Chapter Text
[PROLOGUE]
Detective Amelia Watson finds herself several years in the future. She doesn’t normally travel into the future.
But she’s on a case, as usual. And the target is particularly elusive. She figured – maybe if she jumps forward from the past, she can catch the target unaware. Predicting where the target would show up was a nightmare in itself. The detective is careful to hide her appearance. She knows little of the future, so she pulls her coat tighter around her, pulls her hat down lower.
She stands at the entrance of an unmarked tent, the fabric of which is heavy, thick, and embroidered in intricate patterns of vines and blooming flowers with threads of all colors. The tent just randomly appeared, in the alleyway between two buildings. Light pours in from behind her. There, inside the tent, a cloaked figure sits, hunched over a small table. In front of the table is another seat, presumably for the guest. A lamp swings idly overhead, stretching shadows along the tent walls.
Although the person in front of her does their best to hide their features behind the scarf wrapped around their neck and the hood thrown over their head, the detective is fairly certain that this isn’t the target she’s after. Dark blue eyes regard the detective cautiously. The detective sighs in defeat. Eluded, once again.
Detective Amelia Watson is, after all, supposed to collect the gem-like, emerald eyes of the Fortune Teller, with which one can see the future.
The fake fortune teller before her makes a series of gestures. They wave their arms around animatedly. The detective briefly wonders if she should just leave.
The fake pulls out a tarot deck. Fans out the cards, face down, and holds them out to the detective. When the detective continues to stand still, at the entrance of the tent, the fake gestures toward the stool in front of the table with their head.
Amelia Watson sighs, again, deeply. The fake starts bobbing their head toward the chair more aggressively.
Defeated, the detective takes a seat. The fake nods along happily. Or at least, Amelia Watson thinks they’re pretty happy about it. Again, the cards are held out. The fake says nothing. The backs of the tarot cards are beautiful, with inlaid golden borders that catch the lamplight. Amelia reaches out to the cards, slowly, careful to maintain eye contact with the fake. The fake nods along.
The detective draws a card. Before she could flip it over, the fake’s hand darts out, holding Amelia’s hand in place. Instinctively, the detective reaches in her coat for her gun.
The fake yelps, placing the other cards down to hold their hand up, but still holding Amelia’s hand with the card in place. They wave, as if to say no no, please.
This is stupid, Amelia decides. She lets go of her gun. The fake places their free hand over their chest, sighs in relief. The detective knows that things can go awful from here, but her curiosity be damned she wants to see where this whole little theatrical show is going.
The fake holds their hand up again, this time to gesture wait a moment, and they reach under their coat to produce a paintbrush. The tip is wet from what appears to be a dark purple ink. The detective can’t help it – she tries to peek under the coat to see where this fake is keeping a wet paintbrush.
The fake pulls their hands closer to their body, as if to avoid the detective’s prying eyes. They hold the hand with the paint brush up and waggle their finger. No peeking.
“No peeking,” says the detective, leaning back. The fake nods along.
They reach forward, and with the paintbrush, tap the back of the tarot card still in Amelia Watson’s hand. The intricate design ripples, shimmering gold reflecting light as the dark purple ink passes through it and fades. The fake lets go of the detective’s hand. They pull away and gesture toward the card. Go on.
Amelia Watson turns the card over. The art style reminds the detective of old storybooks drawn in watercolor. The image is a side profile of a blonde woman wearing a skirt and button-down shirt, in what appears to be an office. She’s sitting comfortably among books, with a steaming mug of tea in her hand. Outside, sunlight spills inside, the light reflected off of the small glass ornament on –
The detective reaches up, touches the small glass clip in her hair that’s supposed to be hidden under her hat. She looks at the fake. The fake seems to be smiling, nodding along. They point toward the name of the card.
“The Detective,” it reads.
Amelia Watson finds herself studying the details of the card. The office is unfamiliar, but there, she sees, her favorite fountain pen on the desk. In the corner, the plant she’d recently purchased but now fully grown. On the table, books she’s been meaning to read. She looks up, at the fake, a million questions at the ready. But the fake is fiddling with something under their hood.
“What –” starts Amelia.
The fake holds a finger up to their lips. Shh. They hold out their closed fist, as if offering something. They reach forward when Amelia doesn’t take it. The item is folded into the detective’s hand. Gently, but with an unspoken assertiveness. The fake squeezes Amelia’s hand shut and pulls away.
Their voice is soft, light. “I found you. Now, you find me.”
Amelia opens her hand and finds a small accessory shaped like a diamond, smooth and shiny.
“What do you mean ‘find you,’” she asks.
When no one responds, she looks up to find that she’s alone in the tent. She looks to the cards. They’re all blank now, empty black space where there should be characters and drawings and fortunes. The detective rises to her feet. The small diamond in her hand feels warm to the touch, almost. She buries the item in her pocket.
_______
The Warden’s domain is a clock tower half buried in an endless sea of sand.
As far as legends go, supposedly the tower is only accessible on the twelfth hour of the twelfth day on the twelfth month of the year, when a gateway opens between the first and second aisles of the oldest library known to humankind. To pass through the gateway, one must make an offering of time – literal years of their life taken away depending on the amount of time spent within the new world. There they can seek an audience with the Warden of Time Ouro Kronii herself, a god hidden away within a tower of eternally turning brass gears and shiny varnished wood.
As far as the time traveling detective Amelia Watson is concerned, she doesn’t need to deal with all of that. She was born with the gift of time in her blood. She can draw the sigil to take her to the Warden’s domain even in her sleep. The Warden had made it simple to draw – a circle with the initials OK in it. The image of Ouro Kronii exists in even her earliest memories, the woman tall and imposing, either smirking smugly or frowning deeply. The expression on the woman’s face depends on what Amelia Watson has last done, really.
This time, Kronii is frowning very deeply.
“So not even going in from the past gets past her, huh?” goes the Warden. She steeples her hands over her large mahogany desk. Behind the woman is a large contraption of spinning gears and hourglasses of falling sand. Moonlight spills in through the gaps in the machinery.
Amelia leans back into the leather seat across Kronii. “Yeah,” goes the detective, laughing, “It’s almost like she can see the future or some shit.”
Kronii gives a dissatisfied grunt. “Amelia,” she warns. “Please take this seriously.”
Amelia stretches. She feels a few bones pop into place. “Oh for sure I’m taking this seriously. Even broke some of your cardinal rules or whatnot.”
“Yes, yes,” goes Kronii, “Remember that travelling to the future is a general no-go, alright? Don’t do it again. Unless, of course, I tell you to.”
“Yes mom.”
“Don’t call me mom.”
Amelia fake gasps, folding a hand dramatically over her chest. “Are you telling me you’re not my real mom?”
“Okay, shut up,” goes Kronii, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re giving me a headache. Did anything else happen?”
The detective digs out the diamond-shaped object out of her pocket and holds it out for the Warden to see. “There was an interesting person in there. Gave me this. Thinking about looking into this as my next lead.”
Kronii squints at the item. Her lips press into a fine line. Then a smirk. “Well, that’s convenient.”
The reaction is interesting, to say the least. Amelia sits up straight. “Yeah? You know what this is?”
“Your next target.”