The weather on Sunday was fittingly somber, with a gentle drizzle starting at dawn.
Avalon’s climate was warm and humid.
Even in winter, snow was rare.
The rain was light—standing in it for half an hour wouldn’t soak clothes through.
Yet, at the funeral, many black umbrellas dotted the scene.
Sherlock’s achievents didn’t qualify him for a resting place in Saint Genevieve Chapel.
Instead, the ceremony was held at the Hers family’s private cetery, near the Red and White Queen District in the tropolitan area.
Aiwass, unusually dressed in a black suit, had his legs covered with a thick black cloth adorned with delicate white knitted patterns.
He held a bouquet, sitting quietly with his head bowed, the upper half of his face shadowed by his umbrella and the rain’s veil.
Lily, holding the umbrella for him, wore a simple black dress, her thick flaxen curls tucked under a wide-brimd black hat.
The priest on the platform wasn’t Bishop Mathers but an unfamiliar elderly bishop.
His hair and beard were fluffy and white, voluminous despite his age.
Wearing thick glasses, he struggled to read the script on the lectern, slowly reciting Sherlock’s life achievents and pre-written scriptures.
For a Path of Devotion priest to look so aged ant he was ancient, implying vast experience and high status.
Not just anyone could secure such a figure.
Logically, the Hers family should’ve invited Bishop Mathers, a spiritual councillor, head of the Candle Vigil Cathedral, and the highest-ranking Nine Pillars Church official in Avalon.
But Mathers had declined.
Aiwass suspected it was because he feared he’d crack up at the sight of Sherlock’s “corpse.”
To avoid trouble, he stayed away.
Behind the old bishop stood an open, massive coffin with a lifelike “Sherlock” inside, flanked by three pillars bearing silent white flas.
Beside the “corpse” was an ornate silver box studded with tiny rubies and eralds.
It wasn’t Sherlock, nor a convincing illusion or mannequin crafted by Mycroft.
Just a wax figure.
Since Sherlock “died” in an explosion, his grueso state was imaginable, so the Hers family’s decision to cremate him and use a wax figure for dignity was reasonable.
Creating such a lifelike wax figure in a day or two was beyond a typical artisan.
Only a Path of Twilight preservationist could manage it.
Finding one in Avalon was tough, but not for the Hers family.
Their sole remaining “minister,” Sherlock’s brother Mycroft Hers, was a preservationist.
Queen Sofia was reasonable.
When Sir Arthur was frad and lost his ministerial post, his reputation still tarnished, she compensated by granting his children higher privileges.
Like Sherlock’s Path of Wisdom, Mycroft pursued the Path of Twilight.
Beyond his arbiter role, Mycroft studied preservation arts, a broad mystic skill more about philosophy than technique.
It encompassed crafting wax figures, models, or specins, preserving corpses or food, or safeguarding contracts, evidence, wills, deeds, or paintings from ti’s decay.
It even included staunching wounds or sustaining the near-dead.
“Preventing further deterioration” defined a preservationist’s expertise.
The wax figure replacing Sherlock was Mycroft’s handiwork.
Reportedly, seeing Sherlock’s “body” left such a deep impression that he crafted it from mory alone, no reference needed.
From a distance, guests couldn’t tell it wasn’t real—corpses differ from the living, especially with closed eyes and pale skin.
“…Thus, his spirit rises in fire, his soul returns to the Candle Vigil.
He shall drink the Candle’s blood, and his sins shall be borne by the Candle.”
The old bishop’s eulogy neared its end, his trembling voice reciting, “We beseech the God of Three, the God Bound by Thorns, the God Burning to Banish Darkness—the Stag of the Candle Vigil—shelter his soul as You guard the smallest candle, watching the feeblest light.”
He tapped his mitre three tis, murmuring, “May his tomb’s candle burn eternal.”
“May his candle burn eternal,” the guests echoed, bowing and tapping their chests thrice.
With that, the main ceremony concluded.
The coffin would be closed, buried, and the land blessed by a priest.
Those with flowers could offer them; others could leave or mingle freely.
Under his black umbrella, Aiwass noticed Sherlock’s mother, also in a wheelchair, finally break into sobs.
Unlike Aiwass, she looked haggard, cheeks sunken.
A middle-aged man with neat black hair and glasses comforted her softly.
[Once this is over, Sherlock, you’d better let your mom give you a good thrashing to vent,] Aiwass thought.
“Let take the flowers.”
A steady voice spoke.
“Your health isn’t great, Mr. Aiwass.”
Aiwass looked up as Lily tilted the umbrella back.
A wide, plump hand, like a seal’s flipper, reached under and gently took his bouquet.
“Mr. Mycroft.”
Aiwass nodded in greeting.
