Turning his attention toward footsteps as they drew nearer, he discovered a man standing beneath the glass roof, studying a fern with scholarly interest.
The man was middle-aged, decked in a gentleman's dark coat with a high velvet collar, his boots polished to a mirror-like sheen, and cradling a slender book bound in sanguine leather under his arm.
His hair had thinned, but he carried himself with the surety of an academic.
The man paused a few paces away, keeping his body oriented toward Darwin while his head remained turned aside.
Without raising his eyes, he spoke in a calm, dry baritone: "Mr. Gabriel… I wasn't sure you'd come."
The words landed lightly, as if he had rehearsed them.
A heartbeat passed without answer before the stranger straightened up and inclined his head in a subtle bow of apology.
"Oh—my mistake," he said, a thin smile curling his lips.
He sounded almost amused as he said, "I only stole a glance while your eyes were closed, from some distance. Yet even from there, you bear the face of an old acquaintance of mine."
Clearing his throat, he muttered under his breath a single word: "Remarkable."
'What was so remarkable about mere resemblance? Twins separated by fate were rare, but not impossible; doppelgängers were the stuff of superstition, not polite conversation.'
This was the first time he had ever heard someone address him with a name not his own, and though it should have been nothing more than a simple mistake, he found himself unexpectedly skeptical.
Still, he gave a small nod and answered evenly, "It is a common mistake, I assure you. I am merely the lesser-known, though perhaps more fortunate cousin of Mr. Gabriel."
The man's gaze lingered on Darwin's face as if searching for some hidden clue.
A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes.
"Interesting…" he murmured. "So you are a blood relation, then? But Gabriel has mentioned he has no living kin. And if you look so much like him, why has he never spoken of you?" His tone was tinted with confusion, as if Darwin had proposed something impossible.
Darwin masked the half-smile tugging at his lips by turning his gaze toward a cluster of ferns at his elbow.
'Clearly this stranger knew far more about Gabriel's life than I had anticipated.'
Darwin recovered his composure and allowed that smile to linger, though his mind worked frantically.
Adjusting his cuffs with deliberate nonchalance, he said calmly, "Perhaps my cousin's pride is such that he would never deign to speak of someone as accomplished, or as curious, as I apparently am."
He chose his words carefully to sound jocular.
Beneath that light tone, however, he felt the familiar thrill of manipulating a lie.
He had no intention of revealing too much, but wanted to keep the man talking.
The stranger raised a hand to cover a small cough, clearing his throat with a slight chuckle.
"Pardon me," he said after a moment. "You may be right. Gabriel hardly seems the arrogant sort. But you, having known him perhaps better than any of us, surely have insight into his nature."
Darwin offered no more than a neutral hum in return, smiling thinly but keeping his agreement unspoken.
The man continued as though musing aloud: "I can assure you it was not merely your resemblance that confused me. Gabriel comes here, you see, though not usually on Sundays," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
For a moment, Darwin felt a measure of relief, as if the admission proved him and Gabriel had met by coincidence rather than intentionally
He permitted himself to relax fractionally, leaning back on the wooden bench and stretching out his legs casually.
The man's words showed he knew not just Gabriel's face but also his habits, which meant this encounter was no mere fluke.
Darwin inclined his head in a small, deliberate gesture and let a thin smile form at the corner of his lips.
'If he truly knew Gabriel as well as he claimed, perhaps I could learn something.'
"Since you claim such familiarity," he said quietly, "Perhaps you could satisfy a question that has been nagging at me. Has Gabriel ever spoken to you of his profession? Or offered you any… opportunities of a peculiar nature?"
He laced the question with casual curiosity, concealing his own anticipation beneath calm politeness.
The gentleman's lips had been sealed for a moment; Darwin suspected he chose his words carefully.
When he finally spoke, his voice was also neutral.
"I do not believe Gabriel himself ever extended me a formal proposal," the stranger confessed.
"But to my knowledge, he is a gentleman writer of some renown. I have been acquainted with his work. In fact, I used to pore over his manuscripts by post, offering commentary before they were sent to the printers."
A flicker of suspense seeped across Darwin's thoughts as he absorbed this information.
'An author? Gabriel had never mentioned such an occupation. Could the nightly affairs that he mentioned be related to some literary commission? Had he come to me under false pretenses when in truth he was devoted to weaving tales?'
He furrowed his brows in brief ponderance.
The stranger watched him with discreet patience and steady eyes.
"I was aware, of course," he finally managed. "I know his name already, naturally… It is the nature of the stories themselves that stays with me."
The stranger gave a slight nod and offered a friendly, knowing smile. "That is quite understandable," he said. "Gabriel's chosen themes have long captured the attention of discerning readers. He does not shy away from darkness. Indeed, in these modern times, few dare to write of murder and blood with such frank artistry. His candour in describing violence as if it were an art form has made him rather notorious."
He chuckled softly, as though pleased by the notion.
Darwin could not keep the surprise from his voice.
Leaning forward slightly, he asked in a low tone, "He writes of murder, you say?"
The stranger inclined his head.
"Indeed," he murmured. "Quite uniquely, I must admit. Some of his pieces, I dare say, verge on madness. But perhaps that is what certain readers find compelling."
His eyes flickered with a curious light at the notion, as if he savoured the implication.
A sickly sort of dread curled in Darwin's stomach at the mention of madness, even if it was disguised in a compliment.
'How coincidental is it that own writings have dealt in gloomy spectres and. violence as well?'
He nodded slowly, feeling the temperature around them growing cooler as twilight approached.
Whatever Gabriel's motives had been, this revelation only deepened the mystery.
Before Darwin could speak again, the stranger's posture shifted.
He glanced behind Darwin, then let out a small sigh of regret.
