Her smile was a little too eager to truly fit her profession, her eyes a little too bright. But those same eyes were sharp, I’ll give her that. I hadn’t been pointing at the shelf or anything, just eyed it for barely a moment, but the waitress understood my expression. immediately. “The arrack, sir? Oh, I see. Mr. Gust ordered that bottle in from Kerala just last week. Would you like me to pour you a glass?”

I shook my head and scowled back down at the cocktail menu. “I’ll have the Bloody Mar – a Virgin Mary, please.” I turned to face her properly, trying to keep my smile as wide and breezy as hers. “Um, maybe add an extra maraschino cherry? I love those things.”

“I’ll take a Roy Rogers myself.” Ryan cut in. I risked a glance over at my brother. His expression seemed more curious than judgmental, as if he was genuinely wondering how many more days it would take for me to fall off the wagon. Was a little more faith too much to ask? I’d been attending Alcoholics United meetings for three months now. Surely that had to count for something.

I glared back at him, my fingers twisting at my ring, but he had already turned his attention to a young woman in a black dress striding past us. The girl smiled and waved at him. Her thickly applied eyeshadow gave her a permanently exhausted expression, and her nose was sharp enough to chop steel cables with, but my brother offered her his own small smile anyway. Her grin grew wider in response, her waving a little more frantic, before her puffy-faced companion dragged her off to another group of guests.

I mean, I get why he’s seen as a catch. He’s young, reasonably fit, and spends his days trying to build up a reputation as a harsh and exacting beacon of justice on the choppy seas of crime. He’s kind in his own way with his dates, and I think he certainly prides himself as a gentleman. But even the teensy tiniest hint of warmth in a relationship make him curl up in his headspace and not come out. Although if anything, I reckon that increases his appeal. You can project anything you want onto someone, so long as you’re distant enough.

Nevertheless, there’s only so many times you can sit through the same routine before you start looking for a little variety. Thankfully, someone stepped up to us before he could reel in someone else.

“Ryan Amadeus Neville, is it?” Zebadiah Gust leaned on his cane, fingers flicking against the wood as he watched us. “Not many people I know put their middle names on their business card.”

The first skirmish in the battle, but my brother parried it with ease. “Alas, it’s often proven necessary, given I share a name with a musician,”

“Musicians, actually.” I grinned.

“Musicians, which has raised quite a few misunderstandings in the last few years. By the way, I can see you’re reeling out the cameras. What broadcast are you planning tonight?”

Gust’s watery blue eyes grew carefully impassive, his expression still as a marble statue’s. “Yes,” He said, brushing off his coat. “I do have something special in mind .”

The_Lord_Gust had been an aging aristocrat who had inherited a crumbling mansion about a decade ago and not much else. He’d spun that inheritance into a hundred-million-dollar franchise that featured multiple Youtube channels and a reality TV show.

His stuff is pretty good, I’ll grant you, covering everything from antique weapon tier lists to Society Gossip to travelogues of the English countryside. Most people would say he has it pretty good in life, but I had an inkling he was more than bitter about making a living on an exaggerated British accent. Tragic indeed.

Gust cleared his throat and continued. “I suppose you haven’t taken the opportunity to admire my new centerpiece, have you? The Cross of the Picaresque. But of course, I received a notice a few days ago about that, from a lady not in my acquaintance. What was her name again, precisely? Lemming, or something of that nature…”

“Lemma, actually.” My brother reached out for his mocktail with an artist’s long tapered fingers, and took a sip. I’ll be honest, it looked pretty good. A lot better than my dressed-up tomato juice, that’s for sure. “The Cross is an heirloom that’s was in her family’s possession before it got stolen in World War II.”

Our host raised an impressively bushy eyebrow. “An artifact of such value hidden away in a dusty attic? That’s where I found it, you know, in a dreary little hovel in a Florentine back-alley. No, it’s utter nonsense to even consider that possibility. No doubt my new acquisition is merely some starving artist’s forgery.” His eyes twinkled, like a friendly old uncle’s right before he locks the door behind him. “A very talented amateur artist, it goes without saying.”

