Previously, I was on the wrong side of the GM screen and lived to write about it. Now I’m steering. New table, fresh disasters, and a party who treat investigation as a suggestion. They shoot first, and aren’t entirely sure what ‘Questions’ are. Vaesen folklore will still whisper; the consequences will just shout back. Consider this a companion piece to the first run: same fog, different thunder.

---

Industrialisation pressed against tradition in the Mythic North. Rails bit into peat and granite; canal water learned the taste of coal dust. The deep woods still kept their own counsel, and the shadows were not as empty as they first appeared. It was Thursday, 13 October 1859. Europe still remembered the Napoleonic wars. Under King Charles XV, the united kingdoms of Sweden and Norway laid track and wire with a convert’s fervour. Villagers came to the cities in hope and met poverty, cholera, and early graves; the promises were modern, the endings very old.

At Uppsala, old and new shared streets. Lecture halls, factory stacks, the cathedral’s spires, and the grass‑covered mounds watched one another with polite distrust. Students argued in stairwells; stokers argued in yards. Between them the river kept moving, as rivers do. On the Fyris River stood a once‑grand house, grey with disuse, lately loud again with purposeful footsteps.

Linnea Elfeklint, a former member now confined to the asylum, had given them the house. She had come to them in dreams and, when they answered, charged them to stand between people and vaesen—creatures of the old world, powerful and easily angered when ignored. Thursday’s children see what others will not. The charge was plain enough; the practicalities would be learned room by room, ledger by ledger, complaint by complaint.

Thursday, 13 October 1859

Castle Gyllencreutz had hosted them for several days. Mr. Frisk, elderly and exact, kept the worst of the mould and disorder at bay; a fine dust still settled on everything like a polite reminder. He wound clocks, opened curtains the house would have preferred closed, and shepherded heat along the corridors with the steady tyranny of fresh kindling. The place was habitable in the way of houses that remember better times and try to be courteous about it: draughts apologised; floorboards announced themselves before they complained.

Hugo occupied the library with a bottle of sherry and the practised frown of a man appraising architecture for sins. He traced a hairline crack above the cornice with one finger and judged it historical rather than urgent. Marginalia in a sermon collection distracted him long enough to correct a date under his breath. A drop rang faintly in the chimney; he decided it was the weather, not a leak, and took that as a small mercy.

Vilhelm read nearby, pipe cooling in his hand, walking stick against the table. Natural history volumes had gathered at his elbow—bird skulls in plates, mosses in Latin that refused to translate themselves without supervision. He underlined sparingly, as though the books might object. When he paused, it was to listen to the room rather than the prose, measuring what the house remembered by how it breathed between the walls.

In the kitchen, Anders drank from a whisky bottle with a sailor’s efficiency, his uniform having lost the battle for neatness while the insignia refused to surrender. At the same table, Frederick cut and stitched steak with surgical precision—practice of a sort. Anders’s boots left a dark map from door to hearth and back; he wiped them once and decided the floor could win today. He checked his pistol out of habit and set it by, where it could be reached without saying so.

Frederick worked with the lazily perfect movements of routine. Needle through meat, neat knot, a tug to test the line. He rinsed his hands, dried them on a cloth that had seen better linens, and inventoried his bag by touch—forceps, scalpel, cotton, the particular bandage that fixed pride as well as flesh. A horseshoe leaned against the skirting like a silent assistant. He turned it over with his thumb as if inspecting a pulse, decided iron was iron, and kept it close.

Upstairs, Aleksander kept to the séance room, tattered books and guttering candles for company. He had coaxed a circle of clean floorboards out of the dust and a chalk line around that; whether superstition or housekeeping depended on one’s view of chalk. The air smelled of tallow and old paper. He read slowly, the way one listens for something that does not use words, and made notes in a hand that left room for doubt.

Outside, Torun sat in the garden and whittled with a large knife. His clothes were the kind earned by walking further than was sensible. Breath showed in the cold. Curls of pale rowan fell to the stones in commas and question marks; the thing being made remained undecided about its final noun. A robin tried the hedge, thought better of it, and left the opinion unrecorded.

By late morning the house had warmed to a civil compromise with the weather. The library windows clouded faintly and cleared again; the fire learned to behave. Dust motes argued in the slant of light and then agreed to settle.

A knock sounded at the front door—polite, experimental. Frisk opened, found no one, and closed again with a remark about local children and their timing. He stood a moment, listening for the quick patter of feet on the step, heard only leaves, and returned to his rounds.

