Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jail sucks.

So Ramsey is breaking out.

Currently, he’s in the vents, the smell of breakfast wafting up through the grates; it’ll be served in 12 minutes. And since it’s scrambled egg day¹ and cold as hell this morning,² no one will want to get up.

Which means that the guards will be busy forcing the prisoners out of bed. And that means that there will only be one guard, Tim, at the lawyer’s office. And Ramsey’s already bribed Tim with a commission of some very niche pornography³, so all he’s gotta do is slip inside, put on Attorney Scander’s spare suit⁴, and waltz out the front door. Once he’s outta the gates, he’ll remember his epithet.⁵ Then he’ll be home free.

As he swings down from the vent and into the single-stall restroom, he wonders for the hundredth time what the hell his epithet is. He knows he used it for embezzling and forgery…is his epithet just Money? That’d be pretty sweet. Maybe Appraisal? Trickery? He shakes his head; thinking about it makes his brain fog up.

Ramsey peeks out of the bathroom and chucks a plastic cup at the camera down the hall, changing its angle slightly. He slides out and hugs the wall, thirteen feet until he reaches the door. He kneels down and quickly picks the lock with a broken bedspring and a pair of tweezers.⁶ The door swings open louder than expected, but it’s okay because Tim will be there and Tim doesn’t give half a shit about his job.

Except Tim isn’t here. Well. That’s weird but there’s no cause for alarm. Probably had to go do something else. Waking people up, maybe. Yeah.

This part of the hallway doesn’t have cameras so Ramsey waltzes over to the office door and slips inside. He keeps the lights off. It’s the nicest room in the prison, with a leather chair and mahogany desk. Almost makes it possible to ignore the concrete floor and barred windows.

Most of the drawers are locked, but Ramsey won’t pick any he doesn’t have to, so he opens what he can. Finally, he finds the suit in the bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets. Ironed too, which is nice. Though the creases on the pants are a bit crooked, Ramsey notes. But they’ll do.

He has approximately six minutes and forty-seven seconds before Scander gets here, so Ramsey quickly strips down to his boxers and starts buttoning the shirt.

The door opens.

Standing in the doorway, the silhouette of her uniform sharp against the hallway light, is Percy.

It’s been two months.

A small piece of Ramsey’s soul shrivels up and dies.

She blinks but her face is blank. “Oh,” she says, somehow unfazed by the fact that he’s in the lawyer’s office and not wearing pants, “I see they sent word I was coming. Modern technology truly aids in speeding communication.”

“Uh,” Ramsey says, fingers frozen in the middle of doing a button. “Hi?”

“I’ll give you some privacy,” she says, glancing at her wrist. “Our train is at 9:15.” She turns and shuts the door with a soft click.

Ramsey stares at where she was.

His voice comes out as a whisper.  “What the fuck?”

He stares at the door for a moment longer. It’s the only exit. There’s the windows, but those have bars over them.

He is completely hosed. He’s spent the last month painting a plan that has just been tossed into a paper shredder by Percy of all people.

And why the hell is she here? Last time he’d seen her was after the trial, standing in the courthouse doorway. She was wearing a suit. She looked good. Then she’d told him to have a “pleasant stay in prison,” which was a real stab in the ass ‘cause he’d just been sentenced to 37 years.

But Percy doesn’t know he’s escaping. Maybe he can act like everything is fine. Yeah. Yeah, this is alright. He’s just gonna follow Percy, figure out what she wants, and bail as soon as possible. Sure, she’ll kick his ass if she sees him tryna escape. So he won't be seen.

He finishes buttoning the shirt and finally puts on the slacks. He slings the jacket over his shoulder. It’s his jacket now. Might as well act like he owns it. Which…will be a problem when Scander gets here.

Ramsey rushes out the door and grabs Percy’s arm.

“Don’t wanna miss our train!” he says, pulling her towards the exit.

“I scheduled plenty of time,” she says behind him, “I planned on briefing you to make sure you were interested in this task.”

“Yep, sure, I’ll take it!” Ramsey leads her around a corner and towards the front guard’s counter. He’d planned on just strolling by it, casual as can be⁷ but instead rushes up to the counter.

The guard looks up at them from under tired brows. The early shift is treating him poorly. “Oh, you’re back,” he says to Percy, voice muffled from behind bulletproof glass.

Ramsey glances back at Percy. “You’ve uh, got clearance for this, right?”

Percy’s eyebrows shoot upwards. She pulls a folder out from under her arm and starts flipping through it. Ramsey’d been too preoccupied to notice it before. “I apologize, I didn’t realize I’d be needing this so soon.”

Ramsey glances around and, oh no, that’s the warden, walking through the front door. Scander’s usually a few minutes behind. But the warden might recognize the suit, or start asking questions or something, shit!

That door is the only thing between Ramsey and freedom. He could run, push past the warden, try to book it through the gates. Nah, there’s snipers and more guards. But if he does get out of range of the eraser field, his epithet can stop bullets, right? Or something like that, he kind of remembers using that way before, but it wasn’t perfect because it was…soft? What does that even mean?

“Ramsey?”

Ramsey blinks the blur out of his brain. “What? No, I wasn’t tryna remember my epithet! Why would you even think that?”

Percy raises a brow and holds out her pen. “You need to sign this.”

She gestures to a form on the counter. There are two signatures and one blank line.

Ramsey looks at it for a moment. The long paragraphs of size eight Times feels fuzzy.⁸

He signs.

They drive past the gates and, like a dislocated bone cracking back into place, the word GOLDBRICKER snaps into Ramsey’s mind.

Oh, yeah. Duh.

Chapter Text

“A private booth!” Ramsey observes as they step inside. “Fancy.”

It is. The Fog Bear Express has been around for generations, the oldest method of transport across the country.¹ Dark wood paneling covers the interior, with plush red velvet benches and an ornate table in the center. It’s cozy and classy.

Ramsey immediately flops onto a bench and takes up as much space as possible.

Percy sits across from him, posture impeccable. She slides her duffle-bag under the table and pulls out her phone, thumbing a quick message.

There’s a quiet moment where Ramsey doesn’t know what to say. Not much has changed about Percy, but she’s got bags under her eyes.² Her hair’s a bit shorter, must’ve gotten it cut recently.

The train lurches forward, the soft grays and blues of Sweet Jazz City smudging by outside the window.³

Percy slides the phone back into her pocket. “Apologies. I wanted to inform the local constable that we’re on our way. How have you been?”

“Well,” Ramsey starts, “I’ve been in jail.”

“Yes?”

“That’s bad!”

Percy frowns. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he leans back and lets the cushion engulf him. “It was just boring, alright? Stuck with a buncha white-collar crooks who keep gripin’ how they don’t deserve to be in jail. “Oh no, I had to sell my second yacht to pay back all my employees I screwed over!” Eugh,” Ramsey grimaces. “Not my kinda crowd.”

“You were in for embezzling,” Percy notes. “I’m surprised you don’t feel any camaraderie towards them.”

Ramsey just laughs. “Nah.”

Percy studies him for a moment. “You’ve at least kept up with your hobbies, then?”

“Sure,” Ramsey shrugs, “if you can call doodling on printer paper a hobby. Not like the guards’ll get me a tablet.”

“And you’ve been eating well?”

“No.” Ramsey frowns. “What the hell are you trying to ask?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t need you trying to talk me in circles trying to something out. If you’ve got a question, ask it.”

Percy’s eyes go wide. “Oh! Is small talk not normal before discussing business?”

Ramsey blinks. “Sure, but I don’t even know where we’re headed.”

“Do you need to?”

“Uh,” his brain stutters for a moment, annoyance leveling out to confusion, “I mean, it’d be nice to know?”

“I see,” Percy says solemnly, hands clasped in her lap as she gazes out the window.

Something’s really different now and Ramsey doesn’t like it. The last time they’d spoken, things had been maybe a little formal what with the court proceedings and all.⁴ But they hadn’t been so…prickly.

The sound of a folder being tossed onto the table brings him back. “We’re going to Gondola Valley,” she says, flipping it open. There’s a printed-out map of the area with an address marked in pen. “Ever been before?”

“If you’re asking whether or not I’ve committed crimes there, the answer’s no,” Ramsey says. “Went skiing there once as a kid. Dunno, it was nice. Touristy I guess.”

“Less so in the summer,” Percy notes. “There’s some amount of hiking to be done, if you enjoy that sort of thing,”⁵ Percy slides a photograph out from under the map, “but we’re not there to sightsee.”

Ramsey looks at it; the photograph is of the atrium of a manor, or maybe a ritzy ski lodge, with distressed wood paneling, burnished vintage furniture, and ridiculously high ceilings. It’s the kind of wealth that tries to be understated but slips on a banana peel and lands face-first into a swimming pool.⁶ Ramsey can already picture the floor-to-ceiling windows with a million-dollar view of the mountains.

Instead the photograph focuses almost entirely on one wall. A number of paintings of different sizes and shapes hang upon it. Sculptures rest on pedestals in the space between them. Full gallery lighting makes them shine with glitz.

Ramsey whistles quietly under his breath. “Is that an original Mauvaise? And an Otbrosy?” He squints at the photograph again. “Why the heck are those in the same room?”

Percy leans over the table, trying to look from the same angle he is. “You already see an issue?”

“Yeah,” Ramsey turns the photograph so she can look at it better. “They’re obviously going for a faux-rustic theme with the interior design but the art is all over the place. I mean, Otbrosy’s shit’s like the epitome of Russian Futurism and that glass sculpture over there is Art Deco. I think it's a Blodau Fud, which, really, those things are stupidly overpriced considering how many of them got made. And an original Mauvaise? That’s, wow. If you think I made a lot, that thing’s worth a thousand years of crime.”

Percy frowns and studies the painting. “So if a thief were to break in and steal something, it would be that?”

“Not necessarily.” Ramsey watches Percy’s hair fall in her face. He wonders what she’s looking for. “Probably’d be a smarter move to grab something cheaper, harder to track. A Mauvaise is on a whole ‘nother level. You’d have every art collector and museum this side of Australia on your tail.”

“I see.” Percy sits up. “We seem to be in quite the kerfuffle.”

“Yeah?”

“Indeed.” She shuffles a few more pictures out of the folder. “There was a break-in two nights ago. Evidence shows that nothing was taken.”

Ramsey glances them over; more shots of the paintings, now from high angles, grainier and black-and-white. Security camera footage. “So what’s the problem?”

“We’re concerned that one or more pieces have been replaced with a fake.”

“Huh,” Ramsey looks at the photographs with some more scrutiny. “Any guess which ones?”

“No idea. What we do know,” she reaches over and slides one of the photos out from underneath, “is that the burglar has an epithet.”

At first glance, this one looks the same as the others. But nearly out of frame is what looks like half of a sign, with the letters “-IT” cut off, and the corner of a door.

Percy taps it. “This door appeared from 2:21 A.M. to 2:24 A.M. on Saturday evening. No trace of it was left.”

“Exit?” Ramsey guesses.

“It would seem so. But there are no official records of anyone having that as their epithet.”

“Doesn’t mean someone doesn’t.”

“Indeed,” Percy sighs. “You of all people should know that all inscribed must register their epithet so as to not be a danger to society.”

Ramsey grimaces. “Yep, I’m aware.”⁷

He watches the countryside roll by instead of dealing with whatever that conversation would be. Mountains, huh? Gonna be harder to get away. It’ll be nice to get some fresh air though. He’s got a few people in the closest city, if he can catch a train he’ll be fine. Maybe he’ll even hike, take the scenic route. Need better shoes for that.

Probably need better shoes if he wants to run away from Percy, too. He’s pretty sure he’s got her beat in the stamina department⁸, but as far as general run-speed? Yeah, he’s screwed. Nighttime will be his friend. Or if he can convince her to use her stamina up from her epithet. But that would take a while.

He needs more time.

He tries for nonchalant as he looks back over at Percy. She’s peering closely at the photographs like a secret code will dance off the page. “We got any real security footage?” he asks. “Or just pictures?”

Percy’s eyes flick up at him. “I had only requested clearance for you to help determine forgeries. You aren’t required to help me catch the perpetrator.”

“Nah,” Ramsey folds his arms behind his head, “never gotten to help solve a mystery before! Might as well help out. It’s my, uh, chance to get on the right side of the law, yeah?”

Percy gives him a soft smile and Ramsey almost feels guilty for a moment.

“Thank you,” she says, looking down at her lap and okay, yeah, Ramsey does feel guilty. “I’m glad you’ve been so enthusiastic about this. It’s refreshing to have the assistance of someone who truly cares.”

Ramsey shoots her a grin that aims for Confident but probably winds up closer to Wildly Uncomfortable. “Don’t mention it, Perce. I’m glad to help."

Chapter Text

Gondola Valley is half-asleep and groggy in the summer air. Ramsey can relate; the nap he took on the train is the best he’s slept in months.¹

The town is “historic”; the buildings are old but everything looks like it’s been renovated recently. They pass by closed ski shops and information booths. A few places look open, restaurants mostly, all of them empty. Occasionally they’ll pass a person or two, most of them in a hurry and not idling about. The air is cool but the sun is warm. Mountains peer over the rooftops, ski trails carving pathways through the trees. 

And then there’s the gondolas. From a distance they look like fine wires adorned with hanging beads, stretching far into the mountains. A vague childhood memory of riding one floats into Ramsey’s mind but drifts out his ear before he can grasp it.

He’d be appreciating his first day as a free man but there’s something that’s been bothering him since he woke up.

“Percy?”

“Hm?” She looks up from her phone’s GPS.

“So, hypothetically speaking,” Ramsey tries to keep the panic out of his voice,² “if Zora happens to show up…”

“I have a few ideas,” Percy says, glancing back down at her phone as they turn a corner. “We’ll need to coordinate our attacks like last time. You’ll note that you’re not wearing eraser cuffs.”

Ramsey side-eyes her. “I noticed. Didn’t want to comment in case it’d remind you.”

“I could subdue you if the need arose. However, I’ve been assured that you’ve been a very cooperative inmate and it’s likely we would need your epithet if Zora were to appear. As such, no cuffs.” She stops for a moment and turns to him. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

Ramsey’s hands immediately go up in defense. “Nope, yep, won’t be doing anything like that!”

Percy nods and continues down the sidewalk. “Still, we should be cautious. Our odds of defeating her even with both our epithets are still somewhat limited.”

“Oh, great,” Ramsey mutters. “If Miss “I can handle you just fine” is nervous, that doesn’t exactly make me confident.”

“I’ve been told that the officer we'll be working with is inscribed.”

They turn down another street and Ramsey spots a brick building with a sign outside that says “Gondola Valley Police Department.” Standing on the steps is a short man in uniform, with dyed green hair and a lot of piercings. He looks more like an art school kid than a cop.³ Young, too, Ramsey notes, can’t be a day over 25.

“Hi!” the man says cheerily as they approach and, yeah, he’s young. The pants on his uniform are too long, bunched up around the ankles. He reaches out to shake Percy’s hand. “You’re Detective King?”

“Percy is fine,” she says, and shakes his hand gracefully.

