“Bang!”
The oak door of the office was violently slammed open, and two sacks of wet potatoes that had just fallen off a garbage truck stumbled and rolled into the entryway.
“Water… I need water…”
Vivian kicked off her leather shoes, already worn beyond recognition, and sprawled out on the carpet with no regard for her image.
Her upper body was covered in the ragged remains of Rococo lace, torn to shreds like strips of cloth. Her lower half was in men’s trousers, caked with straw and dust, and her hair was a chaotic mess like a bird’s nest.
“Kitchen, left side, second cabinet.”
Cicero leaned against the shoe cabinet. His deep purple tailcoat was not only missing a sleeve, but had a large gash, exposing the shirt beneath, soaked in blood.
“Pour it yourself,” Vivian rolled over, pressing her face to the cool floor. “I’m a corpse now. Please show some respect for the dead.”
“As your employer—hiss—”
Cicero tried to stand up straight, but the stabbing pain in his left arm made him suck in a sharp breath.
“Alright, stop pretending to be tough.” Vivian climbed off the floor. “Where’s the Medical Kit?”
“Second floor. Parlor. In the cabinet by the fireplace.” Cicero clutched his left arm, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“And that’s an Antique Carpet. Don’t rub mud into it.”
“You’re bleeding to death and you’re still worried about the carpet?!”
Ten minutes later. Second-floor parlor.
The furnishings here radiated a clear “I’m scholarly and filthy rich” Versailles Vibe. Walls lined with books, rosewood furniture, and a faint aroma of incense in the air.
“Move your hand,” Vivian said, scissors glinting in her hand.
“No.” Cicero clung to his left arm like a hamster guarding its food. “You’ll cut into my flesh.”
“I’m cutting the sleeve! Not your hoof!”
“Rip—!!”
Vivian didn’t bother arguing. She tore open the half-sleeve already stuck with blood. The sound of tearing fabric was especially crisp in the room.
A ten-centimeter gash stretched from elbow to forearm, still oozing beads of blood. It looked like it had been caught by an iron hook on a carriage during their jump to the ground.
Vivian frowned. In this Era of Penicillin yet to be invented, infection was pretty much a death sentence.
“It needs stitching.”
Cicero’s face turned deathly pale, like a frightened quail.
“Does it have to be stitched? Maybe just a bandage…”
“Want to lose your arm? I don’t mind.”
Vivian turned to rummage in the Medical Kit. At the bottom she found a black Velvet Pouch. Opening it, she found a row of neatly arranged Silver Needles and Catgut Thread.
“Ready, Divine Father?” Vivian held up a needle and waved it under the Gas Lamp.
Cicero stared at the needle in terror, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“W-wait a minute.” He tried to stall with rational logic.
“We need anesthesia. Even if it’s just a theological one.”
“Praying, are you? Sorry, God’s probably busy right now.”
Vivian grabbed an unmarked bottle of strong liquor from the cabinet, pulled the cork, and sniffed. The powerful stench of alcohol blasted straight to her head.
“Take a swig.” She shoved the bottle into Cicero’s hands.
Cicero hesitated for two seconds, then tilted his head back and gulped down a huge mouthful.
“Cough, cough, cough—!” He coughed so hard tears came out.
Vivian poured half the remaining liquor on a cotton ball, then splashed the rest directly onto the wound.
“Argh—!!!”
Cicero jolted off the sofa. If Vivian hadn’t pinned his shoulder down in time, he’d probably have leapt onto the rafters.
“It hurts! You’re trying to kill me!”
“Don’t move!” Vivian put her full weight on him, knee pinning his thigh, one hand holding his shoulder down, the other with the needle.
“Move and I’ll sew it crooked! Then you’ll be left with a centipede scar, and good luck charming those noble ladies again!”
“I never—damn! Go easy!”
As they tussled, a bead of fresh blood slid down Cicero’s arm.
It slipped silently into Vivian’s open trouser pocket.
There lay the Rubellite Necklace from before.
The drop of blood seemed almost alive as it was sucked into the heart of the gemstone. For a brief instant, the dull core of the gem throbbed, but it lasted only a moment.
“No! That needle’s too thick! That’s for stitching canvas!” Cicero’s pupils trembled as he stared at the Silver Needle in Vivian’s hand, thick as a toothpick.
“This is the thinnest one in the Medical Kit!”
“Nonsense! I distinctly remember a set for corneal stitching…”
“Why would you have needles for eye surgery here?! Forget it, just bear with it.”
Vivian was growing irritated by his squirming.
“Move again!” Vivian suddenly leaned forward, her face just inches from Cicero’s, flashing a villainous grin fiercer than any antagonist.
“I’ll sew you up using the technique for patching steel doors on horses!”
“Horse—what?!”
“You know how that goes?” Vivian said darkly.
“No matter how big the wound, you just wrap coarse hemp rope around it twice, tie a dead knot, quick and airtight.”