A second knock followed, louder and definite—the difference between a suggestion and a statement. Frisk opened. A small figure slipped between his legs into the hall with practised certainty and the economy of someone who did not intend to be caught. The door stayed open long enough to let a chill breathe past the lintel.

They looked at the visitor: a vaesen, small and quick. A faint draught brought in the smell of damp leaves; the house seemed to listen. The creature doffed a cap with theatrical precision, kicked Frisk smartly in the shin as if paying postage, and produced a sealed letter from a battered bag. Its eyes moved like a habit. Vilhelm took the envelope with the care one gives a specimen slide; Frisk, entirely dignified apart from the injury, stepped back and rearranged his expression into neutrality. Hugo, unsteady, muttered an apology that belonged more to the past night than the present disturbance.

The courier bowed deeply from the waist, executed a small turn that had been practised elsewhere, and departed by the same route. The door admitted a last ribbon of cold and shut on it.

They gathered in the library without being told. Chairs shifted. The dust accepted new patterns. Anders leaned one shoulder to the jamb and watched the hall as if the house might try again. Frederick produced a clean cloth from nowhere and made a space on the table with two economical gestures. Torun came in from the garden, colder air following him like a quiet dog; he left a line of pale shavings on the threshold and did not apologise for them.

Vilhelm considered the seal—the wax smudged by an imprecise hand, a faint impression that could have been deliberate or merely affordable. He weighed the paper once, then set it down and slid a thumbnail under the lip. The wax gave a dry crack as he broke the seal.

Dear Linnea,

I know you have left this life behind, but I don’t know where else to turn. As you may know, our village has been beset by misfortune. If you haven’t read the papers or have missed it, the vicar’s butler recently died, and now a young girl has gone missing.
I believe our troubles stem from the new manor construction — they’ve dug up the creek! Surely this has angered her, and now she’s exacting her revenge on us! I’m scared and have no one else to confide in. My husband gets angry whenever I bring up the old tales. Please help us before more people go missing. I don’t want anyone else to experience what I did.

Erika Mofjäll
Skällvik Inn
11th of October 1859

Fairy Queen took her. We got her back.
 Society annals — April 1839

The library exhaled after the crack of the seal. Paper rasped under Vilhelm’s fingers; ink sat heavy where fear had pressed too hard. The hand was domestic and hurried, the kind that keeps house and hope at once. In the margin, a different script cut across the page at an angle—quick, confident, almost annoyed with the paper. Twenty years earlier, the note said. April 1839.

They read twice. The room adjusted its weight around the words. The phrase she’s exacting her revenge settled like grit between teeth; “she” might have meant river, creek, or something older wearing water as a dress. The dug channel was the hinge. People had moved a line; something had taken notice.

Aleksander, who liked patterns the way a hunter likes tracks, observed that events have a habit of repeating when given the same conditions. If a vaesen had been offered a path once, it would remember where it ran. He did not push it further; the letter had said enough.

Torun called it folly to disturb a vaesen and expect courtesy in return. He was not angry, only tired of preventable messes. Outside the windows a gust pressed a paler light into the glass and left again; dust shifted to new places and pretended not to listen.

Hugo had heard “graves” instead of “creek” and condemned sacrilege in general terms until Vilhelm corrected him, finger on the line. He blinked, conceded the point, and owned the error with dry economy. He replaced the stopper on the sherry as a token gesture to accuracy.

Frederick proposed a course that did not rely on anyone’s memory: the dead tell truths the living will not. If they were granted permission, he would examine the butler. He spoke without relish. Practicality did not preclude respect; it simply arrived earlier.

Anders, who counted next steps like a quartermaster, acknowledged the plan with a brief nod. He checked his service pistol out of habit; if words failed later, other measures would follow, but not before.

Vilhelm marked the date in his head and on the ledger: April 1839. The annals would have it, if anything did. The phrasing in the margin—We got her back—implied method and precedent. If there was a note on holy water, on paths, on what had been traded or broken, it would live in those pages. He closed the letter carefully, as though returning a nervous bird to its box, and set it beside the inkwell.

Frederick, who distrusted any plan that began and ended with reading, suggested Vilhelm might try leaving the library to find the answer. The corners of his mouth considered a smile and rejected it. Vilhelm replied, not unkindly, that study and observation were the same work performed at different distances; one learns to recognise a wound whether it is on paper or skin.