“Of course.” Ryan finished his drink and slipped a hand into his jacket. He drew out an old, slightly yellowed photo set in black and white. It showed a metal cross, one that lacked the copper sheen of the one set in the center of the room, but otherwise matched every twist and edge of its intricate design. A bald man, presuming the late Mr. Lemma, stood grinning next to it.

“There couldn’t have been many cameras lying around 1930s Ethiopia, I imagine.” My brother noted. “Ms. Lemma’s family were even luckier to obtain this clear a photograph. You may be right in thinking it’s a forgery. Thankfully, Ms. Lemma is willing to hire an expert to help clear that up, given that she has definite proof of possession.” He shrugged, his face blank. “Still, that would be a lot of work. It would benefit everyone to settle this out of court, don’t you think?”

Gust’s smile turned brittle. He chuckled, though it sounded more like he was coughing up a dustball. “You were hired as a negotiator, I see. Are you proud of yourself, hmm? I would’ve thought Amadeus Kritides had higher hopes for his apprentice than becoming a glorified errand boy.”

Ryan tensed beside me. I smacked my lips and slammed my glass back on the counter. “No worse than hosting reality TV in this day and age, I reckon. Hey, these mojitos look fantastic. Waitress! Get me the purple one, will ya?” I raised my empty glass to Gust. “You are footing the bill for these right? Or are you making us pay for these for charity purposes? If so, you should’ve had the decency to put up clear and unambiguous signs.”

The waitress hurried in with my drink, bringing the conversation to a halt, but I could see Gust was on the back foot now. The man loved his shiny goodies, and that cross was as shiny as they get. He had deeper pockets than the Lemmas for sure, and might bury them in court if he thought he could find a way. But if we really did have proof on our side…

Ryan took a step forward. I shot him a warning glance, but he’d already smoothed over his expression, his smile serene and his eyes a glittering dove grey. “We don’t have to win the case, you know.” He gestured towards the rest of the room, full of the rich and famous from all across the world, a few turning curious frowns to where we stood. “Some nosy reporter sniffing out some interesting pictures, a few background checks into some other pieces in your collection… can a man like you really afford that scrutiny?”

Gust’s face turned stone, every emotion in his face shutting down. “Fine.” His voice broke at the word, giving away all its venom. “It may be possible that the Cross is genuine. That a stray soldier may have pocketed it whilst gassing all the grubby little natives. Many things are possible.” He backed away and practically threw himself at the rest of the crowd, chattering away to any admirers who were popping among them.

I gave a slow, long whistle under my breath. “I didn’t think he’d snap that easily.”

Ryan shrugged. “If there’s one thing that man despises, it’s scandal. He wouldn’t mind being seen as a criminal among his peers; dubbing oneself a rakish scoundrel has its benefits in those circles. But in his position to be ousted, questioned, scrutinized in such a way… that makes him no better than a lowly pickpocket in his eyes.”

The bell rang, and the chatter of the guests grew louder with every moment. Various servants clad in stark black and white began clearing the stage.

“All’s well that ends well.” I decided, picking up another glass. “I do hope Gust does another unboxing video after this. I loved the one he did with all the halberds.”

Ryan opened his mouth, mulled over whatever he was about to say, then closed it again. Black Dress Girl waved at him, her flock of companions gathering around her. She yelled something that was lost in the noise. My brother allowed himself a little smirk and started crossing the room towards them.

I rolled my eyes and made my own way towards the exhibits. Marble pillars were scattered across the room, showing off jewelry and statuettes galore. I frowned and poked the eye of an obsidian tiger twice the size of his orange inspirations. He was coiled up to spring, every mark in the black stone making it feel like it was in motion. I poked it again.

Not even the diamonds were behind glass. Every single piece looked open to pick up and touch, a few guests even trying them on. Gust hadn’t even posted any guards in the room; no one in uniform, at least. Something about that confidence made me nervous. My head started to throb, the lamps above me feeling as harsh as spotlights, and everything about this room started to arch and twist into something threatening.

