Who is it? Klein abruptly looked up and stared at the door.
He felt he had developed a disease—a fear of the doorbell ringing, exactly the same symptom he had on Earth of fearing an incoming phone call.
Putting down the newspaper and magazine, he glanced at the empty plate with nothing left of the condiments, then got up and walked toward the door.
Before he had even grasped the handle, he already knew it was Doctor Allen outside.
Don't you ever need to work? Klein muttered, reaching out to open the door.
"Good morning, Allen. The fog is gray today," he said with a forced smile.
Allen still wore that cold expression, but now there was more anxiety and fear written on it.
He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses and, forgetting to exchange pleasantries, said bluntly:
"Sherlock, I had another dream! I dreamed of Will Onsetin again!"
Huh? Klein almost froze on the spot.
That can't be right? The genuine paper crane is with me, above the gray fog, and the one I folded is with the Nighthawks. You're carrying a cheap paper crane folded by a Nighthawk, and you still manage to dream of Will Onsetin? This isn't scientific; no, this isn't mystical… Klein immediately turned serious and pressed:
"The same dream as before?"
"No, this time it wasn't as scary." Allen had calmed down a little. "I dreamed of Green Cemetery. You know Green Cemetery, right?"
"Yes," Klein answered tersely.
It was outside Green Cemetery that he had caught a group of spirit-dance students and a painfully amateur mystical enthusiast named Copste, from whom he had obtained another copper whistle that could summon a messenger.
Allen drew in a breath of cold air and went on:
"I dreamed of the woods outside Green Cemetery—a birch tree with a ring of bark peeled off around its trunk. Will Onsetin was sitting under that tree, just staring at me."
"Then what?" Klein pressed.
Allen shook his head. "The dream ended there."
What a strange business… Could Doctor Allen's dreams have nothing to do with that paper crane? No, if they had nothing to do with it, the dream wouldn't have changed when the crane was swapped. And I divined with that same crane above the gray fog and got relevant revelations… Klein weighed his words and said:
"This is already beyond my comprehension. Allen, what do you want from me?"
Allen's breath turned to white mist in the cold air. "I want to go take a look outside Green Cemetery—right now, while it's daylight. Can you protect me? I'll pay a commission. One pound."
Going to explore a scene from a dream? I probably won't run into anything too bizarre in the daytime… Klein thought it over. "I can take the job, but I suggest you go to a church first and tell the bishop you know about your dream."
Allen gave a short "Hm." Then, somewhat puzzled, he asked, "Why do you always tell me to go to church? I know—you've explained it before, in a very logical way. If there is such a thing as supernatural power, the church that has dominated the human world must be the strongest supernatural force; if there isn't, then going to church at least gives you psychological comfort and the right network. But even for something not all that strange, why do you still tell me to go to church?"
Klein considered for two seconds and answered gravely, "I'm a detective. I run into a lot of unusual things. That's why I understand how unique the church is and when to ask for their help."
"Really?" Allen's expression grew solemn.
A corner of Klein's mouth lifted. "Just kidding.
"Allen, relax a little. I need to change my clothes first—and, uh, wash the dishes."
He had been talking with Allen at the door without a heavy coat, and the cold, damp wind had made his body stiff.
Taking the chance, Klein went to the bathroom, ascended to the gray fog, and divined the degree of danger of this commission. The result was that there was almost no risk.
If he had received a dangerous revelation, he had planned to use the Church of the Night Goddess to back out of the job.
........
Hilston District, Star Cathedral.
"Sherlock, why don't you hire a maid? As a great detective, you can afford several servants," Allen asked curiously as he led Klein into the largest church of the Church of the Night Goddess in Hilston District.
It was something he had wanted to ask in the carriage but hadn't found an opening for.
Klein let out a heavy sigh. "Allen, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a detective. He hired two maids, a cook, and an assistant, and he lived fairly well. But one day, he took on a case and successfully identified the murderer—a brutal, savage man. Seeking revenge, that man broke into the detective's home.
"The detective was a combat expert and only suffered minor injuries, but two of his servants died.
"Allen, do you understand?"
"I understand." Allen's voice was filled with obvious sympathy. "Sherlock, so you've had that kind of experience."
No, the protagonist has nothing to do with me. I just made that story up on the spot. I can hardly tell you directly that I'm involved in all sorts of bizarre mystical incidents and that my home often holds secrets I can't share, so it's best not to have servants… Klein stared straight ahead and let out a long sigh.
His room was cleaned mainly by Mrs. Styler Summer's maid—twice a week, basic cleaning only, at one Soule per visit.
As they talked, they entered the hall of Star Cathedral.
It kept the consistent style of the Church of the Night Goddess: dim, quiet, with few candles.
At the very front was the altar engraved with the holy emblem of darkness, set with self-luminous pearls that formed stars and red gems that formed the Crimson Moon. The rest was pitch-black night.
At a glance, the space was dotted with starlight, glowing crimson, and exceptionally sacred.