“Douglas,” he says. “Excited to meet a big city cop. Especially one with a real sword!”

“Quite,” Percy says, curt as ever, “I expect you’ll be driving us?”

“Oh, uh, yeah!” He tilts his head at Ramsey. “Who’s your friend?”

Ramsey gives a half-hearted wave and opens his mouth to introduce himself, but Percy cuts him off. “This is Ramsey. He’s an appraiser.”

“Oh, okay, cool!” says Douglas, who looks a bit puzzled, but that might just be his face.

“Hey,” Ramsey says.

“So you two, like, work together or something?”

Ramsey shrugs and slides his hands into his pockets. “Something like that.”

“Okay! Well, I’m gonna go get the cruiser, I’ll be right back,” he turns on his heel and scurries away. He turns around for a moment to shout, “Oh, and welcome to Gondola Valley!”

Ramsey watches him run off to the parking lot. “I gotta admit, he seems a little green,” he notes, and suddenly feels a small rush as his proficiency increases a bit.⁴

Percy nods. “A hardworking young person. Inexperienced, yes, but his assistance may prove invaluable.”

“Is that his epithet? Green?”

Percy cocks a glance at him. “Greenish, to be precise.”

“What does it do?”

“It wasn’t my business to ask.”

“Probably just turns things green.” Ramsey sighs. “And he’s supposed to help us?”

“On the contrary,” Percy says, “he’s only a guide for us in case we have questions about the case or the area.”

On cue, Douglas’s police car pulls up next to them. Percy walks around to take the front and Ramsey slides into the back.

“One of these days I’ll get to ride shotgun in a police car,” he jokes.

He thinks he hears Percy huff a laugh, but that could just be the sound of the wind as she shuts the door. 

Douglas, thankfully, doesn’t comment and pulls away from the curb. “It’s not too far a’ drive,” he says, “Just a bit up the pass. Got a nice view there, and Mrs. Fitzroy is real sweet. She went to my high school! Donates every year to the prom fund. Why, you should’a seen last year’s prom--”

Ramsey takes the opportunity to enjoy the view and scope out potential escape routes. Narrow streets, which is good, but the lack of cars and people will make it hard to disappear in the crowd. Actually, it's not even an option. And he’ll need to buy supplies at some point. He glances towards the front seat where Percy is also zoning out and Douglas is still rambling.

Doug might be useless in a fight but he’ll be a good distraction for Percy. Maybe she’ll get all focused on mentoring him or something. The messier this case is, the more chances Ramsey has to slip away.

The Fitzroy manor is tucked into a mountainside crevice, engulfed by pine trees on either side. It’s constructed of an amalgamation of faux stone siding, brown painted wood, and large panes of glass. It looks like every other ski condo in the valley, just on a larger scale. Ramsey already hates it.

Can’t escape from here, that’s for sure, unless he steals the car and that’s probably got a tracker in it. Might as well wait for now.

Douglas rings the doorbell to the manor and the door opens quickly to the sight of a stern middle-aged woman wearing a drab skirt suit. Her hair is tucked back into a dark brown braid. There seems to be a permanent crease between her brows.

“Mrs. Fitzroy?” Percy asks, pulling out her badge. “Detective Percival King.”

“Porter,” the woman says, baring her teeth in what is probably a grin, “I’m Mrs. Fitzroy’s personal assistant.” She steps aside to let them in.

Ramsey doesn’t bother wiping his feet on the doormat.⁵

The interior of the manor is exactly as tacky as expected, with a giant elk-antler chandelier hanging from the center of the arched ceiling. There are bulky leather armchairs and ornate rugs. A wide staircase sweeps up to the second floor. An entirely glass wall gives way to a view down the mountainside, to the valley and town below; the view is the only consolation for the rest of the building being terrible. 

“Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, wine,” Porter asks flatly. She’s either bored or guilty, Ramsey decides. “I’ll let Dianne know you’ve arrived. Harold is here too, he flew in this morning.”

“A green tea, please,” Percy says. “Who’s Harold?”

“Harold Fitzroy,” Doug cuts in. “He’s the CFO of Symmetry Aerospace, skis here in the winter.”

“The space research firm?” Percy asks.

Ramsey breathes an internal sigh of relief. A company he hasn’t tried scamming. So he asks for “Coffee, vanilla creamer and three sugars,” instead of a train ticket back to jail.

Doesn’t mean they haven’t heard of him, so he’ll be careful.

“Yeah, he handles the money stuff, don’t think he does any research,” Douglas says, then turns to Porter. “D’ya have soda?”

Porter gives him a flat look. “We have sparkling water.”

Douglas makes a face. “Eh, I’ll pass.”

Porter makes that grimace-y grin again as she leaves the room.

There’s a quiet pause.⁶

Ramsey glances around the entryway. Behind the staircase, he spots the wall from the photos and meanders over. Percy trails behind.

This part of the room is shielded from the window, which Ramsey can respect at least. In the center is the Mauvaise, obviously the prized gem of the collection. He hasn’t seen this particular piece before but it’s hard to miss the telltale wispy foliage and relaxed posing of the hands.

There’s also the fact that it’s of a large group of topless women.

Classic Mauvaise. Sometimes it’s worth realizing that you’re good at one thing and sticking to it.⁷ In this one they’re lounging out in the woods, draped across pillows and feeding each other fruit. To call it sexual would be an understatement.

““A Gathering of Nymphs,”” Percy reads from the plaque. “Is it real?”

“Yep, it’s real,” Ramsey says. He doesn’t even have to look closely to know.

“And the rest of them?”

Ramsey steps back and studies the wall. There are seven paintings and four sculptures. “Give me a few minutes,” he says.

Chapter Text

They’re all real.

Ramsey’s stomach sinks under the floorboards as he scans the last painting on the right, the Otbrosy. The purposefully clumsy movement left behind by a palette knife, the steel greys and sickly oranges. It can’t be fake.

And he’d been hoping for, what, a caper? An adventure? One last chance to spend time with Percy? Escaping should still be fine, he’s got a plan, but maybe he wanted to put it off for a bit. He sighs and takes a sip of his coffee.

“Well?” titters a voice behind him.

Ramsey turns and sees an elderly woman dressed in an evening gown and wearing a small crown. He blinks.

“You must be Mrs. Ftizroy,” Percy says, extending her hand.

“Please, call me Dianne,” the woman says, ignoring Percy’s hand. “My hubby is just dying to know if anything has been stolen!”

“You’re in luck,” Ramsey grumbles, “Nothing’s been replaced.”

She lets out an audible sigh, her shoulders collapsing in for a moment. “Thank goodness. Did you hear that, Harry!”

“Yes, yes,” comes a gruff voice from up the stairs. “Now, could you get the police out of our house?”

“Aw, Harry!” Dianne pouts, actually pouts with her lip out and everything, “We barely have guests here in the summer. Why don’t I entertain for a bit?”

There’s the sound of grumbling, footsteps, then a door closing.

Dianne looks back at them and clasps her hands together. “How wonderful! Please, do make yourself at home.”

“I apologize, ma’am,” Percy cuts in, “But my associate and I should be on our way.”

“Eh, lemme finish my coffee,” Ramsey says, “Been a while since I’ve had somethin’ decent.”¹

“Oh, of course!” Dianne says, “I’m certain you law-people must be so very busy! You two are,” she glances between Percy and Ramsey, “detectives?”

“I am.” Percy takes a sip of her tea, “He is not.”

“Nah.” Ramsey shrugs, “Just an appreciator of fine arts.”

“Oh!” Dianne beams at him. “You must look at my other paintings! These are just the conversation starters, you know. Why, I’ve always been such a patron of the arts. The museum does a charity auction of local artists every winter and I bid on everything!”

She’s looking at him expectantly and Ramsey doesn’t like that one bit.

“I suppose it’s no harm.” Percy seems to have caught on to Ramsey’s panicked expression. “I don’t believe there are any trains for a few more hours.”

If Ramsey has to put up with this bougie bullshit for two more minutes he might scream. But, hell, if his plan works he’ll never see Percy again. Might as well look at some artwork of mountains or moose or whatever for a while longer. Say goodbye in his own way.

Twenty minutes later he is full of regret as Dianne launches into her second speech about wanting to build a private high school in the valley. Douglas has materialized, somehow with a bottle of cherry soda, and is hanging off her every word.

Theoretically, they’re looking at a painting of a lake, with some famous mountains in the background. Ramsey’s already forgotten the name of the mountains, the painting, and the artist. It’s a perfectly fine, a half-assed attempt on the Hudson River School style but too amateurish to pull it off.²

Ramsey sighs and glances around. Percy’s wandered off somewhere.

“Perce?” he calls quietly, stepping away from the conversation.

“Here,” comes her voice from around a corner.

Ramsey follows her voice and finds Percy at the end of a short hallway, with doors on either side and a small painting in front of her.

The hallway isn’t particularly well-lit, but Ramsey can see that it’s of a cat sitting in a chair. A Persian, Ramsey’s pretty sure, but he knows a lot more about art than cats. The brush strokes are broad and rushed, as if it was done with a live model that could leap away at any moment.

“This is the best painting.” Percy declares.

Ramsey gives her a look.³

“You like cats?” he asks.

She nods. “I do. I find their quiet grace admirable.”

“Surprised you’re not a dog person,” he says, “though maybe that’s just me associating cops and dogs.”

“I don’t dislike dogs.” Percy is still looking at the painting. “I just happen to like cats.”

Ramsey looks back at the painting. It’s oil and the technique is pretty good. Not too muddled or anything. Fresh, too, looks like it’d just been painted a few hours ago.

“I guess Dianne’s a painter,” Ramsey offers. “Must’ve done this herself and hung it up this morning to dry.”

“It’s good,” Percy says, “Should I compliment her?”

“If you want her to talk your ear off, go for it.”

Percy turns and strides away from him. Ramsey stays in the hallway, preferring to avoid the incoming monologue.

“Mrs. Fitzroy, I must compliment your cat painting, it’s incredibly lovely.”

He looks a bit closer at the paint. He recognizes the brand, a pretty cheap one if he remembers correctly. Not what he’d expect from this woman.

“Why thank you! Sedia Gatti painted that, she lives downtown in the winter. Why, if I’m not mistaken she even has an exhibit happening at the Im-pede museum this month. In remembrance, of course.”

There're some fingerprints near the side, like someone who didn’t know what they were doing picked it up.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss. Were you friends with the deceased?”

And there’s paint smudged on the frame too. He clucks his tongue at that.

“Oliver? Oh, heavens no, that cat was a menace. But he was Sedia’s muse for a number of years so she’s incredibly distraught. That one is Oliver 46, I bought it from her last winter. I believe she painted it when—“

Ramsey’s head snaps up. Dianne is still chattering on, but all Ramsey cares about is ’last winter.’ There’s no way that this is...

He looks back to the painting.

Huh.

As Douglas is saying his goodbyes, Ramsey pulls Percy aside.

“That cat painting’s fake,” he whispers, leaning in close so no one overhears. “And not even a good one.”

Percy narrows her eyes. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah,” he says, then thinks for a moment. “Okay, not completely. Never seen anything by this painter before. Should we tell her?”

Percy frowns and glances back at where Dianne is talking at Douglas. Porter is nearby, too, gathering up the mugs.

“No,” she says. “Call it a detective’s intuition but I believe there’s some monkey business occurring here.”

Ramsey nods slowly. “So, uh, we lookin’ for clues or something? Don’t really know this stuff works.”

“Would seeing more of this artist’s work give you more solid evidence?” Percy’s expression has turned resolute and intense, focus radiating from her eyes. She’s still very close to him.

“Uh. Y-” Ramsey's tongue trips over the feet it doesn't have.⁴ “y-yeah, probably.”

Chapter Text

“So what I don’t get,” Ramsey says between bites of his pastrami sandwich, “is why they took the Gatti instead of literally anything else.”

Douglas drove them back downtown, to a café he described as ‘nice but not too pricy!’ and Ramsey would describe as ‘pretty run-down.’ Warm light filters through the slatted walls, catching in beams on the dust that floats throughout. The walls are plastered with ads for concerts that happened five years ago. The man at the register didn’t know what to do when Percy handed him a debit card.¹ Still, the food is good and the booth they’ve settled into is cozy.

Most important, though, is that it’s next to the museum.

“We still aren’t sure how valuable it is,” Percy remarks. “Perhaps it’s an expensive piece?”

“Nah, being part of a series decreases the value a decent amount, unless you’ve got a full set. And I’ve never heard of this lady, which might not mean anything but probably does. She’s no public figure.”

Percy blows on a spoonful of tomato soup. “Personal significance is a possible motive, then. She did mention it was part of an auction. Perhaps another bidder wanted it more?”

Ramsey takes a gulp of water,² considering for a moment. “Depends on how similar it is to the rest of the set. You’re right though, could be the other bidder.”

They’re quiet again as they go back to their respective lunches. Apparently Percy’s soup is cool enough to eat now. The sandwich isn’t half bad, would be better if it had pickles. He’d ask the man up front but he’s scared he’ll ask what a pickle is. Idly, he watches a guy in a hoodie order a house salad without tomatoes.

Percy’s voice reels him back in. “There was something strange about the owners as well,” she says, studying her glass as she runs her finger through the condensation. “Dianne was intent on not talking about the art at all.”

Ramsey nods. “She’s a weird one, the kinda rich where she can just do whatever she wants and she knows it. And her assistant was really on edge. Plus, that Harold guy wanted us out of there as soon he could. Seemed pretty uneasy having a gumshoe nearby.”

“That’s not uncommon. Many civilians are discomfited with our presence.”

“Wonder why that is,” Ramsey mutters.

“Hmm.” Percy takes a contemplative sip. “I imagine it has something to do with perpetual reports of corruption and brutality, as well as a lack of accountability amongst the force and budget cuts to other government services.”

Ramsey nearly drops his sandwich.

“Wow, I, uh,” he makes a concerted effort to stop staring so openly, “wasn’t expecting you to be so self-aware.”

She isn’t really looking at him, instead contemplating her glass of water. “Someone has to be.”

Ramsey’s still not good at reading Percy³ but right now she seems uncomfortable, if nothing else.

He shouldn’t push.

But he’s curious.

“So, why’d you join the force, if you think ‘bout all that stuff?”

Percy brightens up; seems like it’s a familiar subject. “I spent a long time wondering what my purpose was. Why I have the epithet I do, what it would best be used for. For a long time, I wanted to become an architect and trained my proficiency towards that. But I realized that I was better suited to combat, and once I realized I could stop bullets I knew I had found my calling.”

“How many times’ve you answered that question?”

Percy blinks, setting her glass back on the table. “I’m sorry?”

“That sounded rehearsed.” Ramsey points accusingly with his sandwich. “Really rehearsed.”

She frowns and, yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have said that. “I haven’t counted. It’s a common quandary.”

“So, why’re you really a cop?”

She looks down at her soup. She picks the bowl up, cradling it in her hands, and takes a sip. There’s something quaint about it, but Ramsey ignores that and focuses on how tense she looks.