I suppose the lighting choice made sense, with the broadcast and all. The ballroom was pasted with arsenic green wallpaper and dotted with countless paintings of every color and style in random order and position. Just staring at those walls too long felt like overdosing on acid.

I shook my head and walked over to the stage. Gust was arranging his coat, sieged on all sides by admirers. Ryan and his groupies had disappeared into the crowd, I turned my head, trying to spot them, then bumped my elbow against a pillar. Someone from behind caught my arm at the shoulder, steadying me.

“The Hammer on the Southside Set, purchased from Lenny Borden himself.” Her voice was rich and deep as a blues singer and very, very familiar. It carried something between a French and British accent, with a decent dollop of southern American tossed in there as well. She laughed. “What do you think of it, Mr. Neville?”

“It’s certainly a pretty big hammer.” I offered. “You know, wooden handle, metal head. No complaints on that front, though I must say it looks way too heavy for carpentry, and that handle’s too short to use as a sledgehammer. Wait a second, isn’t this the same one used in that horror movie? The one with the mermaids?”

“Southside Sorrows.” She confirmed. “Considered a modern classic, though I can’t say I have any personal compliments for the film.”

“The zombies in Act Three were a little much, I agree. Wait, who are you again?”

The woman smiled. Her hair was black and webbed with lines of gray. Mostly tied back, with a few strands hanging over her smooth face and sharp blue eyes. She held two glasses in her hands, both filled with white wine. I caught the scent, heady and enticing, and felt my breath catch in the back of my throat. She shoved both of the glasses into my hands.

“No.” I said, scrabbling to catch hold of them. “I’m not – ”

But she was already lifting up the hammer in both hands, staggering a little with the effort, then turned the handle to watch the steel glint as it caught the light. “Notice the red dots over here? Borden spent months perfecting those, I hear. A perfect replica of a murder weapon.”

I held the glass in both hands, trying to look for a waiter to shove it to. Trying to keep my gaze anywhere else. “The Southside Massacre, yeah. With the movie and all, who hasn’t heard of it?” I sighed and placed the glasses beside one of the exhibits. “I mean, strip away all the crazy mermaid stories, and it’s a pretty standard crime. Jealous wife, clueless husband, we all know the story.”

“Quite banal indeed. But it is truly amazing a replica could become a piece of art in its own right.” She turned and grinned at me, showing off blinding white teeth. She tossed the hammer back on the stand, completely forgotten. “I’m Eliza Staling.” She said, her accent suddenly turning completely British. Old TV British, too. The way most Americans think Englishmen speak. It alone was enough for me to recognize her. She was the Butler. The one who appeared at Zeb Gust’s side for pretty much all of his videos.

“Ah.” I said. “I’m guessing Gust doesn’t think he’ll need you for tonight’s livestream?”

“Doubtful. While I just heard your brother’s arrival here has sparked some modification of the order of events, it’s all going to center around the Fabergé egg. Fascinating little trinkets, those. I heard the creator put a little hidden glider inside this particular one.”

“The egg? Huh, isn’t he bringing up the Picaresque Cross or something? Didn’t he get that one a lot more recently?”

“Oh, that old thing? It’s not really display material. Maybe a few academics would recognize it, but it lacks the sheer panache of the Egg. That whole era carried such romanticism, did it not?” I chewed my lip. There were many words that came to mind regarding the Russian Revolution. I wasn’t sure romantic was one of them.

“Staling!” Gust called. “Where’s my bloody microphone?”

She offered me a little smile, like we were sharing a secret between us, then called back. “On my way, sir!” The butler hurried off towards her employer. What a strange woman. I don’t mind weirdos, hell in my opinion they’re some of the best to cultivate friendships with, but something about her left me cold. I went to look for my brother. I almost got to him, actually, before Gust tapped on his microphone and every camera in the room swiveled towards Ryan.

“The late Mr. Kritides was a great friend of mine,” Gust said, utterly relaxed now that he was in his home element, lounged in a plushy old armchair with all the cameras rolling, “a consulting detective of the highest caliber. It’s an honor, a true honor, to be hosting his student. You’re a special one, aren’t you? The son of Kritides’s assistant, I believe?”

