Azazel leaned forward, his amber eyes locked onto Faust's painted mask.
"We begin with the basics, 'Mephisto.' What is the name your mother gave you before you started wearing the bells?"
"Mephistopheles," Faust replied instantly. It was the absolute truth—the name from the burning cabin in the New World.
He didn't blink.
Under the greasepaint, his expression remained a calculated, "drunk" grin, but his voice was steady.
Lybid tapped a long, tattooed finger against the mahogany table.
"A heavy name for a man who claims to be a simple traveler. We've looked into you, Doctor. We know about the license you got in Leiden. We know you graduated with honors that seem... disproportionate to your documented history. Regarding your background..."
Faust tilted his head, his bells jingling mockingly.
"So, you've been dwelling inside my suitcases? How clever. If you'd asked, I would have told you: I come from the New World. I am thirty years of age, and after a series of... life-altering events, I decided the theater was a more honest profession than medicine."
He was thirty—in appearance. He had come from America. It was the "seasoned truth," as his foster father had taught him: the best lie is the one wrapped in facts.
Lybid's emerald eyes didn't soften.
"And these 'events'... did they have anything to do with the de Alarcón family?"
The Francisco family.
He connected the dots in a heartbeat.
Lola, Don-Fran, Mateus—they weren't just traveling performers; they were the descendants of a fallen Spanish line.
"Look! A meteor!" Faust suddenly shouted, pointing frantically at the darkened ceiling behind Azazel.
Azazel reflexively glanced back, his hand dropping toward a pistol, but he turned back almost instantly, his face darkening.
Lybid didn't even flinch.
"Didn't work?" Faust asked, his painted red grin widening.
"This is not a show, Mephisto," Lybid said, standing up. The air in the room grew cold, the shadows pulling toward her feet. "We need answers. Did you see a book? An ancient volume that the de Alarcón patriarch and his children were carrying?"
Faust let out a long, theatrical sigh, his bells chiming a mournful tune. "No. No book. But I can tell you what I did see."
He shared the story—the voyage on the Isabella, the "sculpting" of Mateus's shoulder, and the terrifying eruption of the black "soul sand" liquid in the Leiden theater. He described Lola's light-beam rapiers and the way they vanished into the night.
"So..." Azazel muttered, rubbing his scarred jaw. "Baba Yaha truly got to him the last time. The corruption was deeper than we feared."
Faust didn't miss the opening.
"I didn't expect my new-found 'love' for the lady Lola would come with such supernatural baggage. I've been hoping to find them again ever since they vanished. Joining El Gloriosa was the best way to keep my ear to the ground and my face in the crowd."
Azazel looked at Lybid. She remained silent for a moment, her long hair shifting to reveal a silver earring on her left ear.
It didn't look like jewelry; it looked like a tiny cat bell.
As if summoned by the thought, the air above Faust's shoulder rippled.
Cherubim, the almost hairless black cat with the onyx instead of an eye, materialized out of thin air.
It sat on Faust's shoulder, its weight surprisingly heavy and warm.
Faust flinched, the bells on his collar jangling frantically, but the creature perfectly balanced itself.
It reached out a delicate, dark paw and patted Faust gently on his white-painted cheek.
Violet sparks suddenly filled the room, smelling of ozone and crushed violets.
Faust felt a sudden, sickening tug at the center of his chest.
"He told us the truth," Lybid said, her voice echoing with a strange resonance. "The only thing he lied about was his age."
"Wait, I haven't finished advertising the—"
Pop.
Mephisto vanished.
The room was suddenly free of his bells, his crimson velvet, and his greasepaint.
Even Cherubim, before its paws could hit the table, disappeared back into the void.
Azazel sighed, looking at the empty chair.
"So, what now, Lybid? Do we trust the 'thirty-year-old' doctor?"
Lybid didn't answer immediately.
She walked toward the bookshelves lining the hall, her eyes scanning the titles.
She stopped, her brow furrowing.
"It seems our guest possesses a quicker hand than your pistols, Azazel," she said, pointing to a conspicuous gap on the shelf.
One of the Order's oldest tomes—a leather-bound volume, a copy of Johann Weyer's Journal—had disappeared along with the clown.
"My divination didn't work on him, direct interrogation went well, but... I'll better keep an eye on this crazy doctor, magician or whatever he is. You should take Cherubim, I'll send a letter to the New World's Warden."