Arsa blinked and said . "…Excuse me?"
But Jenkins had already moved on, barking orders at the others and rattling off next week's duty roster. Arthur leaned over and whispered with a grin, "Well, that's one way to get out of lost pets and drainage jewelry, eh?"
Arsa sighed, reaching for the pile of documents waiting on my desk. "Don't count on it. Until tomorrow, it's still dogs, cats, and gold-plated nonsense."
And he was right.
By midday, Arsa was kneeling beside a bush outside Lady Wynthorpe's manor, coaxing out her prized dog—a tiny, bug-eyed thing with too much fur and too little sense. It had chased a squirrel and gotten stuck.
"There you are," He muttered, reaching in and pulling the shivering ball of fluff into my gloved hands.
Lady Wynthorpe clapped. "Oh, you're such a daring girl! Thank you, thank you!"
Arsa froze. Again?
Then Arsa smiled politely, brushing off some leaves. "Actually, ma'am, I'm—"
"Your voice is so delicate too! Tell me, does your mother let you work in such dangerous places?"
Arsa didn't even correct her this time. It was the third time today someone had asked if he was a girl. He just handed over the mutt and nodded.
By the time he made it back to the bureau, he was already being handed another errand: a cat stuck on a rooftop. This one belonged to a noble girl who insisted on watching from below, clutching a lace parasol like it was a weapon.
"That's her! Miss Fluffles! Please be gentle!"
The cat scratched Arsa twice before he got it down. His reward? A snotty "Thank you… also, are you a girl?"
Again.
After that, he spent the afternoon tracking down a golden hairpin a baroness claimed she lost in the park fountain. Found it in the mud near a bench.
She looked at me suspiciously as I handed it over. "Hmm… you're quite pretty, for a boy. Are you sure you're not a girl?"
Arsa wiped his gloved hands on a cloth and muttered, "Last I checked, ma'am."
Still wasn't good enough.
Later, on the way back from the post office, he found an elderly woman struggling with a suitcase at the tram station. She looked like she might tip over from the weight.
"Here, allow me," Arsa offered, picking up the bag.
"Oh, how sweet. Thank you, dear girl," she said, patting his arm.
Arsa just kept walking.
By the time he returned to the bureau, his back ached, his gloves were muddy, and he was sure he smelled like wet cat. Arthur glanced up from his desk and gave him a pitiful look.
"Another rough day, Miss Ashrith?"
"Don't start."
He laughed, handing me a folded note. "Message for you. Jenkins says tomorrow morning, sharp. Bring your coat, boots, and your 'windy magic' just in case."
Arsa slumped into his chair. "I don't even know what I'm investigating. A haunted manor? It sounds like one of your bedtime stories."
"Don't worry," Arthur said with a grin. "If it's a ghost, just blow it away."
Arsa groaned and tossed the note onto his desk.
This was going to be one long week.
As Arsa slumped into his chair, mentally preparing himself for more mundane assignments wrapped in noble perfume and misplaced jewelry, the faint clinking of a porcelain cup reached his ears. A moment later, a hand placed a steaming cup of tea on his desk—calm, precise, without a word.
"Chamomile," came a soft voice. "You look like you need it."
Arsa glanced up. Standing beside him was a tall woman, easily over ten centimeters taller than him, with long blonde hair tied into a neat braid that swung just above her waist. Her blue eyes were striking, cool yet oddly warm, and her expression unreadable.
She wore a clean, long-sleeved black-and-white uniform, typical of house staff, with a neatly folded apron around her waist. But what marked her as different were the distinct golden fox ears poking out from the top of her head and a matching tail gently swaying behind her.
"Izanami," Arsa said with a tired smile, taking the cup. "What would I do without you?"
"Collapse," she answered flatly, pulling up a chair beside him without asking.
"I suppose you're not wrong," he muttered, sipping the tea carefully. "Thanks."
She nodded once.
Izanami Kusanagi had been working part-time at the bureau for a little over a year now—mostly as support staff, though her combat skills were far from ordinary. Her origins were a little vague. Some said she was from the eastern continent, others whispered she was once a shrine maiden of some temple. All Arsa knew was that she spoke five languages, had a terrifying throwing-knife aim, and could make perfect tea under any circumstance.
"You were late returning," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "Again."
"Old lady at the tram needed help."
"And she called you 'girl' again?"
Arsa groaned, slumping deeper into his seat. "Do we really need to bring that up?"
"You make it very easy."
"You're lucky I'm too exhausted to come up with a snappy retort."
Izanami let the faintest curve appear at the edge of her lips. That was as close as she came to laughing. She leaned back, arms crossed. "You know, you could try being more assertive about it. Or just get a nametag that says 'I'm a man.'"