This was Sherlock’s most trusted kin, his elder brother, Mycroft Hers.
Aiwass estimated Sherlock’s height at about 183 cm, just half an inch taller than himself.
But Mycroft neared 190 cm, close to Edward’s stature.
Not only taller, Mycroft was far bulkier.
The Hers family’s sole minister wasn’t just big-bellied but visibly obese, his face broad.
Even his umbrella was oversized.
Yet, he wasn’t unattractive.
Aiwass saw Sherlock’s traces in him—deep features persisted despite the plumpness.
Mycroft shared Sherlock’s black hair and amber, wolf-like eyes, sharp with frequent deep thought.
Though fat, he moved lightly, his steps quiet and precise.
Holding the massive umbrella steady with one hand showed balanced strength.
“I’ve heard about you from Sherlock,” Mycroft said, holding the bouquet, his gaze heavy with aning.
“He trusts you greatly.”
“I’m proud to have such a friend,” Aiwass replied softly, his face showing subtle grief.
“He was a brilliant, upright man, loyal to the kingdom and queen.
I never imagined his wisdom would lead to his downfall.”
“I see it differently, Mr. Aiwass,” Mycroft said calmly.
“Wisdom is never wrong.
As a victim, Sherlock is wholly blaless—the fault lies with those vile bandits.”
Though Mycroft knew Sherlock’s death was staged, he showed no grief, appearing calm, as if attending a stranger’s funeral.
Given Sherlock’s praise, Mycroft was sharp enough to see through this.
His detachnt suggested he was always out of sync with others.
“Rather than silencing, I think it’s petty revenge,” Aiwass said.
“For what?” Mycroft countered.
“The Sweater Brotherhood,” Aiwass replied, lowering his voice.
“Specifically, the alchemical bomb smuggling case it uncovered.
Sherlock, investigating bombs, killed by a bomb—it’s a bold taunt.
This might just be the start.”
“Indeed, that’s possible.”
A steady voice joined from beside them.
Aiwass looked up as Lily raised the umbrella higher, revealing the speaker.
He appeared over fifty, with visible wrinkles and laugh lines, yet his hair remained golden, slicked back neatly, unruffled by the rain.
His eyes weren’t amber-brown but pale blue, almost gray.
Unprotected by an umbrella, he looked weary with grief.
Though in black, Aiwass recognized him—the white-suited lawyer from his comndation ceremony.
York Hers, Lloyd’s Society’s legal advisor.
“Uncle York,” Mycroft said, glancing at Aiwass before casually embracing York.
York, visibly sorrowful, hugged Mycroft tightly, patting his back.
“My condolences, lad.
Sherlock was a good boy.
Such a pity he’s gone.”
York sighed heavily.
“I wanted him to join Lloyd’s Society.
If he had, they wouldn’t have dared touch him.”
In that mont, Lily subtly tilted her head, catching a fleeting wisp of killing intent from Mycroft, gone as quickly as it ca, like an illusion.
The stout man maintained his kind, approachable deanor.
“Lloyd’s Society?” Aiwass interjected, feigning curiosity.
“Isn’t that the Lloyd District’s…”
“Just an insurance group in Lloyd District,” York Hers cut in smoothly.
“We’re not a company, just a venue for discussions, a purely civilian comrcial organization.”
Aiwass adopted a puzzled look.
“But I heard Lloyd’s Society deals in high-interest loans…”
“Not high-interest,” York countered.
“Our loan rates are fully within kingdom law.”
He handed Aiwass an ornate gold-foil business card.
“You may have heard rumors, but they’re false, spread by jealous rivals.
I’m York Hers, Lloyd’s Society’s legal advisor, Sherlock’s uncle.
We t last week—I’m Gordon’s friend, sat two seats to your right.
Rember ?”
“I do, Mr. York,” Aiwass said, his eyes warming with recognition and trust.
“Sherlock ntioned you.”
“What did he say?” York paused, curious.
Aiwass’s gaze was pure and earnest.
“He said you’re kind, always making friends.”
“Alas, thank you for his words.
Such a sha, Sherlock was an exceptional young man…”
York’s regret seed genuine.
Mid-sentence, he glanced at Mycroft, hesitating as if he had more to say but found the funeral setting inconvenient.
Aiwass, catching the cue, nodded to Mycroft.
“We’ll talk later, Mycroft.
Please convey my condolences to Sherlock.
I need to discuss sothing with Mr. York.
I still feel Sherlock’s attack was off.”
“Yes, Sherlock left so words for Mr. Aiwass,” York nodded, warmly inviting him.
“You’re curious about Lloyd’s Society, aren’t you?
Co, let’s visit their headquarters and talk.”
(End of Chapter)
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