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Had I listened to Professor Pennyworth to begin with, I would never have ventured into that strange house on the hill with the clockwork cat. And yes, I know what you’re about to say:

“But, Begonia, you’re the intrepid sort; what of the glory of adventure?”

And, of course, I swear to you on every last bustle and bonnet in my double-doored armoire that I remain the same hazardous and headstrong, devil-may-care damoiselle you’ve always known. And I still positively take the egg when it comes to the solving mysteries. But, I tell you, François, this was just too ghastly.

Why?

Well, we’ve all heard the rumors of the Earl’s death last week, haven’t we? How it happened—so very dreadful! And then to find that thing, with its soulless yellow eyes and cunning lack of breath, still prowling the halls up there, with absolutely no one home?

What?

Oh, yes, yes—I suppose that I was the intruder; the one breaking in, as it were. But the constable’s already been round to discuss it and we’ve sorted nearly everything out.

Really, there’s nothing to worry about, now … except for that frightful ticking just outside my window at night, making me wish I’d left this whole sordid business alone.

It would be highly ironic, wouldn’t it—curiosity causing a cat to kill me?