Ryan shrugged, stepping forward so the cameras could get a better view. He tucked his hands into the pocket of his suit jacket. His whole outfit was a charcoal grey, right down to the tie. “My father acted as Mr. Kritides’s attorney, though I’m told he offered some little assistance in his cases. I have to say, they both had some colorful stories to tell about you as well. I’d offer a few for the crowd, but no doubt you wouldn’t want me to further delay your evening plans.”

Gust tapped his fingers against his table. “You guessed right. Now, as I’ve heard Mr. Neville, you’re quite new to the investigating business, aren’t you? How old are you again? Twenty-five? Twenty-one? Nineteen?”

The murmurs in the background grew in volume. Half the crowd and the majority of the broadcast viewers had no idea what Lord Gust was talking about, but the hostility coming off the man was almost tangible. Ryan bowed his head, his smile unchanged. “I’m flattered, Mr. Gust. Alas, I’m over twenty three. Practically ancient, I know.”

“Perhaps. Hasn’t stopped you from coasting on your mentor’s success, I hear.” Gust said, as another layer of pretense was stripped away. “Got a nice little inheritance there at the end, a phonebook full of potential clients. Practically a breeze to set up your agency with the resources at your fingertips. Mr. Kritides… he died quite suddenly, didn’t he? Quite violently as well. I suppose it all worked out quite well for you that way.”

Ryan stepped closer, until he was standing right in front of the man. He gestured towards the opulence around us, then clasped his hands together. “I in a greatly privileged position as a detective, I agree. But if you’re going to put my skills up for questioning I suggest we skip the rest of the posturing, and get down to whatever game for me you have in mind?”

My brother was being goaded into a trap. Gust knew it, he knew it, and neither cared that the other knew. He didn’t have to do this, really; we’d already gotten what we’d come here for. But in that moment, as I saw the fury in his eyes, I knew It would’ve killed Ryan to back down.

Gust nodded. “Straight to the point. I can appreciate that. Well, I do have a test in mind, one that’s being set up at this very moment. Alas, it’ll take another few minutes to wheel out here. Although,” He gestured towards the exit. “If you have more pressing matters to attend to, young man…”

Ryan didn’t say a word. A few seconds passed, the two of them just staring at each other, then Gust curled his index finger. It must have been some kind of signal as the cameras stopped rolling with more men and women coming out to ready the next stage of the broadcast.

——————————————————————————————————

The preparation took longer than I expected. I’m not entirely certain if it was because of the Butler’s advertising segment, or if the ads were meant to keep people’s attention while they were sorting out other problems. To Staling’s credit, watching a very proper British butler demonstrate the merits of the latest Rolls Royce model to the masses was quite entertaining. Still, I resisted the temptation to watch through the whole segment. I could always catch the recording later, after all. Right now there were more important things to deal with.

Ryan was sitting at the bar, resting his head in his crossed arms and staring out into space. I could see the empty glass in front of him, and when I came closer I recoiled. The smell of vodka. The strong stuff, and probably good quality stuff too, if you’re into alcohol of the potato variety. He turned his head to look at me. “Why, hello there Dy.” He wiped his mouth. “Or Dylan. I’ve never been entirely sure which you prefer me to call you now.”

It was the first time I’d seen him drinking in the months I’d been staying with him. Frankly, it was the first time I’d seen him drink at all. Him drinking his stupid little mocktails had made me feel like the two of us were in it together, sobriety wise.

I don’t know why I felt so betrayed. Ryan hadn’t signed up for any of the Alcoholics United meetings or anything. He’d given me food and shelter, paying off what I’d borrowed without a word of complaint. He didn’t owe me anything. He shouldn’t owe me anything

For his part, Ryan seemed utterly unperturbed, or maybe he was just too tipsy to even notice. He scratched his chin. “I was thinking about that thing you were telling me about last night. You know, with those fu – pho bowls from that purple place. You were telling me about this Sri Lankan statue you were reading up on.” He coughed into his sleeve. “The one with Taro?”