When she’s done, she brings the soup down. Her eyes flick back up to his. She’s nervous. “I like helping people.”

Ramsey leans back in his chair, satisfied and grinning. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She smiles now, a real smile, and glances away.⁴ “No. It wasn’t.”

The museum is small but modern, sleek steel and matte white paint. There are banners outside advertising an exhibit on mining,⁵ but that’s not what they’re here for. They’re here for the paintings.

Well, judging by the way that Percy is acting, they’re actually here for free kazoos.

“These are only for children,” the teenager at the front desk says, leg bouncing up and down. “Can’t hand them out to everyone.”

“Are you certain?” Percy asks, “I have not played the kazoo since a young age, and some days one wishes to revisit their childlike innocence.”

“Look, miss, we’re publicly funded by donations. Unless you’re under fourteen I can’t give you one.”

“I’m twelve,” Ramsey says.

The teenager nods and hands him a kazoo.

It’s purple. He gives it to Percy, whose face immediately lights up.

“You two have a good time!” the teenager calls after them.

“‘In memory of Oliver Gatti,’” Ramsey reads aloud from the text on the wall. There’s an artist statement, too, but Ramsey’s much more interested in watching Percy as she wanders the gallery.

Like the rest of the museum, this exhibit is small and minimalist; Ramsey can tell that most of their budget has gone towards climate control. The paintings are all fairly similar, the same Persian cat lounging on various antique chairs, sofas, and ottomans. Sometimes there are flowers. In full light the pastels look a little sickly, but Percy doesn’t seem to mind.

“Not much security here,” he notes, “be easier to steal from here than that mansion.”

“Hmm?” She’s looking at one with the cat on a rococo revival couch surrounded by hydrangeas.

Ramsey shakes his head and walks over to join her. “Nothing. You like these ones as much as the one we saw earlier?”

“I do.” She pauses, looking over at the rest of the paintings. “Don’t hold it against me for saying so, but I can understand why someone would want to steal them.”

Ramsey laughs. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t. Just weird that they stole from the Fitzroys instead of here.”

Percy nods. “These ones are different, though. I’m not sure how to describe it, but they are.”

Ramsey takes a moment to stop looking at Percy and actually look at the paintings. “Lot more detail work here,” he observes quickly, “Look at the definition of the fur, and the detailing on the fabric. I’d also say somewhat of a cooler palette, but that may be because,” he looks at the plaque on the wall, “these ones are a lot more recent. This is Oliver 139.”

Percy nods solemnly, studying the painting. “So you’re saying that something dark developed in the artist’s psyche over the years.”

“What? No. People just change stylistically, it happens.”

“Ah. I see.”

They meander the gallery for a while longer, and Ramsey plays a game of getting Percy to tell him exactly what she likes about each of the paintings. She enjoys the ones where the cat looks regal more than the relaxed ones, and she likes the flowers. Eventually, he winds up on a tangent about the usage of different types of oils in painting and Percy listens like it’s something that matters.

Then, because they did pay for their tickets, they go to the mining exhibit, and that becomes a conversation about the usage of different metals in construction. He’d known Percy had an interest in architecture due to her epithet, but there’s a kind of infectious joy that spreads from her face to his when she talks about which metals are better for structural support.

“We’re closing in twenty minutes.” The kid from the front desk is poking their head around the corner. “I gotta kick you out. Sorry.”

“Of course,” Percy says, “we’ll depart soon.”

Ramsey’s not sure he wants to.

“I forgot to ask,” Percy says as they step out of the museum and into the first orange light of evening, “are you still certain the painting is fake?”

“Sure as bark on a tree,” Ramsey says.

She hums. “I see. In that case, we should check into the hotel and go over evidence at the station.”

“You on the clock 24/7?” He raises a brow at her. “No breaks at all?”

“Much of this afternoon was a break, Ramsey.”

Ramsey chuckles. “I mean, yeah. All work and no play makes for a bad day.”

Percy smiles and, ugh, is that a sad smile? He’s not very good at this. “Of course. If you’d like to retire for the evening I can escort you.”

“Well, now aren’t you gallant,” Ramsey laughs, bending his arm to her. Percy hooks her hand through the crook of his elbow. “I’m actually pretty beat. Not sure how good I’d be with police-y stuff anyways.”⁶

“Much of it will be paperwork,” Percy notes. “Though I’ll review the footage again, see if there was a camera fixed on the cat painting. If they don’t have it we can pay another visit to the Fitzroys tomorrow.”

Percy is warm by his side, and Ramsey can’t help the smile that creeps across his face.

Oh.

Well, that’s inconvenient.

Ramsey slides his hands into his pockets⁷ and looks up at the sky. He sighs, letting his shoulders sag, and tries to get all the weird mushy feelings out of his lungs. It doesn’t work. He closes his eyes for a moment; he can feel a headache coming on.

Which is really inconvenient because that’s when he’s shot in the shoulder.

It’s a good thing bullets just deal minor impact damage!

Too bad that wasn't a bullet.

Chapter Text

“Shit!” Ramsey yells, a long history of getting into bad situations causing him to whip around with minimal delay.

Out of the corner of his only good eye, he spots someone over the crest of a nearby roof, with what looks like the barrel of a rifle peeking over the edge.

More important, though, is the guy in a puffy green jacket running at them from down an alley. His hood is up and he’s got a bandana over his mouth, obscuring everything but his eyes. He’s carrying something pretty large under his arm, but it’s blurry in the pumping of his arms.

“Wha—“ Percy spins on her heel and draws her real-ass goddamn sword.

Which, oh yeah, she’s had that the whole time, right? It’s always seemed like an extension of her body, Ramsey hadn’t been paying much attention and now he really isn’t paying attention because jacket guy is bringing something down over his head.

Ramsey stumbles backward with the impact, hitting the wall behind him. He catches himself on the bricks, brain reverberating in his skull. He pulls his eyes open to see Percy build some kind of hut thing, using the momentum of its creation to leap into the air. She kicks off of a lamp post and lands atop the jacket guy’s shoulders.

“Get—get off of me!” jacket guy yells, muffled through the bandana. He stumbles, swinging what Ramsey now realizes is a snowboard at her.

Percy dances across his broad shoulders. “I’d suggest that you surrender immediately!” she demands, leveling the tip of her sword in his face.

“Hell no!” jacket guy hollers back.

Ramsey pushes himself off of the wall, stumbling upright. “Who even are you?” he demands.

Jacket guy whips around to look at him, but before he can say anything there’s the sharp sound of…something.

It’s not a gunshot, but it’s quick and metallic.

Jacket guy shudders and buckles. The air around him vibrates, the blue glow of an epithet shivering down his limbs.

He straightens back up, growing taller as he does so. Percy wobbles but keeps her footing. “Ramsey!” she calls, “Stay near the thaumaturgist hut!”

“The what!” Ramsey yells back.

Jacket guy, who is nearly twice as tall and twice as wide now, takes a swing at Ramsey with his snowboard. Ramsey ducks under it quickly, dragging his hand along the underside as he goes. His epithet rolls off of his fingers and onto the shiny fiberglass, spreading into gold.

Ramsey stumbles back a few feet, head feeling a bit more solid. He glances over to see that the hut is emitting a soft glow, must be healing him.

Percy pirouettes off of jacket guy, who is struggling to lift his now-gold snowboard.  But before she can land, there’s another sharp sound. She yells, folding in on herself mid-air.

“Percy!” Ramsey shouts after her, watching as she’s yanked backward, pulled upwards by something. A long hook is stuck into her belt, connected to a chain and pulling her up towards the roof.

Suddenly, jacket guy’s massive fist collides with his face. Ramsey nearly collapses, but instead retaliates by punching back, fist colliding with his stomach because he’s really out of ideas right now.

He regrets it just as his fist lands, hearing the sickening crunch of a finger.

Jacket guy barely seems affected, if at all, and he grabs Ramsey by the arm and tosses him aside. Luckily it’s towards the hut, and Ramsey’s finger snaps back into position.

He looks up to see that Percy is pulling against the chain slung over her shoulder, digging her feet into the building. The glow of her epithet surrounds the bricks, crushing and rebuilding them to give her a better grip. She yanks downward on the chain, wrenching it from the grasp of the guy on the roof. What Ramsey now realizes is a harpoon gun clatters to the pavement below.

“Now that your weapon is gone,” Percy, breathing hard, shouts to the roof, “perhaps it’s time to reveal yourself!”

There’s just the patter of fleeing footsteps from above.

Jacket guy looks up, glances at Ramsey, and books it in the opposite direction.

“Shit!” Percy yells, and wow is that the first time he’s heard her swear? But now she’s jumping from the building and sprinting down the alley after him, Ramsey should probably follow.

Only problem is that the guy is like twelve feet tall, which means that his legs are way longer than theirs. He’s quickly getting smaller as he gets farther away, and if he turns enough corners there’s no way…

“Percy!” Ramsey yells as he runs down the alley. She’s a lot faster than he is. “I don’t think we can catch him!”

Percy just ducks down and runs faster. “Better apprehend one than neither!”

Jacket guy rounds a corner and Percy doesn’t follow exactly, instead going to the building on the opposite side. She plants a foot on the wall, like a runner starting a marathon, and a wizard tower pops up under her foot, shooting her horizontally into the air. Ramsey watches her disappear between buildings.

He rounds the corner, panting but still standing.¹ Down the street, he can see that the jacket guy is back to normal size, and Percy has him pinned on the sidewalk, hooking a pair of cuffs around his wrists. A few people sitting on the porch of a nearby restaurant are staring.

“Hey,” Ramsey calls, slowing to a much more comfortable walk.

“Fuck you!” Jacket guy struggles against Percy’s grip. She shoves him down harder.

Ramsey laughs. “Kinda hard to do from over there.” Still, he approaches warily; it looks like Percy has everything under control, but she’s obviously exhausted. Must’ve taken her more than one tower to get here.

Now that the cuffs are on, Percy hauls jacket guy upright. “We’ll bring you back to the station,” she says between pants, “for questioning.”

Ramsey walks over and yanks down the guy’s bandana, revealing freckled scowl. His hair is brown and tousled, with a flat nose and thin brows.

“Seen him before?” he asks Percy.

Percy leans around to get a look at his face. “I have not. Must be a local.”

“You’re not getting anything out of me!” jacket guy yells. “Stupid fuckin’ cops. Get me a lawyer!”

Ramsey rolls his eyes, pitying the nearby restaurant patrons. “You’d be better off staying quiet. Seriously, I’ve been arrested a few times, talking never goes well.”

He gives Ramsey a strange look. “I thought they didn’t let felons be cops?”

“They don’t,” Percy says, tightening her grip on the cuffs. “Ramsey, could you get my phone for me? It’s in my pocket. We’ll need directions to the station.”

“Uh,” Ramsey glances in the vicinity of Percy’s waist. “Sure. Right or left?”

“Right.”

Gingerly, Ramsey reaches into Percy’s front pocket, quickly grabbing it. He holds it out to her and she quirks a brow at him.

“Seven two eight five nine,” she says.

Ramsey nods, a bit dazed, and types in the passcode. He barely glances at her home screen, seeing no apps beyond the default ones, and finds the police station on the map.

“We’re pretty close by. Gotta go back past the museum, so we could grab that harpoon gun.”

Percy nods, and they start walking.

Around the corner is the remnants of their fight; the bricks that Percy re-arranged, a solid gold snowboard, and a bit of what is probably Ramsey’s blood splattered across the pavement. But there’s something new: a stout woman has her back to them and is picking up the gun.

Percy freezes. “Shoot,” she mutters under her breath. “Can you take the prisoner? Unless you can use my sword.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Ramsey whispers back. “I can hold him, but I bet he’s gonna try to get away.”

“Hey!” jacket guy yells, and the woman turns around, “Help me out here!”

She has a severe look about her, long, dark hair tied into a tight bun, and a pair of aviator sunglasses perched atop her sharp nose. She’s also wearing a cop’s uniform in the same style as Douglas. Jacket guy’s face falls from optimistic to ‘aw, crap.’

She wrinkles her nose as she approaches them. “I received a call about a fight,” she says, tone like a scolding teacher, “I see you were involved.”

“Detective Percival King,” Percy says, “I’d show you my badge, but my hands are otherwise busy.”

“Officer!” jacket guy whines, “These inscribed cops beat me up for no reason! Tell them to let me go!”

The cop ignores him. “You didn’t radio for backup.”

“I apologize,” Percy says, “The entire event happened too quickly for me to call Officer Douglas.”

The cop nods slowly. “It’s a good thing the convict didn’t run off.”

“He tried,” Ramsey cuts in,² “but Percy caught him. There’s another one though, ran off on the rooftops.”

The cop turns her head, but not her body, to look at him.

“I’m talking about you,” she says. “When I heard that S.J.P.D. wanted to send Ramsey Murdoch to my town, I told them there was no way in hell. But here you are.”

Ramsey suddenly feels like a rabbit frozen in front of a train, moments away from being a red smudge against the tracks. Every muscle tells him to bolt but all he can do is tremble.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s gotta show it.

“Glad to see my reputation proceeds me,” he says, taking a bow and tossing her a casual smirk. “And you are?”

“This is Constable Meredith Bynes,” Percy says, “Head of the Gondola Valley P.D.”

Meredith turns back to Percy. “We had this under control,” she says. “Until you showed up. Tomorrow there’ll be an article in the paper about a street brawl. You think that’s good for us?”

Percy sighs. “No, Constable.”

“I got shot with a harpoon!” Ramsey yells, “And you’re blaming her?”

“It’s an officer’s duty,” Meredith doesn’t look at him this time, “to only use force if necessary.”

“This was real fuckin’ necessary!” Ramsey shoots back.

Meredith gives him a side-eye from behind her glasses. “You over-estimate your role here,” she says, turning and walking back over to the harpoon gun. She pulls a radio off of her belt and speaks into it, kneeling down to look at the gun.

“Real stick in the mud,” Ramsey grumbles. Percy doesn’t respond but pushes jacket guy³ forward.

She approaches Meredith. “Constable, what should I do with this man?”

“Hand him off to Douglas when he gets here. After that, go back to the city.”

“Ma’am,” Percy says, and Ramsey catches annoyance hiding under the syllable, “with all due respect, we have a lead.”

Meredith picks the chain off the ground, peering closely at it. “As do we. The appraiser’s coming in tomorrow afternoon to look everything over. A professional appraiser, not a criminal.”

“One of the paintings is fake,” Percy says. “The one with the cat.”

Meredith stands back up, shifting her weight back with her hands on her hips. “And he told you that.” She nods her head towards Ramsey.

Percy gives a quick nod.

Meredith sighs, shaking her head at the ground. “We’ll look at it. For now, we’ll have to file all this away as evidence. You,” she looks at jacket guy for the first time, “will spend at least the night in a cell, probably longer.”

Jacket guy, to his credit, looks sheepish.

“Actually,” Meredith says, taking off her glasses for the first time, eyes sharp like drills, “didn’t I arrest you for a DUI two winters ago? Ryan Snow, right?”

“Ryker,” jacket guy mutters.

