Not a minute later they reappeared in front of the detective’s humble flat. Barnaby was dazed from the trip. Kipling had to practically drag his client inside and onto the sofa.

Twice he snapped his fingers and in a raised voice he said, “Miss Tilly we have a guest.” He turned to his repeat guest. “Tea? Coffee?” 

Responding to his signal, a portion of the wall slid out of sight to reveal a space the size of a whole other apartment. 

Barnaby’s momentary look of shock and amazement was quickly replaced by one of, “what did I expect.”

“Uhm c-coffee, thank you,” he said.

“Did you hear that Miss Tilly, prepare some coffee”

A few minutes later, from the secret doorway walked out an android in a traditional maid’s outfit. She carried a tray with two cups, a small jug of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes, and the bottom half of a siphon coffee pot.

The android was an astonishing sight. Hard ivory plates divided into individual muscle groups covered her body like skin. In the shadowy seams between them, you could catch a glimpse of the internal robotics. Gears and servos spun and whirled with minute movement. Hydraulic tubes pumped back and forth like blood vessels. And wires laid like nerves to and fro connecting it all to unseen circuitry. She moved with such natural motion she would pass for human if she were covered in some form of synthetic skin.

She spoke with a French accent as she poured the coffee. “Would Monsieur like cream or sugar?”

“Oh. Uhm, cream, no sugar, thank you,” Barnaby said.

The android handed the gentlemen their coffee and left with the tray of items.

“Thank you, Miss Tilly,” said the detective.

The hot coffee snapped Barnaby out of the dreamy state the jump across town had left him in. “What am I doing here drinking coffee so contently!? What about Mary and Joel? What about my car?”

“Ah yes, perhaps I should have left a note. Not to worry, Miss Tilly would you come with me to recover Mr Barnaby's vehicle.”

“Of course Monsieur Kipling.” Miss Tilly returned, hat and coat in hand.

“Don’t worry old chap, I’ll be back in but a moment.”

As Miss Tilly placed the hat on her head a magical disguise bound itself to her. She appeared as an attractive young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. 

Kipling rattled a set of keys at his guest, his own keys. The detective had successfully pilfered them without Barnaby noticing. Kipling wrapped his arm around the beautiful woman and with a deliberate nod, they vanished.

Barnaby tried to relax and enjoy his coffee as he waited for the two to return. He didn't have to wait long however as the detective returned alone just a few minutes later. “Right, Miss Tilly will return with your car in due time. And fret not about the in-laws. I left them a note as well as a post-hypnotic suggestion, so they won’t find our leaving suspicious. As I said, I hope to make use of you later, in the meantime make yourself at home. Might I recommend the library, second door on the right, in the other half of the home”

“What will you be doing?” Barnaby asked.

“Research. So long as you’re not a nuisance feel free to come find me and look over my shoulder.”

The two men split up. Barnaby found the study Kipling had spoken of. It was more befitting a large country house than an apartment complex. Every wall was flush with bookshelves and books of all manner of subject. He scanned the shelves for something of interest. 

Atlantis Visitors Guide by Ekon Onyilogwu, translation by The Baconiana Co. On Bruxa and How To Safely Mate With Them, The Collected Notes of Baron Sorin III before the mysterious fall of House Sorin in 1414.  Avatars of Speed; Historical Evidence and Theories. Barnaby settled on Coinage and Currencies of Magical Empires Throughout History.

Barnaby was unsatisfied sitting comfortably in the study waiting for Kipling. He made his way around the flat. “How many rooms are in here?” Barnaby thought to himself. How many adjacent flats did the detective own? Three? Four? The entire floor? It was hard to say.

Door after door Barnaby encountered things he scantily could believe were real. Things that could not or should not exist as they do inside a London flat. As he felt more and more lost so too did it feel as if the architecture were expanding and multiplying around him. Had he gone up two sets of stairs or one? Since when were there multiple floors. He was trapped in an illusory funhouse. The castle within a pocket.

As panic was just about to set in, Barnaby made it to Kipling who was sitting at a desk in a sparsely furnished office. Looking back Barnaby saw the hallway had returned to it’s more reasonable state.

Kipling looked up from his terminal. “You look more like hell than usual,” he said. “The house giving you a bit of trouble?”

Barnaby simply returned a shaken nod.

“Sorry about that. The place does get a little excitable when someone new shows up. Mischievous bugger,” Kipling said.

“What are you looking at?” Barnaby asked the detective.

“Browsing the dark web for illicit news in the city”

“The dark web?” Barnaby pulled a spare chair up to the desk and sat himself down.

Kipling continued to scroll through posts as he spoke. “Well, the magic dark web. You’re familiar with the normal dark web I take it? A web of illicit sites not indexed by search engines and requires special means to visit. Magic folk have their own hidden web. Mechanically it is very similar to the normal internet but has magic security gates to prevent normal access. Well, below that is our own dark web, countless wards keep out the general magic public and authorities.”

“And what are you looking for on there?” Barnaby asked.

“Anything new and local really, signs of trafficking, cannibals, dark rituals. Your niece is a virgin, yes?”

“How can you dare to say such vile and disturbing things in a situation like this? And how should I know!? Christ sakes!” Barnaby said, aghast.

