The mansion rose like a monument to excess—an edifice carved out of old British vanity and new Indian compromise. Its Victorian architecture stood regal against the night, marble columns stretching to the sky like the arms of an empire refusing to age. Warm golden light poured from arched windows, reflecting off polished carriages and the glinting uniforms of colonial officers. The very air around it seemed perfumed with power.
Chiselled lions guarded its entrance. Crimson carpets cascaded down its steps. Orchids, flown in from Ceylon, bloomed in delicate rebellion along the fountains. The building was a contradiction: so beautiful, it made your breath catch—and yet so heavy with unspoken blood that the earth beneath it seemed bruised.
For those who didn't know better, it looked like the eighth wonder of the world. For those who did—it looked like a carefully crafted illusion.
Isarish and Subhash stood at its gates—two anomalies wrapped in dusted wool and shadows. The world inside wasn't made for men like them, and yet, here they were.
As they approached the entrance, a British officer stepped forward, palm raised with bureaucratic efficiency.
"Invitation," he said without looking up.
Isarish reached into his coat with the flair of a man playing a role he no longer feared. He pulled out the parchment, its corners slightly frayed from being shoved into a jacket not meant for courtesies.
He smiled, tilting his head.
"I am Isarish—the genius of Calcutta, the honoured guest of Mr. Carlson himself. And this," he gestured with deliberate pride, "is Subhash Chatterjee—my friend, and a man very close to Mr. Carlson."
The officer barely glanced at the document. The name was there. The seal was intact. And that was enough to let lies pass as truth in this masquerade.
With a stiff nod, the officer stepped aside.
The gates opened.
And the Empire's heart welcomed them in.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the world changed.
It was not just the marble underfoot, or the grandeur of the chandeliers that dripped like icicles of gold from the ceiling—it was the fragrance.
A seductive blend of rosewater, sweat, and spices from five different provinces.
The scent of cinnamon roasted lamb hung in the air beside tobacco and Chanel perfume. Wine flowed like rivers. Pearls shimmered around the throats of noblewomen who laughed as though history wasn't bleeding outside their gates.
The music played loud enough to drown truth.
Every hallway was dressed in velvet and oil paintings. Every glance from the nobles was dipped in silver and suspicion.
Isarish's navy-blue suit, though pressed and clean, looked like a forgotten page beside the embroidered silks and English linen that floated through the ballroom.
Subhash's maroon coat was tighter now, hugging a frame that had lost weight to mourning. The suit was a memory, the man inside a ghost.
His eyes—those grief-struck, hollow eyes—looked around at the shimmering chandeliers, the crystal laughter, the polished skin of people who had never begged for mercy, and whispered silently within:
I've never seen a world like this. And I do not belong here.
Isarish leaned closer to Subhash, his voice low but laced with that signature mischief—measured and sharp like the edge of a rapier.
"That woman in the violet gown," he said, nodding subtly without pointing, "is the second wife of the man who owns half this empire."
Subhash's eyes followed the direction—landing on a striking woman with alabaster skin, radiant green eyes, and a dress that rippled like royal velvet under moonlight.
"The East India Company's treasure," Isarish continued with a smirk, "though I'm sure she'd prefer the title 'Queen of Bengal.' Look at the way she moves—like the world itself owes her silence when she walks."
Then he tilted his head discreetly toward another figure.
"That old lady over there—the one with hair like burnt gold? She's the mother of Bengal's General. Don't be fooled by her smile. They say even her sighs reach London if she wants them to."
His eyes scanned again, always two steps ahead of the room, mind dissecting each figure like a surgeon with no anesthesia.
"And there—that tall, lean chap with the sharp jaw and hands that can't stop trembling whenever someone raises their voice?"
Subhash nodded.
"That's Thomas Fitzgerald. Carlson's right hand. Loyal to the bone, though I've always thought he's hiding something. Maybe a conscience. Maybe a corpse."