Ramsey shakes his head.⁴

Meredith fixes Ryker with a stern look. “So why’d you decide to get in a fight with a city cop?”

Ryker glares, and this time keeps his mouth shut.

They stay at the scene of the “crime” for a while longer, until Douglas and another cop show up. Percy’s still obviously low on stamina, wobbling on her feet, and Ramsey doesn’t feel much better, especially after Meredith orders him to turn the snowboard back into fiberglass.

After Douglas shepherds Ryker into a cop car, Ramsey leans towards Percy. “Thanks for the healing earlier,” he whispers, “You really saved my ass.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says.

He quirks a brow. “So I’ve been wondering, why don’t you heal yourself now?”

Percy glances at him. “Summoning the thaumaturgist’s hut will take up too much stamina that I’ll pass out, at which point it will disappear. It’s ultimately pointless.”

Her tone is cool, stance relaxed and confident, but Ramsey sees the way her shoulders sag. He wants to tell her that there’s no point trying to make a better impression on Meredith, but keeps his mouth shut.

Meredith approaches them again, wearing her sunglasses again despite the fact that the sun has set. “Usually I just assign Doug whenever we have weird epithet shit,” she says, crossing her arms, “but with someone shooting goddamn harpoons at people, the whole station’s gonna be on high-alert. Ryker doesn’t have an epithet, but whoever was on that roof definitely does. Keep an eye out.”

“Of course,” Percy says. “I apologize for any disorder my arrival has caused.”

“Here,” Meredith says, pulling the police scanner off her belt and tossing it to Percy. “I don’t have a phone, but I always have a radio. More reliable.” Ramsey’s not sure he agrees. “Call in if you need back-up. This town’s usually pretty safe, ‘cept for when drunk college kids decide to drive their rental cars through the pass. Or snowmobiles. Now do me a favor and fix that wall,” she gestures to where Percy rebuilt the bricks, turning on her heel and striding away.

As soon as she’s not looking, Percy grimaces. She starts walking towards the wall.

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Ramsey says, chasing after her. “You’re not seriously gonna fix that? You just said it yourself, you don’t have the stamina.”

Percy frowns, studying the damage. “I probably won’t pass out.”

“Probably?”

“I’d hate to leave property damage.”

“At least eat something first,” Ramsey pleads, “Come on, let’s go grab dinner or something.”

“I have my orders,” Percy murmurs, reaching out to press her fingers to the wall.

Slowly, orange light creeps in ribbons from her arm, twining around the shattered bricks and pulling them back into right-angles. They sort themselves back into place, scattered cement dust flowing like water to glue them together. A bead of sweat drips down Percy’s brow as the hole knits itself back together. Her eyes fall shut.

“Hey, hey,” Ramsey says, sliding his arm under her shoulders. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She leans her full weight on him. Not unconscious, then. “Thank you,” she murmurs, turning and burying her head in the crook of his neck. Her hair is soft against his chin.

“Don’t mention it,” he says.

Chapter Text

He should leave.

Hike through the mountains, buy a bus ticket, find a new city.

Instead, he’s in line at a pharmacy. The fluorescent lights glare down, asking why he’s still here. The beep of the register feels like a nail driving into his skull.

Percy handed him her debit card with the instructions to get food while she checked into the hotel. He doesn’t feel good about leaving her on her own, but the hotel’s probably the safest place she can be.

That’s why he hasn’t left, isn’t it? He’s worried about Percy. He’s done his part for the case, told her which painting isn’t real. But now there’s someone after her, or maybe after him, Ramsey doesn’t know. Maybe Zora sent someone after him; now that he’s not in jail she could've tracked him down. It’s possible. But with the timing of everything, this feels more like it’s about the painting.

But why?

“Sir.”

Seriously, that thing’s worth like two hundred bucks, tops. Being fined after assaulting a cop’d cost more than you’d get for it on the black market. Not that you’d be able to find a buyer.

“Sir.”

The man at the register, scruffy and bearded, is glowering at him.

“Shit, sorry,” Ramsey mutters, stepping forward and placing his purchases on the counter. Two pre-made sandwiches, an apple, a toothbrush, a bottle of saline solution, a lighter, and a box of granola bars. Oh, and a t-shirt, because every store here is also a gift shop. Ramsey managed to find one that isn’t too tacky,¹ which says Gondola Valley in a faux-faded sans serif. He’d buy a whole new outfit but he already doesn’t feel great about spending Percy’s money.

He really has to figure out how to pay her back.

He raps his knuckles on the hotel door and waits.

There’s a thud from the other side, and a few moments later Percy swings it open. She’s dressed in a tank top and a pair of sweatpants, hair askew. She looks dead on her feet. Ramsey’s stomach twists.

He raises the plastic bag. “Sandwiches,” he says. “Hope you don’t mind I bought some other stuff. Not like I’ve got anything besides clothes on my back.”

Percy nods, head staying down as she turns away. Ramsey follows her into the room.

It’s a bargain bin sort of hotel, tacky curtains and photographs of mountains, smothered by yellowed lighting. The TV set to the news, volume low, a quiet whirr of conversation. The queen-sized bed is covered in a brown paisley duvet that’s probably hiding all kinds of stains. Percy flops face-first onto it.

Ramsey settles down next to her. He reaches into the bag and pulls out her sandwich, a caesar salad wrap. She doesn’t respond, eyes still shut.

Ramsey sighs. “Want me to unwrap it for you?”

She nods, cheek squished against the bedspread. He obliges, struggling with the plastic. Finally, he pulls it off and holds the sandwich out to her. Again she doesn’t respond, so he takes her wrist and wraps her fingers around it.

“You need to eat, darling,” he murmurs, digging his own sandwich from the bag.²  Her hand grips it, still holding it aloft while she stays laying down.

He eats quietly, perched on the edge of the bed and staring vaguely in the direction of the television. Politics are still terrible and the weather’ll be bad tomorrow. Eventually, Percy slouches up. She takes a slow bite, chewing sluggishly. Her second bite is a bit faster, her third even more so, until she’s wolfing down the sandwich with furious veracity.

Ramsey chuckles. “Glad to have you back.”

She swallows hard. “Water,” she mutters, and moves to get up.

Ramsey stands, hand on her shoulder. “I got it,” he says, “don’t tire yourself out more.”³ She nods, sinking back down onto the bed.

Ramsey wanders into the bathroom and flicks on the lights. They’re too bright and, yeah, alright, he’s definitely concussed. He squints at himself in the mirror.

He looks like shit.

Ramsey knows he’s never been an attractive guy, even before losing his eye and a number of teeth, but right now he looks especially terrible. There’s a scrape on the side of his face where he’d hit the wall. His white button-down has veered from business-casual to grunge. His hair shines with grease. He looks like a terrible movie gangster⁴ who hasn’t slept in two days.⁵

He grimaces and grabs a plastic cup, filling it under the faucet.

“Gonna take a shower,” he says as he comes out of the bathroom. Percy has finished her sandwich and settled back against the plush pillows. She’s already looking better, color back in her cheeks, but her hand is slow when she reaches out to grab the cup. “Unless you want dibs?”

“I’ll shower in the morning,” she says as she takes a sip. “Thank you.”

“S’just water.” He grabs her discarded sandwich wrapper and drops it in the trash can.

“For buying dinner. Normally I would just attempt to sleep this off, but that’s rarely as effective as food.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Ramsey shrugs.

A shower and a toothbrushing later, Ramsey still looks pretty bad, but he doesn’t look like he’s been thrown out of a bus on his way to a business meeting. He just looks like someone who’s had a long day, but that someone happens to be missing an eye.

Which he’d really like to take out for the night.

Better not to freak Percy out, though.⁶

When he comes out of the bathroom she’s stretching, lunging forward with her arms reaching upwards. Ramsey flops onto the bed.

“Doin’ alright?” he asks, watching her.

She lets out a puff of air. “Yes,” she says, switching feet.

For a minute, there’s just the sound of her breathing, heavy and measured with exertion. Her eyes are fixed on the wall in front of her. She doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s not looking at the television.⁷ She switches between stretches, pulling her feet forward and bending down to touch her toes.

Her back pops.

“Apologies,” she mutters, head down.

Ramsey raises an eyebrow. “For the noise?”

She’s silent for a moment, quiet enough that Ramsey doesn’t hear her breathing.

She stands, leans back, hands on the small of her back. Her back cracks again.

Ramsey waits.

“There’s a reason I work alone,” she murmurs, eyes still on the ceiling. She holds the pose, a perfect curve.

She’s breathing again; it’s obvious Ramsey won’t get an answer. “‘Cause you’re good at your job?” he asks, taking a note from Howie’s book. “We playin’ twenty questions here, or are you just gonna be all ominous?”

She huffs a laugh and glances down at him. “Nothing sinister, I assure you. People just find me difficult to work with.”

“Well, I don’t work with you,” Ramsey states. “So if you’re difficult, I can’t tell.”

She frowns, eyes flicking back to the ceiling. “I left you behind. I was so focused on capturing the perpetrator that I ran away while you were injured.”

So that’s what this is about. Ramsey props himself up on his elbow. “You left me with a healing hut. Let it go, Perce.”

She folds down again, knuckles brushing against the floor. Ramsey is briefly jealous of her flexibility. “It isn’t that simple,” she murmurs.

“Is it? ‘Cause I’m doin’ fine.”

“What if the other criminal had returned?”

“Turned myself to gold, probably. Works pretty well for most things, just takes a bit. Only danger is if I get bent outta shape.”

Percy rolls back up, settling into perfect posture. She turns to face him. “Has that happened before?”

Her full gaze is heavy like liquid gold, face open and bare. He’s careful to keep his tone light. “Sure has. Got stabbed one time, shiv got stuck in my chest and left a dent. Had to walk to the hospital before turning back. Woulda been dead if I hadn’t, or close to it anyways.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not comforting.”

Ramsey sighs. “Nah, it’s not. Only happened once, though. Bullets are fine though, they just bruise. I just gotta be quick.” He winks at her.

“Are you?” she crosses her arms.

“‘Course!” Ramsey says, flopping back onto the bed with his arms out. “What do you take me for, some kinda white-collar criminal?”

She sits down next to him. “You are a white-collar criminal.”

He rolls his eyes, fixing her with his best smirk. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Percival King.”

She quirks a bushy eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

He grins. “Will this be held against me in a court of law?”

“I can’t promise that it won’t.”

Right. This is Percy. He closes his eyes, tries not to let his feelings show in the crinkle of his brow.⁸

“Then no,” he says.

Percy doesn’t respond.

Ramsey considers trying to fall asleep. The bed, despite being hideous, is pretty comfy, but maybe his standards are just low. But he’s all stretched out and Percy’s gotta sleep somewhere, and that involves dealing with the elephant in the room. Which he’s currently on top of.

Just as he’s about to offer sleeping on the floor, Percy’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Are you alright?”

What a weird question.

“Yeah,” he says.

She’s quiet again. Ramsey cracks his eye open. She’s looking at the TV, but she catches him staring and tilts her head to look at him.

There’s a beat. Everything feels electric.

Maybe it’s Ramsey’s heart stopping.

Because, shit, she’s gorgeous, isn’t she. Elegant without ego.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Ramsey screws his eyes shut and rolls over to face the wall. Could turn to gold so she can’t see that he’s on fire. Might melt, though.

“I should rest as well,” Percy says, and Ramsey feels the bed shift as she stands. “We’ll return to the Fitzroys' in the afternoon.”

Ramsey bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. He’s in the clear. He can do this. “Was wondering about that.” His voice is level. “Miriam mentioned something about an appraiser?”

“Meredith.” He feels Percy pull down the covers on the other side. “And yes. The Fitzroys have called in an expert.”

“Don’t trust my judgement, I guess,” Ramsey mutters.

The bed bends under her weight. “On the contrary. They contacted him before we arrived.”

“Gotcha.”

“Regardless of his verdict,” Percy says, “your assistance has proved crucial.”

“Sure,” Ramsey says, yawning wide. Maybe he is tired. He yanks the covers down and scrambles underneath. “Glad to be of assistance.”

The light flicks off.

“Good night, Ramsey.” Her voice is soft. He wants to get lost in it.

“Night,” he grumbles.

Consciousness floats under the surface, disturbed by a ripple of buzzes. Once, twice, three times, silence. Once, twice, three times, silence.

Ramsey feels warm and content.

A clatter, a click.

He buries his face into the pillow to hide from the noise.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice. Percy.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

Tense.

“What do you mean there’s a fucking whale in the police station?!”

Chapter Text

Ramsey’s awake now.

He pulls his eyes open against the stickiness of sleep.

The lamp bathes the room in yellow, catching on Percy with her phone to her ear. She’s wearing an unusually expressive expression, perplexed and alarmed. She nods seriously every few seconds; whoever’s on the other end is talking fast.

“Of course,” she says, “Right. Yes. We’ll be there shortly.” She takes the phone down from her ear and clicks it off, pushing off the bed to stand.

Ramsey sits up. “So,” he rubs his eye, “did I just hear something about a fucking whale?”

Percy’s already a blur of motion, grabbing things from the floor. “Two fucking whales, actually.”

Ramsey squints in the lamplight. “Two whales fucking?”

“No, just,” Percy is suddenly pulling off her sweatpants and Ramsey’s hand immediately goes up over his eyes, “two whales. Expletive, not verb.”

“Cool, cool,” Ramsey says, voice a bit tight. “I, uh, know you’re in a rush but could’ya warn a guy next time?”

“What?” she asks, obviously distracted, and Ramsey hears the quick rustle of fabric. He stays fixated on the popcorn texture of the wall.

“Before you start tearing off your clothes.”

“Oh,” Percy says, like she somehow didn’t realize. “My apologies. I’m decent now.”

Ramsey glances over and, yeah, she’s wearing half her uniform.

He sighs and slides out of bed. “Gonna go change in the bathroom.” He grabs yesterday’s pants and the new shirt. “Be out in a few.”

“Right, yes,” Percy says, tapping a message on her phone.

Ramsey tries to rub the crick out of his neck while they wait for the elevator. He glances over Percy’s shoulder, where she’s frantically switching between texting Douglas and someone named ‘Eros.’ More important, though, he checks the time: 6:47. Later then he thought it was, considering how dark it is outside.

“So,” he asks, stifling a yawn, “this some kinda epithet bullshit?”

“Undoubtedly,” Percy says. “I’m having someone cross-reference summoning epithets. We may have a match.”

“Yeah?”

“Indeed,” she clicks the phone off, turning to face him. Her tie is crooked, but she’s looking better this morning. “Have you ever heard of Grant Degroot?”

Ramsey shakes his head. The elevator doors ding open.

They step inside. “I’m surprised. He’s a rather infamous thief, best known for the Cluttered Sisters robbery a dozen years ago.”

The doors slide shut. “Was that the crazy casino heist that was all over the news? That was a while back.”¹

Percy nods. “The very same. Degroot was one of the thieves involved. He was found guilty, and released three years ago.”