“The statue of Tara, yeah.” I remember hating my parents’ history lessons when I was a kid, but something about those lectures had stuck on like old chewing gum as I’d gotten older. Reading up on those old stories about the Kandyan Kingdom my Mom had told us when Ryan and I were kids had kept me up even at my lowest. even at the times when I thought I’d thrown away everything left of my relationship with my parents.

“So, what about it?”

Ryan frowned, and with those widened eyes the expression looked downright comical. “You think it’s somewhere around here?” He gestured at the rest of the room, with artifacts sitting on the pedestal open to the touch like weird little action figures for billionaires to play pretend with. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“No! Last time I checked, it was still in a British Museum showcase, and I’m pretty sure I’d know if something changed about that situation. It’s just…” I gritted my teeth and turned away. “I don’t even see why any of this is relevant. Don’t you have Gust’s mysterious battle of wits to prepare for?”

“Oh, that.” My brother shrugged. “If it is what I think it is, I don’t expect much for my chances. He’s not stupid, you know. He won’t play a game unless he can get it rigged.” He licked his lips and stood up.

I’ll grant him this. He clearly had it in him to be a high functioning alcoholic. His hands were steady, his eyes bright and his speech not slurred at all. It must be a family trait. Still, I can tell you from personal experience that being able to downplay how drunk you are is not the same as being able to make good decisions. “Ryan, don’t you think –”

“Too late, they’re calling me forward.” He patted me on the back and passed me another glass of wine from a nearby tray. “Good talk. Oh, and wish me luck. I always like it when people do that. ”

——————————————————————————————————

There wasn’t a stage or podium, or anything separating the performance from the audience. Just a table and a few chairs set in the center of the room. The cameras had already started rolling, and Zebediah Gust was sitting in his arm chair, Ms. Staling dutifully standing to attention behind him.

The_Lord_Gust swept his hand towards the table, for the benefit of his viewers and his live audience. The man hadn’t let the act of selling out for fame rob him of his sense of class. I could respect that, at least a little. “Welcome back, dear viewers. Now this set-up goes by many names. The old army game, three shells and a pea, or most commonly… the shell game.”

“I’ve heard it called the thimblerig.” Ryan offered, then coughed again. “Though I’ve often wondered how you could pull this off with a set of thimbles.”

“Indeed. In this case, the shells are three bowls. Not of real Ming design, alas; I got these specially made. Under one of them is something priceless twice over; a recently discovered Fabergé egg found in a hidden basement of the House of Fabergé itself!” He clicked his fingers, and Staling switched on a projector to show the egg in question, lighting up nearly the whole wall in the process. This one was inlaid with gold and silver filigree, with a little windows carved into the side and a shiny copper enamel surface. A second photo showed the egg being opened to show off a little golden glider. I heard a few “oohs” and even an “aah” from the crowd, then Gust switched it off.

Ryan leaned towards Gust, his eyes narrowing. “Hold up. Let me get this straight: the egg’s under one of these three bowls, and I have to figure out which one.” I could see the moment where he passed close enough to Gust that he could smell the vodka. I could see our host’s eyes widen, and his struggle to keep a smile off his face. “It is a simple game, of course. Surely someone tutored by the great Kritides himself would find it trivial. Of course, to make things just a mite harder, you should know the employee who placed the egg is not in this room. In fact, you shouldn’t assume anyone here knows which one it is. Not even me.” He smiled again.

“Approximating a double blind trial, I see. Very prudent.” Ryan crossed his arms behind his back. “Any other rules or conditions I should know about? Am I, for instance, allowed to use the Internet? Or leave this room?”

“Yes and no, in that order. No touching or moving the bowls, of course. And for the sake of the viewers at home, let’s give you, say, a ten minute time limit.”

Ryan nodded, looking a little uncertain. “Very fair.”

“Right, then!” Zebadiah Gust clapped his hands together. “No point dragging our feet any longer. Let’s begin the timer, shall we?” The click as he pressed a button was heard across the room. The timer started on the projector, each neon green number twice as tall as I was. Ryan ran a hand through his hair, making him look even more disheveled, then stared across the room, looking at every audience member, every trinket on the pedestal, everything except the three upside-down bowls on the table in front of him.