The detective apologized. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. Those are hardly everyday occurrences and I’ve found nothing worrying,”

Barnaby breathed a belaboured sigh of relief. 

The two worked in silence for another half hour, Kipling scanning illicit forums, Barnaby making his way through his book. During this time Miss Tilly returned. 

“Your keys Monsieur Barnaby”

“Thank you, Miss Tilly,” Barnaby said.

“Can I get the monsieurs anything?” Miss Tilly asked.

The two men looked at each other. “I’m fine, thank you,” answered Barnaby.

“Same, that will be all Miss Tilly,” Kipling replied.

Once the android left the room a new conversation began. “She’s an absolute marvel isn’t she?” the detective asked.

“Yes, I’ve never seen a robot move so naturally or display such intelligence.”

“That’s because... she’s not a robot”

Barnaby put his book down to look at his host with confusion. “What do you mean she’s not a robot?”

“Well I mean come on, I assume you’re aware the laws on robotics forbid advanced artificial intelligence?”

“A.I. must serve a singular purpose and must not display individual thought,” Barnaby replied.

“Exactly, A.I. are all single utility-based and can only use basic call and response scripts when conversing with people. Only A.I. built for nonprofit study are exempt from this.” 

He continued, “Miss Tilly is no simple robot. She was an automaton given life through wildly complex magical ritual. Over the years I’ve replaced her mechanical parts with modern cybernetics. Piece by piece, little by little, like the ship of Theseus. All except for her heart. Thousands of tiny gears, springs, and crystals, engraved with a litany of minuscule runes.”

“Did you build her?” Barnaby asked.

“Oh no, I inherited her from the great-” he corrects himself. “From the estate of the great director of the silver screen Georges Méliès.”

“A director built her?”

“Not just any director, the man was a visionary, a mechanical genius. I adore directors like him, part of a rare breed that see a whole different world of magic all their own. He didn’t look to the camera as a magic box you could put in front of an image and capture it. It was a gateway to enchantment. He was an illusionist before film. He brought his spirit for illusion to cinema and pioneered many filmmaking techniques.”

“He was that great of a mage then?” Barnaby asked.

With excited reverence, the detective’s focus was now fully on telling his story. “No! That’s just it, he wasn’t a mage at all! People like him have a magic all their own. Not real magic. Not this energy manipulating the universe stuff. But a vision and drive to push the ancient ritual of storytelling forward. To take an audience on breathtaking journeys that will shock and amaze. To breath life into the inanimate.”

“So if he wasn’t a mage how did he do it then?”

Kipling explained, “Well, as far as the story went. After a chance encounter, an unnamed man introduced him to the world of magic. Méliès became obsessed, immersed himself, studied countless books on all things magic. Then inspiration struck. He built the physical body, every engraved emblem on every gear, masterfully handcrafted. He brought her to his magical friend, and together with the knowledge and insight he had amassed and the mage's power they brought her to life.

“An absurd story, no? Like a blind man shepherding a flock. She was his life's greatest work.” Kipling’s voice grew forlorn as he finished reminiscing. 

He cleared his throat. “I did some work for his estate and was gifted Tilly as payment, cared for her ever since. But that’s a story for another time.”

The room remained quiet for the rest of the hour. Kipling was starting to feel drained from his scouring of dark forums. His regular proper posture was replaced by a slanted leaning to the side, resting his head on his fist. 

Only one post had caught his attention. It mentioned a recent improvement in a local dream den but failed to mention where it was set up.

The detective leaned back in his chair and stretched his upper body. “I believe that’s all I’ll learn from that. Good news Mr Barnaby the trail has yet to go cold. I’ve whittled down the possibilities, if you’ll excuse me I’ll be phoning a contact for more details.”

The detective pulled out a phone from his pocket, an older model by at least several years. An odd-looking attachment was fit to the base. Made of copper and leather with several coloured gems set in a row that lit up in sequence like LEDs. It didn’t look very safe. The detective made the call to his informant.

“Y’alright Deckers it’s Kipling. Yeah, see I’m lookin’ for a hot tip. Got word a dream den’s been poppin’ off lately, want to know what it’s called and where it is. Yeah, yeah, express delivery as usual. Within the hour? Good stuff, good stuff mate. Cheers.” The detective’s accent had changed completely to that of the city’s lower middle class while speaking with the man on the phone. 

He switched back to his original inflexion just as fluidly when the conversation ended. “That was Declan, an associate of mine, he’s exceptional at collecting info on seedy back alley goings-on. Now, all we have to do is wait for him to pretend like he’s doing any actual work.”

“What does that mean?” Barnaby asked.

“He already knows exactly where the dream den is. He is a useful man but he cannot resist his vices.” Kipling’s face basked in a condescending know-it-all-ism.

“Why not just tell you upfront?” Barnaby said.

“He’s a good man at heart. I’d never openly approve of such behaviour and he wishes to save face with me”

“So what is a dream den?”

Kipling sprung up from out his chair. “Get your coat, let’s make the most of your time, have a walkabout town while we talk”

The two got their things and were ready to set off. 

“Hold down the fort while I’m away Miss Tilly”

“As always Monsieur Kipling.” Miss Tilly said as she waved them off.