Subhash raised an eyebrow at that, and for a brief second, something like amusement flickered behind his hollow gaze.
Isarish gestured next—just barely—to a man with a full beard and a mole cutting through his otherwise aristocratic face.
"Albert Hall. General of Bengal. Worships Carlson like a holy scripture, even though I think he's five years older than the man. Some men look for God. Others settle for a stronger man to follow."
Then suddenly, the crowd shifted. The woman in violet—the Company's second wife—clutched her dress and left the ballroom in hurried steps, whispering something to a servant who looked like he had been ordered to disappear.
Isarish watched her go, eyes narrowed slightly.
"Aaah, busy woman," he said casually. "When you're the second and the most beautiful, every room becomes a stage, and every glance a war."
He turned toward Subhash and patted his back softly.
"Let's eat before this performance turns tragic. You already know all the royal Indians here, anyway—and if I keep telling you who's who, we'll starve with full minds and empty stomachs."
Subhash didn't speak, but the faintest nod told Isarish he heard. Whether he understood was another matter. But as they moved toward the dining hall, among the clinking silver and velvet laughter, there was something fragile beginning to stitch itself back together.
Even grief must eat.
Even ghosts must learn the names of the living.
But still—he stood.
Not for the empire. Not for the party.
But for the man beside him.
His Isa.
And the masquerade began.
The chandeliers above glittered like frozen stardust as the notes of a violin waltzed through the grand hall. The scent of roasted almonds, roses, and slow-aged wine curled through the air like invisible silk.
Isarish and Subhash barely took their first steps toward the long table of delicacies when a ripple stirred in the ballroom.
A group of young women—half British, half Indian royals—parted through the room like a soft tide of perfume and pearls. Their gowns shimmered with imported threads and native embroidery, their eyes glittering with both curiosity and mischief.
One stepped forward—a fair-skinned young British lady with tied blonde hair, clad in a rose-pink gown that hugged her waist like reputation itself.
"Excuse me," she said, her accent precise, "are you the Isarish? The famous one who solved crimes since she— sorry—he was thirteen?"
Before Isarish could reply, another voice chimed in—this one sharper, adorned in a voice touched by dual lands. A young Indian royal girl, dressed in a deep indigo gown stitched with golden leaves, stepped closer.
"And they say you can tell a man's entire life story just by looking into his eyes," she said, half-challenging, half-enchanted.
Isarish gave the faintest smile—like smoke curling out of a matchstick.
"That's... too exaggerated," he whispered under his breath, just loud enough for the air to carry it to their delighted ears.
Subhash, meanwhile, was visibly squirming beside him, stuck between trays of silver-cut pineapples and the firestorm of aristocratic attention.
"Tell us, detective," one of the girls chimed in, "what's the darkest thing you've ever seen?"
"No, no," another interjected, giggling, "tell us about your most impossible investigation. The one even the British dogs couldn't solve!"
Isarish's eyes flicked from one face to another, expression unreadable, until they settled—slowly, deliberately—on the princess in indigo.
He took a step closer.
"You want me to tell you about my investigations?" he asked, eyes piercing into hers like a needle through silk. "Or would you rather I tell you something about you, dear?"
The girls around her gasped and giggled in unison, but the princess didn't move. She held his gaze, her breath catching the way a harp string trembles before sound.
And then—
A sound interrupted the air. A thud.
A man collapsed.
His wine glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on marble. His body convulsed. White foam spilled from the corners of his mouth, dripping down onto his cravat as if life itself was trying to escape him.
Screams erupted like glass breaking underwater.
The music stopped.
Silverware clattered.
And Isarish's expression changed—not to shock, but to calculation.
He didn't blink.
"Subhash," he muttered under his breath, already stepping forward, "don't move."
Because he knew.
This was no accident.
Not in a room where power danced in gowns, and poison dressed itself in perfume.
Not on the first night of a new century.
It was none but Albert Hall, the General of Bengal.