Gust’s expression had hardened into stone. It was the face that had won him worldwide glory and riches. It had taken careful preparation and lifelong practice, I’m sure, but it worked. I couldn’t read anything in his body language, and looking at Ryan, I was starting to worry that my brother couldn’t, either.

For the first time, I really started considering that Ryan was going to lose this. Suddenly I wished I had sunk deeper into the ground. I was too close to the scene here; the cameras could swerve around and catch my expression easily. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to move from my present position. Every muscle in my body strained to keep myself in place. I glanced down at the wine in my hand and swirled it in the glass. It still smelled amazing, damn it.

I don’t know why I was so nervous. The only thing really at stake here was Ryan’s pride. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an arrogant ass through and through, but it’s a strange and special sort of arrogance. One that puts itself above verbal boasting and status symbols, that unveils itself in the quieter moments with smaller audiences than most. After everything else he’s given up in his life, for me and everyone else, I think he deserves to keep it.

Ryan at last turned towards the cameras. “I’m not sure his lordship here has told you the real reason I’ve been invited here.”

Staling spoke up this time, as if Gust was worried that the act of opening his mouth would give something away. “Is that really relevant to the test at hand?”

He smiled. “Very much so, actually. But don’t worry, it’s in the best interests of my client that I don’t give too many details at this stage. I’ll speak in mostly general terms, though I hope you’ll forgive me for beginning with a rather unfamiliar example for most of you.

“Now, my brother and I are half Sri Lankan on our mother’s side. It’s he who brought a certain artifact to my attention: the Statue of Tara.” Ryan then motioned in my general direction, and the cameramen all turned to point at me as if on cue. I waved.

“A statue that’s currently held on display in the British Museum. It’s a Sri Lankan artifact, probably from the central province, thought to be looted during the colonial era. And it’s a lucky one, truth be told. Most museums display about 3 percent of its total artifacts, after all. I’ve always wondered how many things lie in those rooms that would take central place in another location.”

A voice broke out from the crowd, with a nasal, scholarly tone that simultaneously shook with fury. “The Tara Statue was not looted!”

I was tempted to yell back a response to that one, but Ryan was quicker. “There are alternative explanations, of course.” He stepped forward, and nodded his head in the dissenter’s direction. “Neither do I want to denounce the entire field of archaeology. I’m a great admirer of the partage system, for example. And there are always excuses, some better than others. Can we be certain which nation has the strongest claims? Do we offer a conquered people’s artifacts to the descendants of their conquerors? Isn’t it right for the world’s relics to remain in the hands of those who can best take care of them?”

His mouth twisted, and he said, a little more softly, “I’ve always thought that one was just another way of saving that privilege is the only justification that matters.”

Ryan’s eyes gleamed, and suddenly his mussed up hair and loosened tie made him look passionate and invested in the topic rather than well, unhinged. Of course The_Lord_Gust’s viewership was of a more historical bent than most, but I was still surprised to see how Ryan had silenced most of the audience. I could barely hear any tittering from the people around me anymore.

“You know, I have to admit it,” He continued. “I think there’s a place in the world for the comfortable lies and the convenient excuses. I’m not sure a society that finds itself at home with the harshest truths is one I want to live in. Even the worst archaeologist has the decency to hope their lies will be believed. But that’s beneath your level, isn’t it, Mr. Gust?” He asked, towards the man who loved his titles possibly more than all his wealth and fame combined. He did not stir from his stone visage, only blinking lazily a few times.

Ryan turned back towards the audience, stepping away from the table and walking towards the pedestals. His voice rose in volume, carrying a musical quality, nearly Shakespearean in a play where he was writing his own lines. “What is it that matters most, when you have enough money to pay for both essential and non-essential necessities? When you’ve had your fill of riding Bugattis and eating gold-leaf biscotti, of donning Patek-Philippe watches and Cyclopes nightwear?” He ran his index finger across the surface of a painting, never quite touching it, then raised it in front of the cameras. “One word: exclusivity.”