They drew the day’s first circle on the table between them: letter, margin, annals, body. Nothing more yet. Mr Frisk appeared long enough to clear an unnecessary glass and then vanished with the soft efficiency of an apology. A log settled in the grate and held.

Silence arranged itself into tasks. Anders checked the time without consulting a clock. Torun reclaimed the pale shaving he had shed at the threshold and pocketed it, a rowan curl treated like a charm or a habit. Aleksander ran a thumb under the edge of the scribble and judged the ink newer than the letter by a decade and a hand—Linnea’s, likely. He did not say it aloud; Hugo would see it himself soon enough.

The map on the far wall offered Uppsala as an ordered set of names; none of them helped with a creek near Stegeborg. That would come later. For now there were shelves: black‑spined, numbered, patient. April 1839 waited somewhere between damp leather and dust.

No one stood yet. They let the room finish listening. Then Vilhelm reached for the ledger and, because even solemn work has its ceremonies, squared the letter to the corner of the table before he moved toward the annals.

They agreed on the obvious beginning: the library. Dust held its breath on the top shelves and then settled again as they crossed the room.

Vilhelm found the black‑spined volume without hunting and opened to April 1839. The leather gave a small sigh; a thin cloud rose and folded back into the light. He read; the room accepted the facts in order:

Annals of the Society — April 1839

A child, Erika, disappeared while playing near a creek north of Stegeborg. A being styling itself the Fairy Queen was observed at the site. Member Annika followed the vaesen paths into the woods in pursuit. Minutes later, the child returned unharmed; Annika did not return. The notes indicate that holy water can destroy such paths, though it was not used in this instance.

They took in the shape of it and let the particulars find their places: a child gone; a title that did not quite belong; a return measured in minutes; a loss that had not been returned at all. Torun called it the usual mistake—to anger a vaesen and expect a tidy outcome. Vilhelm, turning the phrasing in his head, allowed that Annika might have traded herself for the child. No one contradicted him. A clock somewhere in the corridor made a single, unhelpful tick.

They read further entries for echoes—incidents near water, odd bargains, paths that appeared where no road should be. Nothing new on queens; nothing helpful on that creek. The margins were quiet where one hoped for impatience. Vilhelm underlined the single practical line—holy water can destroy such paths—and copied the page number to a scrap for his pocket.

Frederick, practical by instinct, listed what still worked as if reciting from a field manual: vaesen dislike iron; they yield to Christian symbols more often than not; thresholds matter; courtesy matters more. Hugo asked if he should bless water. They agreed without ceremony.

Frederick went through the manor like a careful thief and returned with what the house could spare—two horseshoes, a handful of bent nails, a short length of chain, and a few iron rings whose usefulness came from their lack of elegance. He cleaned the worst of the rust with a rag and a thumbnail, tested their weight, and pocketed one shoe for the horse. The other he set on the table as if placing a paperweight on future trouble.

Hugo rinsed an old sherry decanter, set it on a cleared space, and spoke the blessing low and plain. Bread, salt, light; nothing theatrical. The words were workmanlike and did the work. When he stoppered it, the room seemed to gain a clean edge. He marked the glass with a small chalk cross and put the chalk back in his sleeve where he could find it by habit.

They spoke of encounters. Torun reminded them that vaesen were natural spirits, not demons; they must be handled as one handles something wild—respect first, space always, never corner it with certainty. Anders checked his pistol, oiled the hinge with a miser’s drop, and, almost under his breath, promised that if talk failed he would send them back to the hells from which they came. Torun said only that he hoped words would prove cheaper than bullets and left it there. The contrast was old and workable.

Vilhelm searched for further mention of a Fairy Queen and found none. The annals agreed on a point of manners: vaesen do not keep titles or courts; names like that are disguises, or jokes, or both—costumes worn for human benefit. Queens belonged to ballads and newspapers; the thing at the creek likely had its own word for itself and no use for crowns.

Frederick tied iron to leather thongs with the tidy knots of habit and distributed them without ceremony: one for Anders’s pocket, one for Aleksander’s wrist, one left on the library table in case the house felt superstitious. He weighed the remaining nails in his palm, chose two, and pushed them into the lip of his satchel where they could be found by touch.

Hugo lifted the decanter—work finished—and felt the cool weight settle against his ribs as he slipped it into a padded sleeve. He did not bless the room; the room would decide later how it felt about them.