Cicero imagined the scene and felt his stomach churn.
“…I won’t move.” He folded his hands on his chest like a peaceful corpse.
“Please… be gentle.”
“See, wouldn’t it have been easier like this?” Vivian breathed a sigh of relief. To prevent him from chickening out again, she simply kept straddling his legs, upper body pressing his chest, fully focused as she threaded the needle.
The current posture was rather… suggestive.
Cicero’s clothes were half off, exposing his lean, pale chest beaded with sweat, his face flushed and exhausted as though he’d been ravished.
Vivian was disheveled, hair a mess, straddling him, needle and scissors in hand, sweat pouring down her face, a length of thread clamped between her teeth.
The air was thick with alcohol, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood.
“Knock, knock, knock.”
Downstairs, the door hadn’t been properly shut. Someone knocked on the open doorframe of the parlor upstairs.
“Knew it wasn’t locked… Ah, sorry to disturb you this late, really…”
A middle-aged man in a gray trench coat, bowler hat, and sporting two fuzzy caterpillar mustaches walked in.
Halfway through his greeting, he seemed to be choked by an invisible hand—words stuck in his throat.
Jacques stood at the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the entangled pair on the sofa.
His gaze swept from Cicero’s bare chest, to Vivian straddling his thighs, and finally fixed on Cicero’s expression of “I’m no longer pure.”
A deathly silence fell, even the wind outside the window seemed to pause.
Jacques’s mustaches began to twitch violently as his face cycled through “shock,” “understanding,” “awkwardness,” and “should I just step out and shut the door for you two.”
“Um…” Jacques cleared his throat, eyes wandering before settling on the Chandelier above.
“Though it’s a new era… I’ve heard about the wild ways of young people these days… but…”
He pointed at the needle in Vivian’s hand.
“Isn’t this… a little too intense?”
“It’s not what you think!!”
Vivian and Cicero shouted in unison.
Vivian hurriedly climbed off Cicero, but in her haste, her knee accidentally bumped his wound again.
“Argh—!” Cicero yelped in pain once more, sounding as though he’d been injured in some passionate activity.
Jacques’s expression grew even more complicated. He took a step back, hand resting on the doorknob.
“If you need a doctor, Mr. Cicero… I can call a carriage. After all, with these things… you shouldn’t overexert yourself.”
“No!” Cicero sat up on the sofa, teeth clenched, yanking his tattered shirt over his chest like a virtuous housewife harassed by a scoundrel.
“She’s stitching me up! Stitching!”
“Ah, stitching.” Jacques nodded, tone perfunctory.
“Should I go along and say, ‘Nice stitching’?”
“Is your brain filled with sewer sludge?” Vivian brandished her thread and needle.
“Look! It’s Catgut Thread! I’m a doctor… er, temporarily!”
Jacques sighed, adopting the air of someone who’s seen it all. “Alright, alright, I’m not a morality officer. As long as you don’t tear down the building, do as you please.”
He fished a roll of paper from his trench coat pocket and slapped it onto the table.
“I’m here for business. Your ‘masterpiece’ tonight has already spread through half the Police Station.”
Cicero and Vivian exchanged glances.
“Masterpiece? We just went to the opera, though things got a little… complicated.”
“Complicated?” Jacques sneered, unfolding the paper.
It was a freshly printed Warrant, ink scent still lingering.
On it were sketches of two people. The man on the left had a fierce glare, gripping a cane that looked like a weapon.
The “woman” on the right wore a shredded dress, hoisting an enormous Champagne Bottle.
The headline was written in massive bold black letters:
[Extremely Dangerous! The Androgynous Outlaws Who Sabotaged the Opera Ball!]
[Crime Description: These two attacked priceless artworks at the Garniere Opera House, used explosives to incite panic, and demonstrated extremely antisocial violence and a truly appalling sense of fashion.]
[Prize Money: Five Thousand Francs.]
Vivian stared at the portrait, mouth twitching.
“Why do I look so ugly in the sketch? My nose isn’t that flat!”
“The nose is the issue?!” Cicero pointed at the headline. “The Androgynous Outlaws? I’m a licensed member of the clergy!”
“Oh, about that.” Jacques shrugged, grinning with undisguised schadenfreude.
“Given the havoc you two caused tonight, plus that Count’s complaint… The Commissioner has decided to temporarily revoke your License.”
He paused, twisting the knife.
“In other words, unless you solve this case and clear your names… even I want to collect that Five Thousand Francs reward.”
Cicero took a deep breath, feeling like his freshly stitched wound was about to split open again.
Vivian rubbed her chin, thoughtful.
“Five Thousand Francs…” she muttered, “If we turned ourselves in, could we claim the reward?”
Cicero turned to her with a look reserved for garbage.
“I’ll sew you up first, using the horse-door technique.”