My hand tightened on the wine glass, the narrow glass handle cool against my palm. His gaze seemed to dance across people’s faces, meeting my eyes, then moving away with his grin a little wilder than before.. “’Exclusivity, you see, is the only currency that matters to the powerful. Can I offer favors no one else can give? Do I have a picture no one else can match? Do I have the most special thing so I can be the most special person? It’s paintings, wines, rusty chandeliers, anything you can slap a label on and call coveted.” He gestured towards the rest of the room.

“At least the cause of history has some interest in preservation. It takes a unique kind of wealth to buy a room full of relics so people can paw at them in person. I mean -” He patted the nearest pedestal, only to come across the hammer of Southside Sorrows. It wasn’t the most convenient conversation piece, but he lifted it up anyway. He tossed in the air, and caught it in both hands. “Are any of you proud of yourselves?”

He shrugged, and started walking back towards the cameras. “ And I’m sure I’m not the only person who cares. There’ll be a few angry letters. If we’re really lucky, some country writes in another regulation or two, a few more dollars given for the archaeology department.” He tossed the hammer into the air again and barely got it this time, wobbling to one side as he did so.

“Mr. Neville,” Staling called, “perhaps it’s best that you –”

“That I what, Ms. Butler? That I don’t knock anything too valuable over, after such a long speech on the true worth of everything in this room?” If the audience couldn’t have sensed the influence of the vodka in that wide and shiny grin, they could now. “Fair point, fair point. But still, I don’t know. If you’re going to turn these relics into a carnival procession, how much value is really in them? Sometimes, you know, you’d do anything, pay any price, just so you can let some of that frustration out. What’s the harm in it, Mr. Gust? That’s the beauty of exclusivity. It doesn’t need something to be whole. Break something unique, and you could probably fetch a higher price for all the pieces!”

Too late, someone figured out what was happening. Someone from Security lunged forward even as Staling barked out an order. But Ryan was swift, almost graceful, as he raised the hammer above his head and brought it down on the table with those three ceramic bowls.

Everyone heard the sound of shattering, a fragile thing being turned into sharp little pieces. Unfixable. Unrecognizable. Zebadiah Gust screamed, and for the space of about one minute, the room was in chaos.

Then everyone noticed that the table was unharmed. That the hammer had stopped its course just before it reached the bowl. A few people around me might have realized they were stepping on the broken shards of the wineglass I had just thrown down at my feet.

Ryan put down the hammer, in no hurry at all, then removed the left bowl on the table and took out the Fabergé egg. He held it up, for everyone to see, then placed it in the hands of Gust. He’d still had his arms outstretched, ready to catch his precious treasure. He was still speechless, his lips still faintly moving like he was mumbling something to himself.

“I apologize for giving everyone here a shock.” My brother said, mildly, smoothing down his hair and putting up his tie. “No one here has a dangerous heart condition, I hope? No? Excellent. Mr. Gust, your security detail needs some modification. Not to mention you really should give more stringent rules to the games you set. And of course,” He nodded towards me again, and at the glass strewn at my feet. “We’ll pay for any damage caused. I’ve heard it can be quite difficult to get those little shards out of the carpet.”

*

My brother frowned at me, just as we pulled out of the driveway and started on our way home. He’d finally decided to let me drive that boring grey car of his, though he didn’t look all too happy about his decision. “You really shouldn’t have said those other things to the cameras, Dylan. It’s crass, and beneath the dignity of this agency.”

“You were sitting on a marketing goldmine.” I said firmly. “And if you want to get more clients out of it, you need to tell them where to go first. Besides, don’t you think you’re ignoring the elephant in the room? How the hell did you pull all that off back there?”

Ryan pulled back his car seat and closed his eyes. “Cheap confidence tricks, mostly. I keep telling you they’re worth learning. There’s an excellent reference book in the back of the car…”

“Yeah, yeah. First of all, were you actually drinking back there?” I tried to keep my eyes on the road, but I couldn’t help glancing at him. I had to know, and part of me hated myself for that insecurity.