They had water and charms and a date in a ledger. The fire dropped, caught again. Vilhelm closed the volume with a palm pressed flat, slid the scrap with the page number into his waistcoat, and reached for the city map. Anders struck a match to test a lantern. The flame hesitated, thought better of going out, and held.

They weighed where to begin. The map lay open. The ledger’s date pointed like a compass, while the river lines said little about a creek near Stegeborg. Frederick observed that a twenty‑year‑old case is still present if any of the missing were never found. Vilhelm confirmed Annika’s entry in the personnel ledger—mid‑thirties, gifted with the Sight, last recorded in 1839—and allowed that, if time ran differently beyond the paths, survival was not impossible. He noted that halting the new manor’s works and restoring the creek would be the simplest apology to offer, a gesture the land might understand. Frederick agreed they would first need the manor’s exact location before any talk of repairs could matter.

They read the letter again for anything they had missed. Aleksander checked the hand for hesitation and counted where the ink had pooled; Torun traced, with a forefinger, the indentation where the quill had pressed hardest; Hugo compared the marginal note to older scraps in his memory. He recognised Linnea’s script in the last lines and said so, quietly pleased to have something certain in a room of uncertainties.

Frederick proposed asking Linnea directly. Mr Frisk, conjured by the sound of his name and the movement of chairs, confirmed the obvious: she lived at the Uppsala Asylum, a respectable elders’ home. Vilhelm suggested they go at once. Torun and Hugo agreed without ornament. The map remained open on the table like a question that could wait.

They left the house with the manner of people moving from talk to errands. The asylum sat in old stone that remembered too much winter. Dust and age met them at the door with the faint smell of boiled linen. At the desk, a nurse informed them visiting hours began in fifteen minutes. Torun disliked the delay aloud; Vilhelm volunteered to read while they waited and had already selected a thin volume with unthreatening type. Hugo leaned in with a priest’s gravity and, with concise dishonesty, said they had come to give final blessings before Linnea “moved on”. Sympathy did what clocks would not; the latch clicked and they were taken up to Room 247.

The room was spare: bed, dresser, chest. A rug tried and failed to warm the boards. Linnea sat on the bed and greeted them with the easy warmth of habit.

“Oh my dears—so lovely to see you all.”

Torun apologised for the asylum; Linnea corrected the premise without offence—she had admitted herself, they looked after her well, and better company was welcome. Frederick offered a medical exam; she declined with a small smile that suggested she knew her own borders. Hugo set his hat on the dresser and kept his hands politely still.

Vilhelm presented the letter. Interest brightened her; she was pleased it had arrived. When asked how a vaesen had carried it, she tapped the skirting with her cane. A hidden panel popped open with a tired click. The little messenger stepped out, bowed, and listened to their report of Mr Frisk’s shin with a studied lack of remorse. Linnea reprimanded it gently; it bowed again—crisper, chastened—and vanished back into the wall, which closed as if it had never offered an opinion.

Torun noted the creature’s respect. Linnea supplied the principle: respect a vaesen and it will often return the favour. She added nothing ornamental to the rule; it did not need it.

They asked about 1839. Linnea confirmed what the annals already said and had little to add beyond the tone of an old story retold. Hugo asked whether one might make or reverse a fairy path to reach the vaesen. Linnea said the paths were the vaesen’s own weave; one could mimic routes, but a human‑made path was unlikely to lead to the same place and might go somewhere worse—as the old notes imply. The certainty sat between them without argument.

Vilhelm asked whether this was truly a fairy queen. Linnea said only that it was a vaesen wearing a grand name, and that no other monarchs of that kind had troubled the records in twenty years. She reminded them that another girl was missing now and allowed the urgency to speak for itself.

On remedies, Vilhelm suggested halting construction and restoring the creek to calm whatever had been angered. Linnea judged it possible; bargains and reasoning fit some vaesen better than threats. Torun observed that repairing nature was never wasted effort. Vilhelm agreed, and the agreement felt like a stake driven into something loose.

Linnea warned that industrialisation would proceed regardless, and wished them luck. Vilhelm criticised the wealthy for carving estates into places that had their own uses before surveyors arrived. Torun joked that, when his time came, he would walk into the woods and not return. Hugo offered a prayer for that eventuality with a seriousness that made the joke gentler. Frederick answered with a dark aside about organ donation that he did not trouble to soften.