"I'm afraid I must cut our conversation short," he said politely.
"I came here merely to pass a little time before returning to my own affairs. If you ever find yourself here again, perhaps we can resume this talk. I quite enjoy hearing your perspective."
He offered Darwin a final smile.
"Oh, and please call me Doctor," he added with a gracious nod.
Darwin bowed his head in gratitude, even as his heart still beat swiftly.
"I am Darwin," he responded composedly.
In truth, he felt obliged to leave as well.
Darwin stood to shake hands before stepping back and allowing the man room to pass.
The stranger adjusted his coat, tipped his hat, and turned down an adjacent path.
When the footsteps finally faded, Darwin inhaled deeply, releasing the tension he had not realized he was holding.
After a few additional seconds, he turned from where the stranger had disappeared, and his gaze fell on a brass plaque affixed to a pedestal of wrought iron.
The light of the setting sun caught its engraved words:
"Double Bloom Nightshade.
Blooms only in darkness.
Fruit and petals are highly toxic. Handle with care. Specimen kindly donated by a private estate."
He stepped closer, somewhat interested.
The Double Bloom Nightshade was a slender sprig of pale white flowers, each blossom curled inward like a folded paper lantern.
Under the glass of the conservatory, the flowers seemed almost translucent, and fragile yet striking in their simplicity.
Their shapes were demure and unassuming, but the warning on the plaque hinted at it merely being a false display.
As Darwin knelt a pace nearer to examine the nightshade, another soft shuffle of footsteps echoed behind him.
He straightened and discovered, only a few yards away on the opposite side of a narrow path, a small boy.
The child clutched a thin book to his chest, his eyes circled wide with alarm.
When Darwin met his gaze, he realized the boy was staring not at him but at the nightshade.
The poor child regarded the plant as if it were a lurking beast.
Darwin shifted his stance, hoping to appear unthreatening, but the boy started back with a quiet gasp and nearly tumbled over his own feet.
In a heartbeat, he turned and fled down the path, mistakenly dropping his book in haste.
He vanished among the ferns and begonias without so much as a backward glance.
Left alone again, Darwin returned his attention to the brass sign.
The phrase "blooms only in darkness" felt strangely emphasized toward himself.
In the gathering gloom of the conservatory, the little white blooms began to glow faintly, as though lit from within by some nocturnal light.
He signed and placed a hand on the back of his neck.
"We are quite alike."
. . .
The twilight had deepened into a watery dusk by the time Darwin drifted into the gaslit streets of London.
The lamplight shivered on the wet cobblestones, and his shadow stretched oddly before him as he walked aimlessly.
He scarcely knew where he headed; his mind, emptied by the recent strangeness in the conservatory, was like a glass of dark ink that had spilled over his memory.
The hem of his coat was damp with moisture from the conservatory's humid warmth.
Normally silent, Darwin had gone days without speaking more than necessary to the candles and walls.
Now and then, when he passed a street newsstand, he found himself drawn to read bits of the day's happenings, and fragments of news he rarely heard elsewhere.
Ahead stood the old newspaper kiosk, with a window that appeared mottled from condensation.
The papers were piled behind the glass like coffins, and each headline contained an obituary of mystery, one atop another.
Fatigue, tighter than a ribbon bound his limbs as his eyes moved almost of their own accord.
Even on nights like this, he would typically slow his pace only to glance at the bold headlines of the morning broadsheets. Yet, something within him compelled a hesitant pause.
From the stack of newsprint, a headline in bold type pierced his vision:
"Young Woman Found Dead in Locked Flat; Authorities Claim Suicide."
The capital letters stood out starkly against the dense columns of small serif text.
But in the subheading, printed in the same solemn black ink, was a name spelled out in uppercase that arrested Darwin's gaze.
"Sylvie March…" The incredulity in his voice lingered between himself and the idle vendor, whose tired eyes remained glued to tomorrow's unread papers.
Darwin's heart thumped, and a dry spot formed under his arms.
The name seemed as solid as concrete. A name he had forged himself once, long ago.
His hand clenched involuntarily on the wood of the kiosk's frame.
Sylvie March was not just any name; it was the name he had given to a character in a fevered story he had written one sleepless night.
He remembered the frantic scratching of quill on paper, blotting ink, and desperate haste as he penned the tale: a woman murdered by her own sister, who staged her death as a suicide.
The leather notebook that contained it had been stashed deep in a trunk for years.
He had never shown it to another, and on the week he prepared to move, he threw the only copy onto the hearth's flame.
Even at present, the acrid scent of burning paper and ink lingered in his memory, as if that night had only just passed.
He stood very close to the kiosk now, as though proximity would grant him clarity.
The damp light of evening flickered on his anxious face.
His hand, after unclenching, lifted the folded newspaper open on the counter.
His eyes raced over the small print, taking in the details and observations, as inscrutable to the layman as a detective's cipher.
A sudden chill fanned across his spine, as if invisible fingers were tracing the outline of his nerves.
The crime scene described in the article was unnervingly familiar: a lace scarf looped and tied around a bedpost secured into a knot that was not a knot, exactly the kind he remembered from ink and nightmare.
Beside a tarnished mirror, a shattered rose perfume bottle lay spilling on the floor.
On the wooden frame of that mirror was a single scratch, long and thin, angled just so, as though someone had tried to gouge away their own reflection.
His pulse continued to hammer harder in his throat.
'What is this…!'
The crime scene on the printed page was a retelling of his own invention, though it wasn't entirely identical, it was too parallel to dismiss.
Without warning, Darwin turned and walked away from the kiosk.
His soles pounded faster, as he carried himself down the empty street, however, not in the direction of his home.
To be continued…