"That sounds like something Arthur would say."
"Then you should take it seriously. The man's an idiot, but he has good instincts."
Arsa chuckled softly. "Great. That's two people today calling me girlish and one suggesting I make a badge."
"Actually, Jenkins asked if your corset was too tight yesterday."
Arsa nearly choked on his tea. "He did not."
"He did. I wrote it down in my notebook in case you want to file a complaint."
"Izanami, please."
She finally let out a low, amused sigh and stood up, brushing a stray hair behind one of her fox ears. "You're on the haunted mansion case tomorrow. I heard Jenkins talking to one of the clerks about it."
Arsa looked up. "You believe in ghosts?"
"No. But I believe in things people call ghosts."
That… was a strange answer. Before he could ask, she turned and began walking away.
"Oh, and Arsa?"
"Yeah?"
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes narrowed in a way that made her expression unreadable again. "You should be careful. Not because of spirits. But because people believe they exist. That makes them far more dangerous."
Then she walked off toward the archive room, her tail flicking once before disappearing behind the shelves.
Arsa sat still for a moment, watching the ripples in his teacup settle.
Somehow, he got the feeling that this week really was going to be much longer than expected.
The rest of the day passed without any major incidents. Arsa spent the next hour reorganizing the case records, arranging a stack of books that had been messily dumped onto the corner shelf by a careless junior detective. He wasn't asked to do it—no one ever asked him to do anything beyond the bare minimum—but he did it anyway. Out of habit. Out of the need to fill the empty moments.
At precisely six o'clock, the bell in the hall chimed. People began packing their belongings, tipping hats, exchanging laughs and complaints as they left the building one by one. Arthur waved him goodbye with a loud, "Don't get possessed by any ghosts, Shorty!" and Izanami simply nodded at him in passing.
Alone now, Arsa quietly packed his own things.
Outside, the sky was slowly bleeding into twilight, shadows stretching long and thin across the cobbled streets. The gas lamps flickered on, one by one, their glow spilling amber light onto the damp pavement.
He took a hansom cab to the corner of Morrington Street, where a small general store stood tucked between a bakery and a shuttered flower shop. He browsed through the modest shelves, selecting what he needed: a sack of flour, a dozen eggs, two jars of jam, a tin of tea, and some vegetables. The clerk gave him a dull look as he totaled the cost.
"Four pounds, fourteen shillings."
Arsa sighed and handed over the money. It was nearly half of what he had left this week. His salary came in late—when it came at all—and it wasn't as if the Crown's budget prioritized underpaid Yrltun detectives who only solved missing pet cases.
Bag in hand, he took the long way home.
The streets were quiet now, the evening cold sinking into his gloves. By the time he reached his apartment building and unlocked the door to the narrow stairwell, the city outside had faded to a distant hush, only the wind brushing against the old windows.
His apartment was small. One bedroom, a tight little kitchen, a bathroom that still groaned with every turn of the tap. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with old detective journals and texts on arcane theory—some of which he had read so many times, he could recite paragraphs from memory.
He undressed silently, hung his coat and waistcoat, folded his shirt and trousers neatly onto the chair. Then stepped into the bathroom, letting the hot water run over him.
It was quiet.
The kind of quiet that clung to your ribs and whispered to your thoughts.
After drying off, he changed into a plain white shirt and loose white trousers. His hair, still damp, clung to his neck. He moved to the kitchen and began to cook—nothing elaborate. Just an omelet, made with eggs and a pinch of salt, folded clean and careful in the pan.
He ate in silence, staring at the empty chair across from him.
When he finished, he washed the plate and set it back in the cupboard. Then he walked to the small wooden shelf near his bed.
There, nestled in a thin silver frame, was the photo.
A black-and-white picture, slightly faded at the corners. A man with warm, brown eyes and wavy black hair. A woman with soft, fair skin and greenish-gray hair that shone even without color. The man had a wide, clumsy smile, one hand on the woman's shoulder. The woman's expression was calm. Almost regal.
At the bottom, scribbled in his mother's careful handwriting: Varun Ashrith & Elizabeth Stone, Vyaghranagar, 979.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at their faces.
"I miss you," he said softly. His voice caught in his throat.
His fingers brushed the edge of the frame.
"I miss you two... Mother. Father."
The silence that followed was heavy. He didn't cry. Arsa Ashrith rarely did. But his eyes lingered on the photo for a long time, long after the wind outside had quieted and the city fell fully asleep.
Then, finally, he laid the picture back in its place, turned out the light, and slipped under the covers.
Sleep took him slowly, as if even his dreams weren't in any hurry.
TO BE CONTINUE