They set a first step for Stegeborg—begin at the creek to look for traces. Vilhelm reminded them to check newspapers; Linnea agreed that the archives might help. The order of operations arranged itself neatly enough to carry out of the room without dropping.

They wished Linnea well. The nurse held the door. The corridor smelled of soap and old air, and the stairwell magnified footsteps into something official. Vilhelm checked the time and turned toward the archives; Torun tightened his coat and headed for the steps. Hugo reclaimed his hat. The building, satisfied they had work to do, let them go without comment.

—

They split their errands. Torun and Hugo returned to the manor for supplies with Anders, while Aleksander, after a pause, chose to go with Torun. Frederick and Vilhelm set out for the archives. The decision felt practical rather than dramatic—work divided, time made useful.

At the house, Torun took charge of food and travel goods with the practised efficiency of someone who disliked surprises on the road. He moved through pantry and scullery with a hunter’s economy: flour, salt, dried meat, hard cheese, a tin of tea, lamp oil, spare wicks, twine, needle and thread, a roll of clean bandage in case Frederick’s bag failed to be everywhere at once. Frederick, pausing at the door, asked him to keep an eye on his horse—frail, by his own admission. Torun agreed and added feed, blankets, and the kind of patience that matters more than rope to the list. Outside, he checked the shoes, lifted each hoof, and judged what could be mended now and what would have to be endured. Provisions and transport were arranged in the quiet language of tasks done in order; crates appeared by the hall, labels found their places, and the house seemed to approve of the return to routine.

—

The archives occupied a brick block that kept its own weather. Inside: high windows, long aisles, and the paper‑smell of organised years—paste, dust, and a hint of old glue that said the binding room had been busy once. A short man at the front desk greeted them without curiosity, as if greeting were his job and curiosity were not. Vilhelm explained their purpose—recent reports touching a vicar’s butler who had died at Skällvik Inn—and the archivist pointed them to the relevant files with the mild satisfaction of a signpost. Frederick clarified they wanted current articles, not those from twenty years prior. They divided the work without discussion: Vilhelm skimmed older volumes for echoes and margins; Frederick turned recent pages for names that mattered now.

Drawers rasped. Card indexes gave up numbers. Paper whispered in stacks as they were lifted and returned. Findings were thin until Frederick laid three clippings from recent editions side by side. They read them in order. Each carried a different corner of the same shape.

MISTS HINDER SEARCH FOR STEGEBORG GIRL

A young woman from the village of Stegeborg has gone missing. The community, still reeling from the recent death of a local workman, now faces another tragedy with the disappearance of Eva Stark, who was last seen walking through town the previous night. According to Vicar Carolus Brännström, searches have been conducted but have been hampered by severe and unseasonable mists.

COUNT VON HOLSTEIN PLANS TO RETURN TO ANCESTRAL HOME!

Count Otto von Holstein has announced his intention to return to the ancestral home of his family and has begun preparations for the building of a new manor house in Stegeborg, Östergötland. The Holstein family was given the land by King Johan III in 1570 after the disappearance of the last member of the previous ruling family. However, the Holsteins have primarily focused on industrial pursuits in Stockholm, and this marks the first time a count has resided in Stegeborg in nearly 250 years.

The innkeeper in the nearby town of Skällvik commented on the news saying “It will be nice to see some more people in the village”. In contrast, local farmer Efraim Stark expressed a less positive view: “I don’t see why some bigwig should come here and mess up our fields and fishing waters.”

QUESTIONS LINGER AS MISSING BUTLER FOUND DROWNED!

The personal servant of Vicar Brännström in Stegeborg, reported missing yesterday, has been found drowned. Länsman Andersson, who led the investigation, stated that the death has been ruled an accident—likely a case of a drunken man falling into the water. No further inquiries will be made.

However, Gustav Rask, the farmhand who discovered the body, provided a different perspective. “If that man drowned just from drunkenness, then what a horrible way to go it must have been,” Rask said. He further suggested the man’s death may have been caused by fright, citing the fearful expression on his face.

When presented with Rask’s comments, Länsman Andersson responded, “Local superstition has no place in modern society, nor should it be given space in what used to be a reputable newspaper.” This reporter believes the true events surrounding the man’s death may remain unsolved. When approached for comment, Vicar Brännström remarked, “A tragic accident, to be sure. He had no close relatives, so I will donate his possessions to the Skällvik poorhouse.”

