[h3]To Milo's Room[/h3]

The south carriage house sat behind the main office, past a gated yard where polished coaches rested in neat rows beneath hanging lamps. Brass Lantern’s wealth continued here too, but it had a working face now. Oil stains. Wheel tracks. Harness racks. The warm smell of horses, waxed leather, and varnished wood. Several employees watched the group pass and then suddenly discovered urgent reasons to look elsewhere.

Milo Wick’s room was up a narrow stair over the carriage bays. Small. Plain. Too tidy at first glance.

A narrow bed sat against one wall, blanket folded with clerkish precision. A washbasin stood beneath the window, its water faintly cloudy. A cheap shaving mirror hung above it. Beside the bed was a small writing desk with an inkpot, two dull pens, and a stack of copied carriage forms. One drawer had been left half-open. Inside were stockings, loose buttons, and a little pouch of copper coins that had not been taken.

The room did not look ransacked.

It looked interrupted.

A hook near the door was empty except for one torn black thread caught on the wood. A work schedule had been pinned to the wall, with Milo Wick’s name marked for the late return desk the previous night. On the floor beneath the basin, pale dried clay clung in small flakes to the boards. Near the stove, a twist of half-burned paper sat among the ashes, its edge darkened but not destroyed.

On the desk, one copied form had been pressed hard enough that the sheet beneath it still carried faint grooves from the writing above.

Havel folded his arms by the door.

[color=ed145b]“You have your look,”[/color] he said. [color=ed145b]“Try not to make me regret giving it.”[/color]