Ramsey watches the floors tick down. “That’s a pretty light sentence, considering how much they stole.” He glances back over at Percy. Her tie’s really crooked and it’s really bothering him. He reaches over and adjusts it, loosening and repositioning, pulling it taught again. He glances up at her.

Percy is watching him, mouth slightly open, in the middle of starting a sentence.

The elevator dings.

Ramsey lets go.

The doors open and he scurries out.

“Wonder if they’ve got continental breakfast here!” he calls back to Percy as he scans the deserted lobby. “Be nice to get something to eat.”

“I don’t believe it’ll be served until seven,” she says, trailing behind. “And we should get to the station. We can eat later.”

He pivots, sliding his hands into his pockets and keeping his posture casual. Percy follows behind, fingers brushing against the knot of her tie; maybe he didn’t get it right. “Detective King,” he mock scolds, “don’t tell me you’re the type of woman who skips breakfast!”

“Nonsense,” she says, brushing past him and pushing through the main doors. “I eat toast every morning.”

Ramsey makes a face, following into the cloudy morning air. “That’s almost worse. You’d end up crashing from carbs in a few hours.”

She leads them down the sidewalk. “I don’t have time for anything more complex.”

“Tell ya what,” he grins, bumping into her shoulder. “When all this is over, I’ll cook for you. I make a mean omelet.”

Percy nods slowly, a slight smile creeping in. “I’d like that.”

Ramsey keeps grinning and tries to ignore the way his stomach clenches.

Like a gradient, the streets go from dead silent to thrumming with people. At the center rests the station, brown brick, shorter than those surrounding it. A fire truck is outside, hose connected to a nearby hydrant. There’s police tape spread in haphazard lines,² but they duck under and walk inside.

The inside of the station is all linoleum floors and boxy desks. Shouts of firemen and officers echo against the walls. The firehose runs through the atrium and through a door.

“Detective King!” Douglas calls from the other side of the room and rushes over. “Thank goodness you’re here!”

“Officer Zeleny,” Percy shakes his hand again. “Any new developments?”

“Nah, just,” he glances over his shoulder, vibrating with nervous energy, “we’re worried about getting them to a zoo. Current plan is that someone nearby’s got a real big pool, and they’re gonna fill it up with saltwater, but getting the pH correct and stuff is gonna take a few hours, so we gotta keep em real wet. And then after that, we’re gonna see about moving them, but finding a big truck is gonna be—“

“It’s okay, kid,” Ramsey cuts in, “you’re doing your best.”

Douglas’s shoulders slump. “That guy you caught yesterday got out.”

Percy and Ramsey exchange a glance.

“You believe this whole thing was for a prison break?” she asks.

“Dunno,” Douglas shrugs. “Here, I mean, I can show you the cell he was in. Part of it got crushed, guess he just scrambled out while we were distracted.”

Percy nods, and Douglas leads them down the hall.

Ramsey hears the sound of rushing water before he sees the fire hose, spraying into the holding cells. A massive puddle has built up on the beaten linoleum and he hopes he won’t have to step in it.

The whales are smaller than expected, white and saggy; Ramsey can’t really get a good look at them from the angle they’re at behind the wall. A group of firefighters are pointing the hose up, spraying it onto the ceiling so that it drips down, ostensibly so that the whales aren’t hit with full pressure.

All of the cell doors are open, of course.

“Detective,” Meredith’s curt voice comes from nearby. Ramsey stops and lets Percy go ahead. “This has been one of the quietest summers we’ve had. And now there is a whale twenty feet from my office. Care to explain?”

“I have no explanation.” She turns the corner, and he carefully steps around the edge of the puddle to get a better look. “A possible lead, however.”

“You and your leads. This had better be useful.” He leans around the wall, careful not to fall in. They’re belugas alright, weird mouths and all.

“Grant Degroot. Career thief, released a few years ago. His epithet is, quite literally, Whales.” Weird heads too, and that bulbous part’s called a melon, right?

“Seems an obvious pick.” Melon. What a funny name for a cranial cavity.

“The man has a history of summoning whales. Also, he can make people larger, as he did during our fight yesterday.” The bumps and curves. He remembers them somewhat well by now. He’d have to, considering.

“Interesting. I’ll request files on him and we’ll keep an eye out. Send notices to hotels in the area.” Ramsey considers the whale in front of him. It lets out a blubbery gurgle.

“Thank you, Meredith.” How similar are beluga whales to each other, anyway?

“We’re already keeping an ear out for Ryker. We’d chase him more actively, but saving these creatures is much more important.” They can’t be that similar.

“Of course.”

Ramsey retreats around the corner, trying to catch up to Percy.

Meredith stands before him. She wrinkles her nose. “The rat returns.”

“Mary Anne,” he greets, smile as fake as he can make it.³

“Meredith,” Percy murmurs.

Meredith crosses her arms. “Don’t cause any funny-business when the appraiser gets here. Douglas is still assigned to the case, but if you get in his way you’ll have to answer to me. Understand?”

Ramsey smiles wider. “Sure.”

“Glad we have an understanding.” She turns on her heel, which would probably be dramatic if her boot didn’t squeak against the floor, and stomps away.

Ramsey lets out the breath he was holding. “Can I grab your phone for a bit, Perce?”

She side-eyes him. “Any particular reason?”

“I, uh,” he glances over his shoulder, “wanna look up some stuff about whales.”

She nods and passes it to him. What was that passcode again, seven two eight nine five? No, that’s not it. Seven two eight five nine? There it goes, unlocked. He thumbs quickly to the internet browser and, after opening an incognito window, navigates to a familiar art website.

His thumb hovers over the sign-in button. Logging in to his account on Percy’s phone is a bad idea. There’s weird stuff in there. And, sure, the phone won’t save his browsing history, but that doesn’t mean that Percy’s phone hasn’t been tapped by the government or something. He’s not really sure how police equipment works. But cops are already mad about having any sort of consequences for their actions, so maybe her phone wouldn’t be compromised, because that’d be a whole thing?

He sighs and searches for “cetacea43” instead.

A gallery pops up of sketches and photographs⁴ of whales. Tons and tons of whales, that’s the only thing in this entire gallery. Finding the belugas isn’t hard, everything’s sorted into folders. Ramsey scrolls until he gets to a profile view. He walks back over, holding the phone up to compare.

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s a match.”

Percy has followed behind him, studying the phone and then the whale. “How so?”

“The shape of the head. Look, the bump right here,” he taps the phone, then points at the whale, which gasps through its blowhole, “same thing.”

Percy nods slowly. “So this is a duplicate of an existing whale?”

“Maybe,” Ramsey shrugs, handing Percy’s phone back to her, “or this guy’s epithet can only summon the same whale over and over.”

“I see,” she says, studying the image again. “What does this do for us?”

“Well, for starters, that’s his account. I’m sure you cops could figure out how to do IP tracking or some shit, yeah?”

Percy frowns, sliding her thumb against it, looking through the full gallery now. “Perhaps. I’ll send this back to Sweet Jazz. Thank you, Ramsey.” She looks back up at him, blue eyes exhausted. “How did you know this was it?”

“Eh,” he shrugs, “got paid to do a commission, couple’a years ago. Huge pain in the ass, this guy made a big deal outta me getting the curves of the melon correct. Did you know that part of the head is called a melon?”

Percy stares at him. “I did not.”⁵

“Yeah, apparently it is. Anyways, I had to do seven revisions before he was happy. So it was kinda hard to forget. And, for what it’s worth,” he gestures back to the whales, “these whales are identical to each other. That might be a bit of a tip-off.”

Percy looks at them, stepping forward into the puddle before Ramsey can tell her not to. He grimaces as he hears her boots squelch.

She taps the floor with her boot, sending ripples out in the puddle.

“Ma’am!” Ramsey whips around to see that the firefighter holding the hose is calling out to them. Forgot he was even there. “Don’t get too close!”

“I’ll just be a moment,” she calls over the rushing water. She keeps tapping, moving across the floor as she goes. Finally, near one of their tails, she crouches down. Ramsey spots the glow of her epithet, warm and familiar, spread into the water. From the floor springs a small hut, one of the healing ones.

She stands and turns back to Ramsey.

He smiles.

“Aw jeez,” Douglas scratches his cheek. “Look, I’d love to give you two a ride to the Fitzroys’, but I really gotta stay around here to help out. And then I gotta pick someone up from the train station. Busy day!”

“It’s fine, kid,” Ramsey shrugs, “we can get a cab.”

Douglas grimaces. “Pretty sure there aren’t any around this time of year. I mean, you can get a pedicab, but most of them won’t go up the mountain.”

Percy nods. “We can ask Meredith.” She starts moving away.

“Wait, actually!” Douglas yells, and Ramsey can practically see the lightbulb above his head. “The gondola! I mean, it’ll bring you up the mountain. Then there’s the hiking trail! It’s not too far to the Fitzroys’ from there!”

“There’s maps, right?” Ramsey asks. “Not doing that without a map.”

“Oh yeah, of course! They’ve got ‘em at the information stand, and up top. And there’s this great waffle place up there too, if you guys wanna grab breakfast. Or, er,” he glances at his phone, “brunch? Do people still do brunch?”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had brunch,” Percy says.

Ramsey grins. “So we’re grabbing brunch.”

Percy huffs, but Ramsey can see that smile sneaking in again. He’s getting better at this. “We can grab brunch.”

Chapter Text

The gondola platform is deserted, wood reflecting the warm morning sunlight. Ramsey and Percy climb the steps.

In front of them is the mountain face, shorn grass giving way to melted ski slopes. Gondolas swing down, slowing and rumbling as they reach the platform, staying aligned with the floor for a few long moments before the doors close and they sweep back into the air.

“No signs that we gotta pay or anything,” Ramsey says, ducking under the rope barriers, “Let’s head up.”

Percy follows the intended path of the line, which would be cute if it didn’t take so long. “Hopefully we can get a ride back down. I’m not certain what time these close, but I know they don’t run at night.”

Ramsey nods, picturing a night stranded in the mountains. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

When Percy finally catches up, he steps on to the next gondola. He turns to sit and sees that Percy is walking alongside.

“Perce, you gotta get in.”

Her eyes are fixed on the gap. “I know, it’s just so unstable. I fear that I won’t—“

Ramsey holds his hand out to her. “Come on!”

She grabs on,¹ stepping into the cabin, which shakes under their weight. She stumbles, other hand going out to latch around Ramsey’s arm.

“Whoa, hey, hey,” he says, hand going to her elbow for stability. “I gotcha.”

“Apologies,” she murmurs, glancing up under her brows at him, “I’ve never ridden one of these before.”

Ramsey chuckles. “All good. Been a while for me, anyway.”

He should probably let go. But instead he’s staring at Percy’s freckles. She must spend a lot of time out in the sun. He wonders if she has any hobbies. She’s never mentioned any.

She blinks, eyelashes flicking across her cheeks, bringing him back to earth. Or well, not to earth, back to the gondola they’re in, which is now about forty feet above the earth. Ramsey lets go of her elbow and sits. He keeps holding on to her hand, though, mostly because she’s still got it in a death grip.

She sits next to him, releasing his arm but keeping their hands clasped tightly. She takes a deep breath and stares straight out the front window.

For a minute, the only sound is the sliding of the steel cable above. Ramsey studies her, the tendons of her neck popping out, gaze resolutely fixed forward. There’s a loud clatter when they go over the first pylon, and Percy jolts as the cabin shakes. Ramsey’d worry about her breaking one of his fingers with how tight she’s gripping his hand, but he doubts she would.

“Not a fan of heights?” he asks, squeezing back.

She doesn’t look at him. “Not precisely,” she says. “I’m simply uncomfortable with unstable surfaces.”

“That’s fair,” Ramsey says. “Want me to be quiet?”

“No!” Percy nearly yells. She shuts her mouth suddenly, as if shocked by her own volume. “No,” she says, quieter. “I’d prefer to focus on something else. Your voice will suffice.”

Ramsey smiles softly. “‘course. Though, that means I gotta come up with something to say. I ever tell you about the time I scammed the Cobalt Pulpit?”

“I read your police file,” Percy states.

“Well, yeah,” Ramsey huffs. “Not gonna tell you something that the law doesn’t already know. But you’ve never heard my side of the story.”

The cabin rattles again as they pass another pylon. Percy shivers. Ramsey wants to sling his arm around her shoulders and pull her close.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes her silence as his cue to keep talking. “Well, I heard there was some kinda new religious movement, which doesn’t normally interest me. But then there was an article about how they’d ask thousands of dollars from everyone who joined, and that just didn’t sit right with me. Kept me up at night, you know? So I bought a plane ticket,” he runs his thumb against Percy’s knuckles, “and joined up. They piled a group of us on a bus, kind and lonely people, taught us chants and stuff. Sent us to an encampment out in the shrub-land.” They roll past another pylon, and this time Percy just tenses but doesn’t jump. Ramsey likes to think it’s his doing.

His mouth is a bit dry. Been a while since he’s told this story. There’s a funny part, somewhere. “You wanna know the worst part? I actually started believing some of it. Thought it made me a better person. Then I went for a long walk. Remembered that people aren’t good or bad, it’s what they do that counts. And I wasn’t doin’ anyone any good cooped up there. So, I marched back in, and went straight to the guy in charge of the camp. And I said to him, I said,” Ramsey straightens up a bit, gesturing dramatically with his free hand, “’Acolyte Gregory! I have kept a terrible secret from you! My epithet can turn things into gold! I wish to use this for the betterment of our cause!’ and he said,” Ramsey squishes his shoulders together, adopting a nasally tone, “‘Really? Turn this baseball I’m holding into gold,’ because they were playing baseball at the time, ‘cause what else’re you gonna do when you’re bored in a cult commune?”

He glances over at Percy. There’s a small smile on her face, even though she’s still looking ahead. Good. “So I turned the baseball into gold, and I guess he forgot that gold’s heavier than whatever baseballs’re made of, cause he dropped it. Landed right on his foot, fractured six bones. Lotta bones in your feet,” he says, nodding seriously. Percy huffs a silent laugh, smile spreading up to the creases by her eyes. “Anyways, their top ranking priest guy getting hospitalized and finding out that someone could turn things to gold was enough to get a buncha the top dogs flown in. ‘course, they drove there in a limo. I made my case for a third’a their assets in exchange for gold. And wouldn’t ya know it, I’d just had latrine duty for breaking Greg’s foot! Match made in heaven.”

Percy is laughing fully now, her grip slightly looser on Ramsey’s hand.² They rumble past another pylon and she doesn’t seem to care at all. “How did they respond,” she laughs, “when it all turned back?”

Ramsey shrugs. “Honestly? I’ve got no clue. Was on a plane outta the country by then. But considering they sent a hitman after me, they sure weren’t happy. One of the few times I donated in my own name and not someone else’s.”

Percy glances at him, eyes bright. “Why did you donate in honor of the people you stole from?”

“Wouldn’t call it honor,” Ramsey admits. “Sometimes it was for a laugh. Rob an oil baron, give to wildlife conservation. But it’s a lot harder to make a public stink about someone donating your money. So if they wanted to mess with me, they had to do it quietly. Made things safer for me.”

Percy’s brow furrows. “You were scared.”

