The Feast of Fools

By the next morning, Elias realized the Aurelian Estate was less a home and more a terrarium for the insane.

The storm had intensified, sealing the estate under ten feet of snow. The windows were walls of white. But inside, the party raged on.

There were only twelve guests, all of them obscenely wealthy, all of them stranded, and none of them seemingly bothered by the death of the family lawyer.

Elias interviewed a Baroness who fed caviar to her lapdog while ignoring his questions about her whereabouts on the night of the murder. He spoke to an oil tycoon who spent the entire interview staring at a blank wall, laughing intermittently.

"Arthur?" the tycoon giggled. "Arthur was checking out early. Smart man. Beat the rush."

"The rush for what?" Elias asked, pen poised over his notebook.

"For the presents, of course!" The tycoon cackled.

Frustrated, Elias retreated to the dining room for lunch. The table was groaned under the weight of the food—glazed hams, towers of lobster, tureens of soup.

He sat alone. The heat in the house was stifling. He loosened his tie.

He took a bite of the lobster bisque. It was rich, creamy, and metallic.

* Cough.*

Elias covered his mouth with a napkin. He coughed again, a wet, hacking sound deep in his chest. He pulled the napkin away.

In the center of the white linen was a speck of blood. And in the center of the blood was a flake of gold.

He frowned, rubbing the flake between his fingers. It didn't dissolve. It was metal.

He looked at the soup. He stirred it. Swirling in the creamy depths were thousands of microscopic shimmering particles.

"Gold leaf," a voice said.

Elias jumped. Sebastian was standing behind him.

"We put it in everything," Sebastian smiled. "It aids the constitution. Conductivity, you know. Keeps the soul electric."

"It's heavy metal poisoning," Elias snapped, pushing the bowl away. "You people are insane."

"We are preserved," Sebastian corrected. "How is the investigation?"

"Going nowhere. Your guests are stoned or senile. Your staff..." Elias glanced at a maid clearing the table, her lips stitched with red thread. "Your staff is a human rights violation."

"They take a vow of silence for the holy week," Sebastian shrugged. "It heightens their service."

"I need to see where Arthur died," Elias said, standing up. "The West Tower."

"Of course," Sebastian gestured. "But be careful, Detective. The drop is steep, and the ghosts are particularly active this time of year."