There were no surviving reports from 1839; the cabinets held only the present. They copied what they needed with the neat theft of information that archives permit—dates, names, the phrasing that mattered more than the ink itself—and talked as they worked. Frederick judged the mists unnatural: wrong season, wrong persistence, the kind of weather that behaved like intention. Vilhelm agreed it warranted a vaesen question—many creatures touched sky and water, but fairies were not known for it. He offered a provisional thought: a restless spirit from the old ruling line might prefer fog for a language. They let the idea sit without promoting it to certainty.

They folded their copies and headed back. Boots clicked on tile; the door gave them back to the afternoon without ceremony. Outside, the light had thinned to a pewter that promised rain later whether it arrived or not.

—

At the manor, Torun had stacked supplies by the hall and seen to Frederick’s horse with the grim kindness reserved for fragile things. The animal accepted a nosebag and a hand on the neck in the same silence. Anders checked the harness, adjusted a buckle, and made approving noises that did not ask for answers. The others returned to the library table as if the room had been keeping their places warm. Frederick and Vilhelm set the clippings down, one after another, and gave the summary without decoration. Frederick asked whether weather narrowed their options. The annals agreed that many vaesen could trouble sky and water; fairies, notably, did not feature among them. Vilhelm allowed that an unquiet family dead fit the pattern as well as any guess they had.

Ink dried. The fire shifted and remembered its job. They left the papers in a neat row, found their coats, and checked the hour. The map waited for a finger to choose the next line; a lantern wick trimmed itself straight under Anders’s thumb.

—

They reassembled at Castle Gyllencreutz, night air slipping in with them; a lantern wick still smoked, and the dust settled when the door closed. Torun napped in a chair; Hugo kept company with a glass. Frederick woke Torun with a steady nudge and an inventory of what still needed doing. Hugo greeted them and asked for news.

Frederick reported a vicar by name—Brännström—who might speak to the drowned butler. Hugo mistook the suggestion for communion with the dead; Frederick clarified the man remained inconveniently alive. Hugo proposed a letter or, failing patience, a direct visit. The decision could be made after they had eaten and finished packing.

Vilhelm summarised the three articles and the people worth speaking to among them—farmer, noble, and anyone who disliked the sudden mists on principle. He set the clippings in a neat row and tapped the margins once, as if to underline that each pointed to the same place by a different route.

Frederick asked Torun about mist. Torun said the cure was stubborn walking and a good memory of where home sits. Frederick added that fairy paths had a way of helping one misremember, and that the trick—if there was one—was to keep a purpose in mind. Vilhelm, over‑practical, suggested string to mark the way. Torun allowed that diplomacy might work better—some vaesen would oppose any self‑appointed queen simply on grounds of taste—and left it there.

Vilhelm tried Mr Frisk for memories of 1839. Frisk explained he had never left the manor and, lacking the Sight, could not have added much even if he had. He apologised for the uselessness of a faithful servant where vaesen were concerned; Vilhelm apologised in turn and thanked him for his service. Dinner, Frisk said, would be in twenty minutes. Torun offered venison jerky; Frisk advised saving it for the road and departed with the same efficient silence he brought to all errands.

—

They returned to preparations. Supplies were counted, straps repaired, buckles tested, wicks trimmed, and coin pooled in a tidy pile. Frederick reminded Torun not to overfeed his frail horse; Torun fed and tended it anyway with the kind persistence that sometimes passes for optimism. He checked the legs and the shoes and spoke to the animal in the practical tone of someone who expects to be obeyed by weather and beasts alike. Vilhelm and Frederick argued briefly over notes and packing, the way people do when they are both correct and the bag is finite. The argument concluded in the usual manner—two methods arriving at the same list.

They tallied costs. It was easier to spend coin on what could be carried than on what might be regretted later.

— Vilhelm purchased a sturdier walking stick and set aside funds for a field reference the whole group could use.
— Frederick confirmed his doctor’s bag—scalpel, forceps, bandage—and the bottle of fine wine that made bad news easier to phrase; purchased a revolver.
— Hugo purchased a hurricane lamp and a bottle of liquor, “for morale.”
— Torun purchased a hunting dog for the group’s safety.
— Anders contributed his compass and offered his sidearm if required.
— Aleksander kept his crystal ball and conserved his funds.

Vilhelm proposed pooling what remained for shared items, beginning with the field manual; Hugo agreed it would serve them all. Frederick observed, dryly, that his “many, many surgeries” would appreciate the new bandages regardless. No one argued with the value of a clean edge and a steady hand.