“Always.”

The word tumbles out before Ramsey can pull it in.

Percy squeezes his hand and goes back to looking out the window. “But you weren’t scared,” she says, slow, careful, “when you first joined?”

Ramsey watches the ground below. Watches the trees roll by, edges of forest artificially sharp. Brown splotches of grass. Rickety supply sheds tucked into the foliage.

“Nervous, I guess,” he admits, “but by that point, I’d done a lot of shit. Still had my eye, but people were after me. Thought that since I’d made it through everything else, I’d make out alright.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing back. “Yeah, I did.”

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Ramsey steps out of the gondola, Percy’s hand in his. She’s graceful, with the feet of a dancer, but still leans on him.

As the gondola rolls away, her hand slips from his.

They’re not at the top of the mountain, maybe two-thirds of the way up. The mountains in front of them cascade in an array of greens, fading into a sfumato of mist. Puffy grey clouds cast deep shadows across them. The valley is speckled with red and white, buildings, clustered near the center.

Near them are a few restaurants and a gift shop, empty ski racks scattered outside like metal barricades. It’s a touristy sort of place, but the only person Ramsey spots is a guy at a nearby picnic table with a hiking backpack, smoking a cigarette. Insects buzz and chirp, louder than the wind.

It’s downright serene.

Ramsey really wishes he was still holding Percy’s hand.

Chapter Text

The waffle place turns out to be a waffle stand, run by an enthusiastic middle-aged man in a puffy jacket. He spends about five minutes waxing poetic about their different varieties of maple syrup while the waffles cook. They sit with their paper plates at a nearby picnic table. It’s windy up here, but the sun keeps the ground warm.

“So,” Ramsey asks as Percy starts cutting hers with a plastic knife. “Should I try the ‘Bacon Sunshine’ syrup or the ‘Aged Whiskey’?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Percy says, taking a bite. Plain, nothing on it.¹

“Not a syrup fan?” he asks, opting for the Bacon Sunshine. Whiskey’s always smelled terrible to him, anyways.

“I don’t partake in sweets often,” Percy says, “nor do I participate in brunch. Breakfast and lunch both exist, combining the two seems pointless.”

“First off,” Ramsey points at her with his plastic knife, “we never ate breakfast. And I mean, it’s still kinda early, so this is basically just breakfast.”

Percy looks offended. “It’s nearly ten in the morning.”

“Yeah, like I said, breakfast.”

She squints at him. “You eat breakfast at ten A.M.?”

Ramsey rolls his eyes. “Look, I get that you’re a workaholic, but please tell me that you sleep in sometimes.”

“Never purposefully.”

“You ever just, I dunno, do stuff for fun?”

“I find many things fun.”

“Like, what,” Ramsey ask, swallowing a bite, “working out? Guessin’ you do stretches every night.”

“I do. I also usually do them in the mornings. But I spend much of my downtime with architectural consulting, as you well know.”

“Right, but,” Ramsey frowns. “That’s just to pay the bills, yeah? Not that I know what bein’ a cop pays.”

“I do it because I enjoy it,” she says, calm and measured, “and because it affords me a more comfortable lifestyle.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” Ramsey admits. “Still. Good to take a break and do something just for you.”

“It is for me,” Percy says, looking out at the mountains, watching clouds skim by. She’s silent for a moment, but Ramsey can see the gears clicking behind her brow. He takes another bite of waffle.

“How much, do you think,” she asks, looking back at him, “a person’s epithet determines their personality?”

“Ooh, we talkin’ philosophy now?” Ramsey grins. “‘Cause I don’t think it does. It’s just self-fulfilled prophecy, yeah? Spend your whole life thinking ‘bout one word, and, congrats, that’s your identity now.”

“I disagree, actually,” Percy says, pulling a napkin from the dispenser on the table. She hands it to him, pointing to a spot on her own cheek. “I found myself discomfited with precarious surfaces years before my own epiphany. And my experiences are far from abnormal.”

Ramsey grabs the napkin and wipes his face. He looks back at her for approval, and she nods. “Sure, but a few quirks does not a full person make. Kid-me liked shiny crap, doesn’t mean I still feel that way.”²

“People can be changed physically by their epithets, even from birth,” Percy begins standing, picking up her now-empty plate. “I believe it’s safe to assume that the physical brain can be changed as well. Besides, much of one’s personality is shaped by the genetics of one’s parents.” Ramsey bristles. “And so, epithets function similarly to mutations, altering who we are.”

He breathes a sigh. “People usually talk about that kind of stuff in reference to fate and shit.” Ramsey stands to follow her. “You’re saying that epithets change us away from what we’re born to do?”

“Not exactly.” She drops her plate into a nearby trash can, avoiding the wasps that float lazily nearby. “I’m not certain if I believe in destiny, but I do know that my epithet set me on a specific path in my own life. One I would not have taken had I not possessed one.”

Ramsey tosses his plate in from further away, not wanting to get stung. It flops in easily. “Guess I’m the same way. Probably would’a just stuck to forging if I was a mundie.”

She nods, and they start walking. “I’ve yet to meet an inscribed who doesn’t feel similarly.”

“This must be Smothered Basin,” Ramsey says, glancing down at the map. “S’nice.”

It is. On the edge of the trail they’re walking sits a lake tucked into the pines. Still water reflecting the rapidly clouding sky in a smudge of browns, reds, and grays. The far side is buffeted by rocky slopes, cleared by landslides. The glassy water doesn’t obscure the piles of dead trees at the bottom.

Ramsey’d appreciate it more but his lungs are burning. He regrets not buying water, feeling parched and hot despite the rapidly cooling air. The sky is slowly greying, dark clouds cresting above the peaks. Hopefully they won’t get rained on.

“Indeed,” Percy agrees. Then she sighs. “I worry we won’t make it in time.”

“Well, shit,” he says as they keep walking. “What time’re we supposed to be there?”

Percy’s barely slowed at all. “One thirty. Or, at least, that’s when their appraiser is scheduled to arrive.”

“You wanna call and tell ‘em to wait for us?”

“I would, but I don’t have service.”

“So we’re gonna die out here.” Ramsey deadpans.

“I wouldn’t allow that to happen,” Percy says.

“I’m flattered.” Ramsey chuckles. “Seriously, though. If we’re gonna be late we might as well take a breather.”

She stops abruptly, and Ramsey accidentally walks a few paces ahead of her. “Oh,” she says. “I didn’t realize how fatigued my body is.”

He turns around to face her. “So we can stop for a bit?” he asks, trying to keep the elation out of his voice.

“For a few minutes.”

Ramsey immediately plops down onto the nearest rock and stretches out. His legs itch with blood rushing through them.

Percy looks at the lake for a moment. Then she reaches down and removes her shoes and socks, rolling up the hem of her pants. Ramsey watches as she wades into the water up to her ankles.

“Cold?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. She stays there, though, looking out over the lake, glassy film barely disturbed.

Ramsey sighs. He pulls the tie out of his ponytail, running his fingers through his hair, trying to disperse the sweat that’s settled there. Lets his breathing even out in the thin, mountain air. It’s hard to fill his lungs in any way that’s satisfying.

When he looks back at Percy, he’s struck by how elegant she is. Not the first time he’s had that thought, of course, but this is the first time she’s looked like she’s conquering the wilderness. Dark clouds and mountains, it’s all very dramatic.

“Wish I had my sketchbook,” he calls out to her, “I’d draw you.”

Percy starts a bit at his voice, shoulders quickly tensing. Then she turns to look at him, brow furrowed.

“Are you flirting with me?” Percy blurts out.

Ramsey blinks.

Blinks again.

Blinks a third time, and, alright, he should say something.³

“Yeah?”

The truth floats in the air between them.

She nods once, slowly. Then she turns away to look back over the lake.

“I, uh,” Ramsey stutters, “I can stop?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Percy assures him, like he’d just apologized for something menial. “I just wasn’t certain.” She still isn’t looking at him, though.

Ramsey frowns. “I don’t think it’s fine.”

Her shoulders slump. “I’m not good at this sort of thing. I don’t exactly go out of my way to pursue people, so no one pursues me. It can be difficult for me to tell, in part because I’m asexual.”

Ramsey pales. “Crap, I probably made you super uncomfortable, sorry, I—“

“You didn’t,” Percy cuts him off. She turns to look at him fully. “I just want to know why.”

Ramsey’s breath catches painfully in his throat. He coughs and has to look away for a second, but when his eyes flick back she’s still watching him closely. Her eyes are narrowed, expression stern but not unkind.

“Wasn’t really thinking,” he admits, watching the surface of the lake start to ripple with the first drops of rain. “Like I said, I can stop.”

Percy studies him and Ramsey feels small. Like his ribcage is cracked open and she’s looking inside for something he doesn’t even want to acknowledge. He crosses his arms.

She sighs. Looks like she couldn’t find anything. “I’ll consider it,” she murmurs, stepping onto the bank. She sits on the rock next to him, pulling on her socks.

She doesn’t seem angry or anything, which Ramsey considers a plus. She’d have every right to be. Obviously he’s crossed a line if she’s gotten to the point of actively confronting him. Though, Percy’s the kind of woman who won’t dance around a subject.

She stands, and her face scrunches up into a grimace. Ramsey watches her with growing worry. “You still good?” he asks.

“My socks are wet,” she says, shifting on her feet. “It’s not particularly pleasant.”

Ramsey chuckles, standing up to join her. “Should’a dried ‘em off earlier.”

She hums, and they start walking along the trail again. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Ramsey agrees. “Guess it is.” He slides his hands into his pockets and stares at the ground. A fleck of rain darkens the dirt in front of him. A soft smile creeps onto his face. They’re still good. He’ll tone it back, try to get over this…eugh, crush, sooner rather than later.⁴

He admires Percy. Likes the way she smiles, but mostly likes her drive and desire to do good. Doesn’t have to be anything more than that.

Yeah.

Chapter Text

By the time they reach the mountain pass, it’s pouring. Thunder echoes, reverberating against the cliffs. Lightning jumps between clouds. The rain feels like a dark, heavy blanket, sopping wet and pressing down against Ramsey’s skull.

What might have been a conversation has turned into splashing footsteps, quick as they rush up the road. Percy has cell reception now, which is good because otherwise they probably would have missed the driveway. She has to stop and shield her phone from the downpour, and they walk down towards the manor, far too tired to sprint now.

The manor itself looks dark and looming today, barely any lights in the windows. Luckily, there’s an overhang above the front door, and they duck underneath. Ramsey rings the doorbell.

“Let’s hope they heard that,” Percy murmurs. She’s shivering, and Ramsey wishes he still had his suit jacket to drape over her shoulders. Not that he’s doing much better right now in his t-shirt.

It takes a solid minute before the door opens to Porter, again, though today she’s dressed up a bit more. Her skirt suit seems freshly pressed and her hair is down, curled into ringlets. She frowns when she sees them.

“I wasn’t aware you would be attending,” she says.

“Yeah, well,” Ramsey shrugs. “We were in the area.”

“I,” she frowns deeper, “see.”

“May we enter?” Percy asks.

Porter grimaces, or maybe she’s trying to smile. “I suppose so. Try not to drip on the floor.”

“Touchy,” Ramsey mutters as they step inside.

The Fitzroy manor feels different under the heavy blanket of storm. The same tacky decor feels threatening now that it’s obscured in darkness. Thick drops of rain pound against the full-length windows. From a nearby archway a warm glow flutters across the floor, and Ramsey can smell a newly-lit fire.

More pressing, though, is the sound of voices from the other side of the room.

“The use of titanium white alone,” echoes a voice, deep and droning, “would be enough of a tip-off. Perhaps more damning are the brush strokes. The bristles are obviously far too wide.”

“Indeed, indeed!” comes Dianne’s voice. “Yes, I noticed as soon as you pointed it out. Why, I cannot believe I didn’t realize earlier!”

Ramsey and Percy linger in the doorway for a moment longer, watching Porter walk through the archway, not towards the voices. Ramsey would love to go sit next to that fire, but instead he looks at Percy and shrugs. She nods, and they start walking in the direction of the voices.

“Yes, amateurish work indeed,” the deep voice again, “plenty of effort put in, considering the size of the piece. Sloppy, though.”

“Enough about the art!” comes another male voice, Harold, if Ramsey’s remembering right. “How much did we lose!”

They round the corner to see a group of people standing in front of the wall of artwork: Dianne¹ and Douglas², as well as two elderly men. One of them is short and bald, dressed in a velvet smoking jacket. The other is thin and lanky, all bones and tweed.

“I would estimate between thirty four and thirty seven million dollars.”

Ramsey looks up at the wall.

He stares.

The muscles are too defined.

The colors are muted, blurred together.

The shadows on the faces are dark and dramatic, not soft and gentle.

The foliage is too sharp, leaves and branches fully rendered in some sections, blurred and mushed in others.

“Oh god,” he whispers.

“Are you alright?” Percy whispers back. Ramsey can barely tear his eyes away from the painting for a moment to look at her.

“I don’t know what that is,” he says, voice hoarse. He swallows. He feels colder than when he was out in the rain. “But that’s not a Mauvaise.”

“Obviously.” The man in tweed turns to look at them. “Any amateur could see that.”

“Oh!” Douglas turns as well, eyes wide. “You guys made it!”

“More guests!” Dianne clasps her hands together. “Porter! Get these two some beverages!”

Harold rolls his eyes. “Wonderful. More interlopers.”

“Detective Percival King,” Percy says, flashing her badge to the man in tweed. “You must be the appraiser.”

Tweed man extends his hand. “Professor Archibald Hackington,” he says, and Percy shakes it firmly.

“Is no one else freaking out about this!” Ramsey demands, gesturing at the painting.

Harold crosses his arms. “We already had our ‘freak out’ as you so put it.”

Dianne’s eyebrows knit upwards, and now that Ramsey looks at her he realizes that she’s been crying. “Yes, it’s such a shame that our wonderful artwork was stolen! ‘A Gathering of Nymphs’ was such a sentimental piece for me and my hubby!” She shudders over for a second, and Douglas awkwardly puts a hand on her shoulder.

“A shame,” Archibald sniffs at Ramsey, “that someone such as yourself was unable to determine this fraudulence before my arrival.”

“That,” he points to the painting, “was not here yesterday. Yesterday, there was a real-ass painting hanging on this wall.”

“That is a real painting right?” Douglas asks, wide-eyed as he looks up from comforting Dianne. “I mean, it’s got paint on it.”

Ramsey throws his hands up. “You know what I mean! Some time between yesterday morning and today, it was stolen and replaced!”

“Do you have camera footage?” Percy steps forward, voice firm.³

Harold narrows his eyes. “Do we have camera footage?” he growls. “Of course we have camera footage, you swine! We already gave it to you!”

“Actually, Detective King hasn’t seen it yet,” Douglas pipes up. “We’ve got it at the station!”

“Yes, but,” she frowns, “that was from three nights ago. We’ll want everything from yesterday morning forward.”

“And we’ll get it to you,” Harold huffs. “You cops are always the same, so suspicious of everything.”