He placed something on that dashboard. A perfume bottle, one that smelled distinctly of vodka. “I wouldn’t’ve been drinking a ginger ale and lemonade with you if that was seriously on the cards, Dy.” His voice was gentler than I expected. “I’m not above drinking for the purposes of a case, but in this situation that would’ve caused more problems than it would solve.”

I coughed. It did make me feel better, in an odd sort of way. That he’d committed to the same efforts that I was going through right now. “It was to make Gust overconfident he could outwit you, right?”

“Ehh, no. It was more to add to the belief that I’d do something crazy and reckless, like say, smashing a Fabergé egg with a hammer. It’s all about selling a story,” He explained, intertwining his fingers on his chest like a spiderweb. “Every little thing, consciously or subconsciously acknowledged, contributes to the reaction you want to convey. It helped that from his perspective I was young and out of my depth.”

I frowned. “I still don’t quite understand the “how” in getting the egg, though.”

He yawned, his eyes still squeezed shut. “Ah, for that we need to discuss the nature of the double-blind trial. It is one of science’s great discoveries, to eliminate any chance that someone’s behavior, no matter how small, can influence a result.

“Let’s say a doctor’s got a new cancer curing medicine. She’ll need to split the testing group in two, give one half a sugar pill and the other the real treatment. The first blind of a double-blind test is that the people handing out the pills to the patients don’t know which one’s the sugar pill. They’ll only know one is red and one is blue, for instance. The second is the people testing the effect don’t know either. They’re only recording the results for the red and blue pills that they’ll be using later.”

“Oh right. So like the Matrix.”

Ryan opened his eyes just so he could roll them at me. “No, not like the Matrix. But you do get the gist of it now, yes?”

“Yeah. The three bowls wasn’t a true double-blind test. You guessed that Gust would know which bowl held the real egg.”

He sat up. “I knew. Because he’s not the kind of man who’d tolerate the alternative. How else could he test that miraculous unchangeable expression of his? How else could he secretly laugh at my failure? Making it truly random would take out all the fun, all the suspense, all the glorious anticipation within the venture.”

“I see. So you had to knock him out of that sense of calm.”

“That shattered glass was important, you know. It’s a fairly common magic trick. Set the right prior expectation with the right surprise, and you can make people feel pain in phantom limbs, fight invisible people in broad daylight, convince them to do almost anything. The moment Gust heard that glass shatter, his eyes went towards the thing he valued most – the bowl that held the egg.”

“Right.” I nodded, staring out at the empty road in front of us, the sodium yellow rows of streetlights leading us back to the City. “I mean, now that you trounced him like that, I doubt he’ll have the guts to fight Ms. Lemma’s case now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just mails it to her tomorrow morning.”

Ryan turned to look at me. “You sound like you still have a question.”

“How did you know?” I asked, louder than I intended, gripping the steering wheel as tightly as possible. “How could you be so sure that I’d drop that glass at the right time?”

He frowned, then patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t you already know the answer?”

I knew what he was talking about there, at least. It was childhood memories, him letting me tag along with him on his neighborhood cases. Most of them consisted of the kind of mystery you’d task a teenager to solve – he’d refused to let me come along for the exceptions - but he’d still chosen to help find those missing cats and stolen groceries without complaint, and certainly without much reward, investigating them with as much dedication as anything else he did.

As his makeshift assistant, whenever he was worried about being overheard, he’d pat my back in a certain pattern. He made me memorize all sorts of commands. Act annoying. Act nice. Ask to leave immediately. Run as fast as you can. I’d remembered them all, up until I’d decided I was too old for this sort of thing. So much for making that resolution.

The pattern he’d done at the party was a little more complex. One long pat, two quick ones meant “wait a bit.” One long, one short and one long meant: “cause a distraction.”

I struggled to find a way to voice my question in the car. “I get that you didn’t want anyone to overhear anything. I guess… what I’m saying is, there’s so many ways that could have gone wrong.”

“Not too many. I mean, I put the glass right in your hand.”

“But the timing?”

He just smiled, and closed his eyes again. “You’re right about that. I had to trust your judgement there. Then again, I always have.”

I pulled off the highway, golden sodium lights giving way to neon signs and busy streets, and started on the last stretch towards home.