Quinn began his research by visiting the graveyard and recording a list of all the names on the headstones. Then, he made his way to the dean''s office.


    Yana Justicia Sophia regarded him coldly from across her huge oaken desk. After just a few weeks, the middle-aged woman appeared to have added several more years worth of lines to her long, disapproving face.


    "What''s this about?" she asked flatly.


    "I have a list of names here," Quinn began. He offered her the sheet of paper with the names, and when she began to read, her face betrayed an unmistakable grimace. "I would like to know how these students died."


    "They fell out of the sky and exploded," the dean said. "If, for some reason, you felt compelled to rob those graves, you would not find a single bone in the proper place."


    "Yes, I understand that. But I want to know the exact circumstances. I want to know the weather on the day they died. I want to know the shape of the flying machine they were flying. I want to know how old they were and whether or not they were in good health."


    The dean sighed deeply. "Do you know what I''ve had to go through because of you and your brother?"


    "I can imagine that the members of the press were very anxious to know all about Seth''s flight," Quinn said.


    "It''s not just the press. In the past two days, I have met the city sheriff, two private detectives from a local insurance company, and no less than a dozen oculomancers from Spire Lyn. As a matter of fact, when you leave this room, there is a fair chance you will bump into another oculomancer on the way out."


    "What do they want to know?" Quinn asked.


    "What do you think they want to know? The names of the people you have been talking to. The names of the books you check out from the library. The names of the professors who are teaching you. Do you not understand? Do you not have any inkling, any iota of understanding about just how dangerous flying machines are? I''d wager that before this week is up, King Edwin will decree that your little Aviation Club is unlawful, and then the police will shut the whole thing down."


    "That is a possibility," Quinn admitted. "However, right now I am trying to make our flying machine less dangerous. So I will ask again, ''How did those students die?''"


    "I do not know if those records exist," the dean said with another sigh. "The best I can do is give you the enrollment dates for the students. The last year of enrollment will be the year of their deaths. You will need to cross-reference the public records for more details. Also, to further complicate things, many of the students here are immigrants, so their records might have been sent to their individual nations of origin."A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "How long will it take?"


    "Give me a week, I''ll have one of my assistants compile a list. However, in the meantime, I can tell you everything I know about the first name on the list. The name ''Marty'' without a doubt refers to one Martin vin Truscae."


    "Is he related to Professor Atlas?" Quinn asked excitedly.


    "As far as I know, they were brothers. They both attended the university at the same time, not unlike you and Seth. I am going to assume that Atlas vin Truscae knows all the details about his brother''s death."


    "Thank you!" Quinn beamed.


    When he left the office he discovered that, just as Yana had predicted, there was an oculomancer in the waiting room, watching him leave with inhuman eyes.


    Once again, Atlas vin Truscae proved to be an illusive man. He was not in his office, nor was he in the library, on the lawn, or in any of his usual labs and classrooms. Frustratingly, none of the students seemed to know where he was, even though he had given lectures earlier that day. Perhaps from desperation, or perhaps because of blind luck, Quinn decided to visit the graveyard again.


    There, standing above Marty''s grave, the professor stood solemnly, sipping a tankard of ale. A second tankard of ale rested at the top of the headstone.


    "I knew you would come," the professor said.


    "Professor," Quinn said hesitantly. "He was your brother right? Martin vin Truscae? Do you remember how he died?"


    "Of course I remember. I remember how many teeth on his jacket zipper were left unclasped. I remember the reflection of my shadowy body on his freshly-polished leather shoes. I remember the color of his wife''s lipstick smeared on his cheek. I remember every single detail."


    "How did he die?" Quinn asked.


    "His flying machine killed him."


    "I think you know exactly what I am asking," Quinn said bitterly. "What went wrong? What are the exact circumstances that resulted in his death?"


    "I stood before the oculomancers and swore an oath that I would never speak of such things," the professor said. "I have never broken my oath. Then, or now."


    "I will simply check the public records," Quinn threatened.


    "There are no public records."


    "Then I will check the broadsheets!"


    "There are no broadsheets. This one piece of stone is the only record that my brother ever lived. But, I do not despair. I know, deep down, that even after I am long gone, the memory of my brother will not be forgotten. It will live on, for ever and ever."


    "Who else knows the story?" Quinn asked.


    "It is not my place to say. She operates too deeply and too darkly for one such as I."


    "The Elder Saint?"


    "Haha!" Professor Atlas rasped. "No, not the Elder Saint. The Elder Saint is aloof, if she even exists. You know, you caused quite the controversy in your history class. Not many people would guess that the Bloodraker is still alive. But I think your theory has merit. And, because your theory has merit, I wonder at the wisdom of this Aviation Club of yours. After all, if the Bloodraker is still alive, then she is no doubt waiting for you in the sky. And why, dear student, would you ever want to leave the safety of the fog to meet her?"