Behind them, Dianne lets out a wail.

“There there Mrs. Fitzroy!” Douglas rubs her back. “We’ll find your painting, I promise! And we’ll get it back.”

“How am I ever,” she sobs, “going to be able to afford my academy now?”

Ramsey scratches his neck. “I mean,” he offers, “have you considered not buying tons of artwork?”

Dianne just continues sobbing.⁴

Ramsey cups the coffee⁵ in his hands and brings it close to his face. He breathes in the steam, letting the comforting smell warm his nose.

They’ve gathered in the sitting room, around the fireplace, except for Dianne, who’s retreated upstairs to rest.

Ramsey is sandwiched in between Douglas and Percy on a loveseat. Across from them is Archibald, perched in a wingback armchair. Porter hovers behind him. And to their left is Harold; he’d brushed Dianne off as she’d gone up the stairs, still sniffling. Now, he’s drumming his fingers on his knee, an entire couch all to himself.

“You’re going to get that painting back,” he says, jabbing his finger in Percy’s direction. “Or your superiors will be hearing about this.”

“Of course, sir,” Percy says. She sounds polite, but Ramsey catches the way her fist clenches on the cushion. “If you don’t mind, we should be taping off the perimeter to avoid any further contaminants. In fact,” she glances past Ramsey over to Douglas, “I’m surprised you didn’t do so already.

“Didn’t bring my bag, and the power’s out,” Douglas apologizes.⁶ “And my phone’s dead, so I couldn’t call in to the station.”

Percy narrows her eyes. “I see. In that case,” she pulls out the radio strapped to her belt and flicks it on. “This is Detective King, we have a 470 at 23 Buchanan road. Well,” she glances over her shoulder, “it’s more of a 459, to be honest. 10-12, 10-95.”

A moment later, a crackly voice comes over the radio. “10-23, Detective King.” Meredith’s, Ramsey’s pretty sure. “We don’t have a unit to send you. We can call into the city, but it’ll take them a few hours to get a team here. Might be tomorrow morning.”

Percy pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes screwing shut for a second. “Yes, that’s,” she lets out a long breath, air hissing from between her teeth, “that’s fine. I’ll brief them on the details once I’ve finished up here.”

“10-4,” comes Meredith’s voice, then silence.

Ramsey squeezes Percy’s hand.

Chapter Text

“I’d like to speak with you first, Mr. Fitzroy,” Percy says, pulling out a notebook. “We’ll use the sitting room for our interview. Which I’ll record, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, yes,” Harold huffs, following her into the other room. “Of course.”

“The rest of you,” Percy levels each of them with a look, “I expect to stay put.”

Ramsey settles into one of the saggy leather armchairs they’ve pushed to form a barrier around the paintings. Over the last half-hour he’s watched Percy get more and more frustrated, at Harold’s grumbling, Porter’s hovering, Archibald’s rambling, and Douglas’s general incompetence. Ramsey hopes he’s not contributing to her mood.

Eventually, they’d pulled together some vague approximation of a blocked-off crime scene. Percy then examined the floor, looking for footprints probably, but didn’t seem to find anything, judging by the crease deepening in her brow.

She’d had him and Archibald look over the rest of the paintings as she continued investigating, just in case something else was taken. Archibald spent a lot of time examining the Blodau Fud, which Ramsey’d seen yesterday so he’s pretty sure it’s real. Plus, there’s a layer of dust on it.¹

Nothing else’d been taken, far as he can tell. Archibald eventually comes to the same conclusion, narrating his entire thought process aloud. By the time he’d finished, everyone’d sat in the chairs they were using for the barrier, looking in different directions to ignore him.

Percy’s gaze settles on Douglas, who is perched on the edge of a couch and staring out at the rain. “Officer Zeleny.”

His head snaps over. “Yeah? What?”

She crosses her arms. “I was hoping you’d help with the interview.”

“Oh!” he hops up. “Okay! Thought you wanted me to stay put, detective, so I was gonna do that. Wait for my talk, you know.”

“I’m not interviewing you,” she says, leading him and Harold into the sitting room. “You weren’t involved.”

That leaves Porter, Archibald, and Ramsey in the entry hall, silent except for the sound of rain. Ramsey hears the patter of footsteps fade away and two doors slide shut. Their voices are muffled from the other side.

Ramsey resigns himself to a boring hour or two of questioning, since he can’t help. He yawns; he wishes he had his tablet.

“Mister Murdoch,” Archibald says next to him, and Ramsey pulls his eyes open. Guess he’s not gonna take a nap. “I have to ask a few questions of you.”

“Yeah?” Ramsey asks, reaching his arm up until he feels a satisfying pop.

“Were you the artist behind Distant View of the Serenis River?” Ramsey freezes mid-stretch. “Or, perhaps, House on the Edge of a Mountain Cliff, allegedly by Robert Dussane?”

Ramsey slowly turns his head to look at Archibald. “Who’s asking?”

He looks smug. “I am.”

Ramsey narrows his eyes. “And you are?”

Archibald straightens up. “Professor Archibald Hackington, of the Waterford University. I specialize in second-era pastoral revivalist works.“

Oh, gross. “You, uh, write some cool papers, or something?”

His grin fades. “You really don’t recognize me at all?”

Ramsey flips through his memories. “We meet at an auction?”

Archibald looks taken aback. “Well, we’ve never met in person. But I’m shocked you’ve never heard of me!”

Ramsey shrugs. “I got nothing, Archie.” He settles back into the chair and closes his eyes.²

“Well, I never!” Archibald huffs again, and Ramsey chuckles internally. “Seventeen articles, and you’ve never read a single one! I know your trademark mistakes. Your rendering of foliage and reflections may be incredibly accurate, but the shadows? Far too saturated to ever be used by Dussane!”

Ramsey keeps his eyes closed and his face blank. “They were too black. Add a little blue, bing bada boom, looks a bit better.”

“You admit to it!” Archibald hollers.

Ramsey cracks his eye open. Archibald leans over him, nostrils flaring. Not particularly intimidating in tweed. “I didn’t admit to shit. I just think he sucked.”

“Miss Porter.” Percy’s back, calling from the doorway. “I’d like to speak to you next.”

“Of course,” Porter says, walking from behind where Ramsey’s sitting. Archibald straightens up and adjusts his jacket.

“Ramsey,” Percy says, “could you do me a favor and locate Mrs. Fitzroy? She’ll need to be interviewed as well.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ramsey says, still keeping his eye fixed on Archibald.

“Is Porter your first or last name?” Percy asks as they walk away.

“Last.” They turn the corner and get further away.

“And your first?”

“Louisa.” The door to the sitting room thunks shut behind them.

Archibald glares down at Ramsey. “Is she aware that you are a criminal?”

He crosses his arms.³ “She’s aware that I know how to spot fakes.”

Archibald sniffs and straightens up. “And your presence is completely unnecessary. My expert chemical analysis gave me more than enough information to identify this incredibly sloppy work.” He gestures back to the fake Mauvaise.

“Chemical analysis?” Ramsey asks, looking at it and quirking an eyebrow. “You really needed to do that?”

“Well yes, of course,” Archibald huffs. “We must stay on the cutting-edge of technology, especially in a situation like this. Millions of dollars are at stake, you understand.”

Ramsey rolls his eyes. “And how much are they paying you?”

Archibald has the dignity to look offended. “That’s private information!”

“Look,” Ramsey pushes out of the chair. “I’m gonna go find Dianne. Please don’t follow me, dunno if Percy’s gonna wanna chat with you too.”

“I wasn’t even in town when the crime occurred!” Archibald calls after him.

For such cookie-cutter architecture, the Fitzroys house is hard to navigate. Ramsey wanders the third floor, knocking softly on every closed door as he goes. Finally, as he turns the corner he hears the muffled sound of conversation through the wall.

He leans close to the door, trying to listen in, but the words are too muddled for him to pick up. One half is Dianne’s voice, but there are pauses when someone else should be speaking, but he can’t hear anything. And who would she be talking to, anyway? No one else is in the manor, at least as far as Ramsey knows.

That doesn’t mean someone isn’t hiding. Someone that Dianne knows.

He doesn’t bother knocking, shoving the door open.

The bedroom is spacious and plush, rows of display cases reflecting deep blue light from the rain outside. A number of dressers are pushed against the walls, old wood freshly polished. On the king-sized bed is Dianne, perched on the edge with a cellphone to her ear. She looks up at him as he enters. Her face is red, eyebrows knit together. She raises a finger and mouths ‘one moment’ to him before speaking into her phone again.

“We’ll have the paperwork over as soon as possible,” she says. “I apologize this is such a hassle.” A pause. “Yes, of course, I— Yes. Yes, that’s correct. Of course.” Ramsey considers closing the door and waiting outside, but doesn’t. “Yes, I’ll have my assistant fax it to—Oh,” her face falls, “I see. I’ll…I’ll look at my calendar, then. Thank you.” She pulls the phone away and taps it, hanging up.

She looks up at Ramsey. “Insurance company,” she explains. “Well, one of the insurance companies. This is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Her head bows and her shoulders shudder again.

Ramsey’s still standing in the doorway, unsure if he should put a hand on her shoulder or sprint downstairs to give her space. “Yeah,” he says.

“It’s just that I, well,” she glances out the window. “I don’t have much money, you understand.”

Ramsey squints, suddenly feeling less awkward. “I don’t.”

She sighs. “My husband handles our finances. I have very little to my name, but he’s always let me have the art. I’ve been putting some funds into an account over the years, but I fear much of it will be going to the legal case.”

Ramsey glances around the room, at the high-end furniture and silk wallpaper. “He, uh, wouldn’t help with that?”

She sighs. “Not my Harry, no. I’m aware he much preferred when the art was in our home in the city, but when I moved out here for my health I couldn’t bear to part with it. It’s been a matter of contention for us for the past few years. But the documents are in my name, which means I get to control where they’re kept. So I’ve always handled the insurance, the provenance, the upkeep, all of it.”

Suddenly, it dawns on him. “You do have provenance for the Mauvaise, right?”⁴

"Of course!" She clasps her hands together, face lighting up. “Yes, let me show you my file!” She stands and sweeps across the room, gown trailing behind her. Ramsey really hopes the file hasn’t also been stolen, isn’t sure how he’d handle her reaction. As she rifles through a drawer he looks at the display case, noticing that it’s full of rows of crowns.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a folder and handing him a sheet of paper. “The bill of sale. Bought four years ago for twenty-eight million dollars on auction.”

Ramsey glances it over. “Sounds like you got a pretty good deal.”

She nods. “Yes. I won’t lie that I intended on selling it at a later date. A shame, really, considering how lovely it was.”

He hands the paper back to her. “You should lock your drawers. If they’re tryna turn a profit, that’s the next thing they’ll come for.”

She smiles, tucking the folder away. “I see. I’ll be sure to take your advice, Mister, uh…”

She’s looking at him expectantly, and Ramsey sighs. Might as well, considering Archibald already knows. “Murdoch.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Of the Murdoch family?”

Aw hell, that’s worse. “Nah.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “C’mon, I’m up here cause the fuzz wants to question ya. If you’re up for it.”

“Of course, Mister Murdoch,” Dianne says, sliding the drawer shut and sweeping past him with an earnest smile.

Before he follows her, Ramsey’s eye is drawn to the keyhole on the drawer.

Chapter Text

Ramsey’s nap, slumped across a leather armchair, is interrupted by a loud banging.

“I’ll get it,” he hears Porter’s voice, then the sound of her heels clicking away. He drags his eyes open, back to the dark atrium, rain outside slowing but strong. Percy’s still interviewing Dianne, or maybe she’s finished and left Ramsey to rest. He yawns; it’s been a long afternoon.

He hears stilted conversation from the front door and sits up blearily, just in time to see Meredith rounding the corner. She’s not wearing her sunglasses and looks absolutely furious.

“Mallory,” he greets with a lazy grin. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She storms by, leaving muddy bootprints in her wake. Ramsey sighs and gets up. He cracks the stiffness out of his neck and follows her.

She crashes open the sliding doors to the sitting room, and Percy, Douglas, and Dianne look up in surprise. Meredith slams her hands down onto the coffee table.

“When you asked for a unit,” she says, gritting her teeth, “it wasn’t clear that you meant a unit for two burglaries, one of which was for millions of dollars.”

“Apologies,” Percy says, eyebrows raised. “I was in a room with multiple civilians. I didn’t want to alarm anyone.”

“And I’m under the impression,” Meredith leans down closer. “That you didn’t properly isolate the crime scene. Care to explain that?”

“No gear,” Percy says, flatly. “I did not bring any evidence bags today, because it was my understanding that the crime was already finished. I now see that I operated under the incorrect assumption.”

“Yeah,” Meredith says, standing up. “You did. I don’t want any more evidence disturbed. Everyone,” she glares around the room, “get out of this house.”

The sitting room rumbles in protest.

“Aw jeez, we did do our best! I just, I’ve never had to deal with this kinda thing before.”

“Constable, I believe we should be detaining these people, not removing them. They’re suspects!”

“You can’t just kick me out of my own home! And in the rain? My dress would be ruined!”

“Actually,” Porter says from behind Ramsey, over the uproar. “It’s not traditional protocol to remove civilians from a place of residence, especially during inclement weather.”

Meredith turns and stares at her for a moment. For a moment, there’s palpable tension, like the room’s filled up with smoke. It dissipates before Ramsey can catch its scent.

Meredith sighs. “You aren’t wrong. You can stay, but we will be keeping an eye on all of you. Sudden movements will get you detained.”

Ramsey shrugs. “Might wanna find that Harold guy. Dunno where he wandered off to, but that seems real suspicious.”

“The kitchen,” Percy points to another door. “He said he wished to have some food, and conduct a business call.”

Meredith stomps past her and through the door. Douglas gets up and trails behind, glancing over his shoulder as he goes. He offers an awkward grimace as the door swings shut behind him.

A heavy silence settles into the sitting room.

“The constable,” Dianne murmurs, looking up at Ramsey, “she said there were two burglaries?”

There’s the sound of shouting from the other room. Ramsey catches Percy’s eye before he speaks. She nods. “Yeah. One’a your other paintings got stolen. Back on that first night, with the Exit door.”

Dianne’s eyebrows shoot up. “Which painting was it?”

“Are there any similarities,” Percy asks, “between that one and the Mauvaise?”

Ramsey grins. “Yep. Same artist, for sure. Didn’t even have to look too close.”

“What painting is this?” Archibald demands from behind him, and Ramsey jumps.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” he says, settling back into a slouch.

The door slams open, Meredith pulling Harold, who has his phone up to his ear, with Douglas trailing behind.

Harold looks like he’s about to combust with rage. “If you’d give me twenty minutes to finish—“

“I need to conduct an interview,” Meredith snaps, “and also keep tabs on your location!”

“I was already interviewed!”

“Which painting,” Dianne says, apprehension threading through her tone, “was it?”

Percy stands up, rigid and sharp against the chaos. She clears her throat. Heads turn to look at her. “Let me show you.”

She leads them through the atrium, past the landscapes, around the corner, to Oliver 46.

