The Warden received them in a study that smelled of old candle wax and something fainter, more troubling, that Irene's trained senses identified immediately as the particular sweetish decay associated with concealment rather than honest neglect.

Father Maddox Crane was a tall man, his bearing carrying the careful composed dignity of long ecclesiastical service, his expression arranged into a welcome so smooth and complete that she registered it, instantly, as performance rather than genuine warmth.

"Grand Arbiter," he said, his voice carrying the particular cultivated warmth of someone accustomed to managing difficult conversations through careful charm. "And Consultant Voss, I presume — your reputation precedes you, even in our isolated corner of the empire."

"You're aware of the formal inquiry," Gavin said, his voice carrying none of the answering warmth, the flat investigative precision she had learned indicated his full professional attention.

"Of course. Three families, deeply grieved by circumstances entirely beyond our control, have made allegations that I am most eager to help you investigate and ultimately dismiss." Crane's smile widened, the expression carrying a quality of practiced sincerity that struck her, immediately, as deeply unsettling. "Children leave our care for various reasons — adoption, apprenticeship, occasionally, tragically, illness that our limited resources cannot adequately address. I assure you, there is nothing sinister occurring within these walls."

She watched him with the careful analytical attention she brought to every interrogation, cataloguing the specific quality of his composure, the precise rhythm of his speech, the particular way his eyes moved when he spoke — controlled, deliberate, the behavior of someone who had rehearsed exactly this conversation many times before.

"You'll forgive me if I require more substantial assurance than your word," she said, deploying the careful clinical precision of Register Two, the particular interrogative approach she had developed across weeks of practice. "Three children, missing without adequate explanation, over a relatively short period. That pattern alone warrants thorough investigation regardless of your personal assurances."

Crane's smile did not waver, but she caught the fractional tightening around his eyes — the particular tell of someone whose careful composure had been tested by an unexpected directness.

"I understand your professional skepticism, Consultant. It speaks well of your diligence." He gestured toward a chair, the hospitality carrying the same practiced quality as everything else about him. "Please, examine whatever records you require. I have nothing to hide."

"Then you won't object," she said, "to my reviewing the orphanage's full intake and discharge records for the past five years, rather than simply the three cases under immediate investigation."

The fractional tightening intensified, almost imperceptibly, and she registered it with the particular satisfaction of a successful probe — confirmation, even before any documentary evidence, that the institution's secrecy extended considerably beyond the three cases that had finally forced this inquiry.

"Of course," Crane said, after a pause she noted as significant despite its brevity. "I'll have the archives prepared for your review."

She pressed further, the careful strategic silence she had developed for exactly this kind of interrogation settling between them with deliberate weight before she continued. "And the children's individual case files — medical records, behavioral assessments, any documentation of their placement after leaving your care."

"Naturally," Crane said, his composure recovering with practiced ease, though she caught Gavin's attention sharpening beside her, the particular stillness indicating his own Blackthorn sense engaging at full intensity.

They continued the interrogation for nearly an hour, Crane's answers carrying a consistency that struck her, throughout, as carefully rehearsed rather than naturally truthful — the particular smoothness of someone who had constructed elaborate explanations in advance precisely because he had anticipated exactly this kind of scrutiny eventually arriving.

When they finally left his study, the corridor beyond carrying the same oppressive quality of neglect and concealment that had characterized the entire building since their arrival, Gavin's expression had settled into the particular grim focus she had learned indicated his most serious investigative engagement.

"He's lying," Gavin said, once they had moved beyond easy earshot of Crane's study. "Throughout. Not the simple deceptions of someone managing minor embarrassment — this is comprehensive, deliberate fabrication, maintained with considerable practice."

"I reached the same conclusion through different methods," she said. "His composure is too perfect. Genuine innocence carries small inconsistencies, small moments of natural uncertainty. His performance was flawless, which is itself evidence of extensive rehearsal."

"What do you think we're dealing with?"

She considered the question carefully, drawing on every analytical resource she had developed across weeks of increasingly complex investigation. "Something systematic. Crane isn't simply covering for isolated incidents — his preparation suggests an institution that has developed comprehensive protocols for managing exactly this kind of external scrutiny. That level of organizational sophistication implies this has been ongoing for considerably longer than three cases would suggest, and that more people within this institution are complicit than just Crane himself."

Gavin's expression carried a grimness that matched her own growing unease. "We need those archive records immediately, before he has additional time to ensure they've been adequately sanitized."

"Agreed," she said, and they moved toward the orphanage's records office with a shared urgency that required no further discussion, the weight of what they were about to uncover settling into her chest with each step deeper into the building's fog-shrouded silence.