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For Edward Gorey, who could have drawn it.





Private investigation was always at least morbidly interesting, which was why Joszef Kiraly pursued the profession despite having no need of the money. After nearly one hundred years, it had started to become a bit mundane, he’d thought recently. It was, perhaps, time for a change, some new interest to occupy his rather dreary and so-far endless existence.

Then again, he thought, staring into the bread box at the decapitated human head within, sometimes his unlife could still surprise him.

He contemplated the slack features, drained bloodless white (and as he didn't catch even a faint, hunger-pang-inducing whiff of fresh, it appeared to be quite literally drained), before calmly closing the breadbox and turning back to the family and household staff clustered at the far end of the kitchen. “Why, precisely, did you decide to call a private investigator and not the constable?” He tried to ignore the slight tang of vinegar in the air, and what smelled a bit like lemon. It was doing a poor job hiding the scent of fear and vomit from supernatural senses.

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