Torun introduced the dog. He named it Dustin. The group approved without ceremony. Hugo assured the animal it would definitely survive this horror; the room allowed itself a small laugh and, for a moment, felt like an ordinary room.

—

Evening drew its lines. They were stocked, armed, and set to depart at dawn. The question left was route. The choice ran by land or by sea. Hugo preferred the water; Vilhelm preferred the rails. The rails promised fewer variables. They settled on the train.

Frisk confirmed livestock could travel. Frederick nodded, satisfied, and made the arrangements for his horse to be loaded. He wrote the necessary names where names were required and counted halters and straps twice. Tickets were stamped; crates roped; the dawn train noted on the board. The bags waited by the door, and the house held its breath the way houses do on the last quiet night before a journey.

Friday, 14 October 1859 — Rail & Road

They boarded the morning train at Uppsala bound for Söderköping. Tickets were stamped at dawn; the wheels kept steady; fields slid past; silence held. Frost silvered ditch water where the line ran low, and hedges kept their own counsel. Inside the carriage coats made small weather of their own: wool warmed, leather cooled, breath faded from windows and returned as the glass decided. No one felt the need to improve the view with talk.

At stations the platform clocks agreed with themselves and nobody else. A porter swung a flag with the air of a man who had learned not to argue with machinery. Between towns, the landscape practised being November early. After dark at Söderköping, they transferred to a coach for the last miles. Harness jingled; the team leaned into the traces; the road accepted their weight as if out of habit.

Torun spent the travel teaching the new hound the shapes of patience: heel, sit, wait. The dog learned his voice quickly. It watched his hands the way dogs do when they have already decided. Frederick remarked that Torun had paid well for it; the group agreed it was money well spent. Aleksander—who preferred patterns to animals—allowed that a good nose outran a good theory in fog.

Saturday, 15 October 1859 — Skällvik, 3:00 a.m.

It was three in the morning when the coach set them down at Skällvik. The sign over the rustic inn read Skällvik Inn. Mist lay ankle‑deep and held close to the ground as if the fields had chosen a blanket and were unwilling to share. The driver touched the brim of his cap to no one in particular and turned the team toward sleep.

Frederick stayed with his horse and found it a stall for the night. He admitted the animal had yet to earn a name; someone suggested “Weak Horse” as a temporary solution. It would do until a better one arrived. He checked the water, shook down a little straw, and listened for the small noises that say a stable will mind its business till morning.

The others stretched their legs and watched the fog thicken as they unloaded their cases. Breath showed briefly and went out like small lamps. Torun, unsentimental, said there were no ghosts. Aleksander, who kept longer lists, disagreed enough to be heard. Anders made a practical sound that meant both opinions could be true at once if one kept walking.

The inn’s front doors stood open. A single lamp burned in the lobby. Floorboards answered the cold with slow clicks. Aleksander called out. No answer. Hugo looked for an attendant; only the lamp hissed. Torun noticed the counter bell; Frederick rang it several times; its ring carried down the corridor and came back thinner for the distance.

A large man appeared from the back in the manner of someone who sleeps because he has to. “Do you have any idea what time it is?!” he demanded, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his voice carrying under the lamp’s hiss; then, catching himself, he apologised before they could answer, stepped aside, and greeted them properly. Vilhelm explained their arrival; Frederick asked for rooms.

Four were offered, with mention of a shared room usually taken by labourers. Frederick asked for four separate if possible. Torun requested the dog remain with him; the innkeeper agreed without debate. A register appeared; names went down in the steady hands of people who preferred legible consequences.

They followed him upstairs and divided the rooms. Torun kept the dog. Frederick chose one near the stair for checks on the horse. Hugo took a room that faced the yard and left the curtain drawn; Vilhelm accepted the first key that fit; Aleksander set his case on a chair that did not wobble. The hall smelt faintly of lye and old tea. Somewhere a door forgot and remembered how to close.

As latches clicked and boots found corners, Hugo observed that the work still felt vague. Vilhelm said they had leads and names to start with. The consensus was that the fog covered what it could; the morning would be clearer. For now, the map could sleep folded. Torun set a hand on the dog’s ribs and felt the simple answer of breath. Frederick counted steps to the yard and back so that later, in fog, his feet would remember.

They turned down the lamps; somewhere a clock marked the quarter to four. The building settled around them with the small negotiations of pipes and timber. Outside, the mist kept its own watch.