The crowd crams into the short hallway. Ramsey finds himself sandwiched between Porter and Harold, with Douglas behind him.

“This one,” she says, gesturing to it, “is a forgery. My appraiser determined as much when he first saw it. We also compared it to some of the artist’s other works, just to be certain.”

Dianne squeezes through the crowd and squints at it. She leans in close, until her nose is nearly flush with the paint. Her eyes dart up and down, to the cat, the chair, the edges of the frame. She reaches her hand up.

“Careful,” Ramsey calls, “paint’s still—” Dianne touches the painting, “wet.”

She pulls her fingers away, rubbing them together. Slowly, she turns.

“One of you,” she hisses, voice tight, eyes like burning coals, “did this.”

Ramsey glances around the room. Meredith, Douglas, and Percy are fixated on Dianne, but Harold, Porter, and Archibald are looking around.¹

“How the hell,” her voice gets louder with each word, echoing over the rain, “am I supposed to be able to trust any of you! After something like this!?” she points wildly at the painting. The cat looks nonplussed. “I don’t believe this!”

“I don’t understand,” Percy says. “You believe that someone here is the culprit?”

Dianne’s eyes narrow. “I don’t just believe it, I know it.” With that, she shoulders through the crowd, storming out into the atrium. Harold rushes after her, with Porter close behind. Their footsteps clatter against the wood floor, then up the stairs. There’s the sound of quick, whispered conversation, but it fades away.

“Well I never,” Archibald mutters, watching them go. “How incredibly scandalous.”

Percy nods. “Indeed. It would seem Mrs. Fitzroy has her suspicions. We should attempt to get her to share them.”

Meredith crosses her arms, still glaring down the painting. “This one is fake too?”

“Yeah,” Ramsey says. “Pretty low quality, if you ask me. Looks like it was finished just a few days ago. The fake Mauvaise is drier, from what I saw, so it was done before this one.”

“Why would somebody steal this, though?” Douglas asks, eyes wide as he peers around the corner, in the direction Dianne went. “Not worth as much money as the big one. Should we even worry about it?”

“I believe there will be clues contained in this piece,” Percy says, peering at the painting again. “Tomorrow we’ll dust the area for prints. In fact,” she says, putting her hand out in front of Meredith, “we should section this area off as well, to ensure there are no further contaminants.”

Meredith side-eyes her, and bats her hand away. “We will. But Douglas isn’t wrong,” she states. “This one isn’t our priority. I’ve seen these cat paintings sold in town before, they usually don’t go for more than a hundred bucks.”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s weird,” Ramsey says. “Why would anyone go to all this trouble? This one’s not worth stealing.”

“Perhaps this was a trial run?” Percy offers. “An initial test, to see if the thieves could successfully pull off a heist.”

Meredith shakes her head. “Whatever it is, I’ll interview Dianne. See what I can get out of her.”

“I’ve already conducted an interview,” Percy says, crossing her arms. “Though you’re welcome to continue it.”

“I think we should give her a break,” Douglas pipes up, worry creasing his brow. “She seemed real mad! And sad too, earlier. She’s had a real bad day.”

“Douglas,” Meredith says, narrowing her eyes. “You’re going back to the station. Take these two, while you’re at it.”

Ramsey spots Percy’s jaw clench. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I am in the middle of an investigation.”

Meredith steps into her space. “And I’m taking it over. When the unit arrives tomorrow they’ll be looking to me, not you.”

“I’m surprised you couldn’t get anyone in sooner,” Percy states. She has a few inches on Meredith, looking down her nose at her.

Meredith arches an eyebrow. “Your request didn’t clarify anything. It wasn’t until Douglas radioed me that I understood the gravity of the situation.”

Ramsey frowns.² “You’re saying you didn’t think she needed the backup?”

Percy narrows her eyes. “Constable, if you don’t take me seriously, that’s your blunder and not mine.”

Meredith glares at her, but Percy doesn’t falter.

Ramsey shifts awkwardly and glances around; looks like Archibald has wandered off.

“Um,” Douglas cuts the silence with a sledgehammer, “I’m gonna go back to the station. You two can come with me, or you don’t have to, it’s fine.”

Percy sighs, finally looking away from Meredith. “Perhaps that would be for the best. I have yet to review the existing camera footage. Constable Barnes, if you wouldn’t mind acquiring the rest of it from the Fitzroys, that would be of the utmost help.”

Meredith nods, a grin crawling into the corners of her mouth. “Of course, Detective King.”

They run through the rain, and Ramsey clambers into Douglas’s back seat, clothes sticking against his skin as he moves. What he’s not expecting, though, is for Percy to climb into the other side, instead of sitting in the front. 

“Hey,” he says as she pulls the door shut behind her. Douglas starts the engine up front.

“Hello,” she says, buckling in.

Quiet descends on the car as they pull out of the driveway. Ramsey’s brain feels busy and unfocused, unable to decide if it should thinking about the crime or the woman sitting barely three feet away from him. So he stares out at the rain.

There was that whole escaping thing, too. But now there’s millions of dollars at stake. Well, he frowns, he doesn’t care about the monetary value of the painting, just the historical and artistic. But it’s not like it’s doing much, sitting in the Fitzroys’ ski house, not teaching anyone about anything.

Still, he glances over at Percy.³ He should do the right thing.

“So how ‘bout that outburst?” he asks, leaning back in the seat. “Dianne seemed real pissed.”

“Indeed,” Percy says, turning to him. “And rightfully so, it would seem.”

Ramsey arches an eyebrow. “You get anything out of her interview?”

Percy’s eyes flick to the front seat. “We can discuss it in a bit. I’d like to propose that we adjourn to the hotel for a while, to change clothing and acquire some dinner.” She raises her voice, “Is that alright, Douglas?”

“Sure!” he says from up front. “I can come pick you up in an hour or two. Gotta check in with the folks who took the whales, anyway. Truck’s coming in to pick them up later tonight.”

“That’s good to hear,” Percy smiles softly. Still, she’s perched on the edge of the seat, fingers tense against the vinyl.

“You doin’ alright?” Ramsey asks, lowering his voice. “Don’t let Miranda get to you.”

“Meredith,” Percy mutters. “And she doesn’t bother me.”

A pretty damn obvious lie, but he won’t push it. “So what is bothering you?”

She leans closer, voice quiet over the rain. “I believe Dianne was correct. The culprit was in that very room.”

Chapter Text

Douglas drops them back at the hotel with a wave and a recommendation for a nearby Italian place that does take-out. Back at the room they look at the menu on Percy’s phone, and she heads out to get them dinner, dropping a small pile of quarters on the desk as she goes. She’s nice enough to loan him a pair of plaid pajama pants, and he manages to find a scratchy bathrobe to toss overtop.¹ It feels good to get out of his wet clothes, and he heads downstairs.

He wanders the first floor, through the dizzying carpeted hallways, eventually finding the hotel’s laundry room. It’s tiny, fluorescent lights flicking on to reveal two washers and driers. The air feels damp and stale.

Ramsey pops open the washing machine and drops the few clothes he owns in, along with Percy’s damp uniform. Cold wash, gentle; hopefully the suit pants won’t get wrecked.² Might wanna hang ‘em up later.

He sits on top of the drier and settles down. His eyes slip shut.

The door opens, and Ramsey jolts awake. Percy is standing in the doorway, holding a take-out bag. She changed out of her uniform earlier, into a turtleneck and jeans. Weird to see her dressed down.

“May I join you?” she asks.

Ramsey scoots over on the driers. “You got it,” he winks at her, and immediately regrets it.

She hops up to sit next to him, reaching her hand into the bag and pulling out a styrofoam box. He takes it from her and cracks it open. Greek flatbread, extra olives.

“I took the walk to think,” she says, leaning back against the concrete wall. She pops her own box open to reveal a salad. “About the case.”

“Yeah?” he asks, taking a bite of his flatbread. “You got a theory?”

“I have a hunch.” She stabs a fork into her salad.³ “But I cannot tell if prior experiences are blinding my judgement.”

Ramsey raises a brow. “Yeah? What kinda experiences we talkin’?”

She sighs. “Nothing I would prefer to go into. And, should I share my theory, your perspective may change as well. The more impartially we can act, the better.”

“What, you think I’m gonna get all weird ‘bout someone if I think they’re guilty?”

Percy twists the cap off her water bottle with a crack. “That is exactly what I think.” She takes a sip.

Ramsey considers for a moment. She’s not wrong.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, leaning back against the wall. The laundry rolls on. “I got some personal bias too. Don’t care for that Harold guy. Dianne basically said he’s controlling all her money.”

Percy cocks her head to the side. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “iunno, but I got the vibe that she was trapped or somethin’. Seems like they been together a long time. Don’t think she could get out, if she wanted to.”

“Is that why you think he might be the culprit?”

“She owns the art. If he steals her art, its him getting his money back. It’s an investment, yeah?”

She narrows her eyes. “You believe someone would do that to their own partner? Someone they’ve known for years?”

The flatbread catches in his throat. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing it down.

Percy frowns, stabbing at her salad, arugula crushed under her fork. The whir of the washing machine thrums loud, echoing off the cement walls.

Ramsey sighs. He’s wrecked the mood.

Percy’s voice is quiet when she speaks. “There’s one block I keep stumbling over.”

“Yeah?”

“Professor Hackington,” she says, setting down her fork. “His presence in this case baffles me. For the same reason that my own role here does. Both of us were contacted specifically about forgery. Not theft. As if whoever contacted the police was aware of the crime.”

Ramsey blinks. “You think it’s an inside job.”

She nods. “Perhaps. More likely, though, this was a situation where the culprit wanted to be caught. You said it yourself, it was sloppy work.”

Gears start clicking in his brain. “Why would they wanna be caught?”

“That,” she contemplates the cherry tomato on her fork, “I am uncertain about. It is simply a puzzlement.”

“Wait, I think,” he thinks back to earlier in the day, “I think you might be right. Archie’s not into like, the old-ass Baroque shit like Mauvaise, but he’s who they called. But he’s declared forgeries before. Not every historian’s ballsy enough to do that.”

Her head perks up. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he sets down the nearly empty take-out container on the drier next to him. “There’s, you know, legal stuff if you fuck up. You make a statement ‘bout a piece being fake, you risk the owner suing you for tryna artificially reduce it’s value. You say something’s real, your reputation’s gonna be on the line if you’ve goofed. It’s a risky business with no money in it. Unless you get some kinda contract worked up ‘forehand that says you can’t get sued, but no one wants to admit they bought a fake.”

“Do you think that’s what occurred here?” Percy’s gaze is heavy as she leans closer. Ramsey can almost pretend that she’s fascinated by him, not his ideas.

He clicks his tongue. “Can’t really say. They may’ve just guessed about it being forgery, and called him ‘cause he’s a friend of a friend.”

Percy may be looking in his direction, but her eyes are unfocused and thoughtful. “But if the entire thing was planned, then they would have known who to contact in advance. And they would have planned the heist during a break between class semesters, when he wouldn’t be teaching.”

Ramsey hadn’t thought of that, but he nods in agreement.

“Still,” she says, leaning back. “I highly doubt he’s actively involved. He’s either a good actor, or perhaps a fool.”

Ramsey raises his eyebrows at her. “Dunno if I’d call him that, just one of those elitist types.”

Percy’s expression goes flat. “He attempted to convince me that you had painted it.”

Ramsey barks a laugh. “Seriously? I was in jail until yesterday morning!”

“Yes,” she says, sliding off of the drier, “I’m aware that your alibi is tight.”

Ramsey smirks at her. “If it wasn’t would I be a suspect?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, now that’s comforting.” He laughs, leaning on the wall behind the driers. “Glad to see you trust me.”

Percy’s expression stays solemn. “I do trust you.”

Ramsey’s stomach does something floaty. He looks up at the popcorn ceiling. “Wouldn’t recommend it. My Yelp score’s real bad in that department.”

“There are Yelp pages for people?”

“Nah,” he chuckles at the ceiling. “It was a joke.”

“My apologies. I’m not always particularly keen on catching humor. Would you like me to laugh?”

Ramsey can’t help but smile.⁴ “Nah, you don’t gotta. S’fine.”

“Are you certain? It would be of no consequence.”

“Yeah, you don’t gotta force it or nothin’. If it ain’t your kinda joke, it ain’t your kinda joke. ‘Side’s, the moment’s passed, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it has,” she murmurs.

“Look,” he sighs, sitting up. “If you get confused by something I say, you just gotta ask, aight?”

She’s looking away, but her eyes flick up to meet his. There’s something gentle in her expression. “Thank you.”

Ramsey offers her the best grin he can. “It’s no problem.”

All he can hear is the sound of the laundry thumping in circles, and all he can see is Percy, looking at him. Her skin is pallid under the fluorescent lights, cheekbones sharp, but her eyes are kind. It makes him want to run out of building and into the mountains, makes him want to stay in this musty laundry room forever.

Maybe he can figure out what kind of jokes she likes best.

The buzzer screeches, and Ramsey shakes his head to clear it.

“I should go,” Percy says, glancing towards the door.

“Yup,” Ramsey says, hopping down. “I’ll stay on drier duty.”

“Thank you, Ramsey,” she says, that look still on her face, “truly.”

“Hey, I need clean clothes more than you do,” he grins, brushing past her to crouch down and pop open the washing machine.

“I’ll be back in a few hours. There should be a log of who reported the initial break-in, and if they even mention forgery. If they didn’t…” she trails off, and Ramsey glances up at her. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’d rather my hunch be incorrect.”

Ramsey shrugs, pulling out a handful of wet clothes. “Someone’s gotta be the culprit. Not that seein’ the best in people is a bad thing, but it doesn’t hurt to be suspicious.”

Percy nods slowly. Then she frowns. “You have a room key, correct?”

“Yeah,” Ramsey chuckles. “Don’t worry about me, Perce. Go work on your case.”

She nods again, then pauses, tilting her head to the side and considering him. Ramsey quirks an eyebrow at her, inviting her to speak.

But she doesn’t, leaning in close enough for her nose to brush against his temple, her lips chapped and soft against his cheek.

Ramsey blinks.

She’s gone, the laundry room door slamming shut behind her.

His cheeks nearly hurt from grinning as he piles the rest of the laundry into the drier.⁵

He slams the drier shut, then remembers that he should hang up his suit pants. Wouldn't want them shrinking, so he reaches back into pull them out. What he doesn't expect, though is his thumb to brush against soggy paper, slipped into the pocket. Wasn't there earlier. He pulls it out.

It’s a business card, waterlogged from the wash. It’s printed on cheap, white cardstock; the Waterford University logo emblazoned across the top, with the name, phone number, and department below. Archibald’s business card.

Ramsey rolls his eyes; of course Archibald would slip him this. What, in case he needs someone to gesture wildly at something he painted?

He flips it over, not expecting anything, but there's a number written on the back. It’s scribbled in black pen; someone was in a hurry. Not an area code he recognizes, and, flipping the card over, a different area code from Archibald’s university. Not his phone number, most likely.

Ramsey frowns, and slides the card into his bathrobe pocket.