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busy than others, but at the end of this walk resides the beginning, the very foundations of the Ministry.”
    He looked over to Agent Braun, who craned her neck to stare up at the shelves.
    â€œThere must be hundreds of case files in here,” she finally managed.
    â€œThousands,” Wellington corrected. “We are in need of a space this massive, not so much for the case journals as for the collected evidence accompanying them.”
    â€œBut . . . why?”
    Pushing back the sudden headache, Wellington returned the civil smile to his face and motioned to Agent Braun. “If I do recall, a previous case of yours took you to the Caribbean?”
    â€œYes, Agent Hill and I were called to the Bahamas to investigate the disappearance of Lord and Lady Gosswich. They were last seen in the vicinity—”
    â€œâ€”of the area known by sailors as the Devil’s Triangle, yes I know. And do you recall a small relic that served you and Agent Hill rather admirably in the field?”
    Agent Braun’s eyes flickered, and the sudden childlike wonder in her face softened his posture. “Oh yes! Clever device, that was. If I recall, it was a pyramid with something fastened at its summit.”
    Urging them to follow, Wellington continued deeper into the shelves. He whispered aloud the years until finally coming to a plaque illuminated by twin gaslight globes:
    1872
    Wellington stopped at the terminal, an interface much like the analytical engine by his desk, centered underneath the plaque. Slowly, deliberately, Wellington began pressing keys. The tiny window above the keypad revealed letters he selected, each character illuminated by a soft amber glow:
    â€œAnd,” Wellington said, pressing one final key, his smile wide, “enter.”
    Drip . . .
    Drip . . .
    Drip . . .
    Nothing happened.
    Doctor Sound lightly cleared his throat and motioned to the display screen:
    DEVLIS TRIAGNLE
    â€œOh, dash it all!” Wellington swore as he cleared the entry and typed again, even slower this time.
    DEVILS TRIANGLE
    â€œAnd,” Wellington said again, “enter.”
    This time, the “Enter” key brought to life the pulley system above them, adding a clickity-clack-click-clack drone underneath the drips. The pulley system eventually surrendered as a winch lowered from above their heads a small basket containing a portfolio and a chestnut box the size of an ostrich egg. Wellington took the box from the suspended tray and removed its lid, revealing a pair of identical devices.
    â€œGate Keys. Obtained in 1872, when the Ministry followed the path of the two-hundred-eighty-two-ton brigantine Mary Celeste .”
    â€œYou mean, we had been to the Devil’s Triangle before?” asked Agent Braun.
    â€œThe Mary Celeste ’s crew, Ministry agents discovered, had been spirited away to an underground base in the Atlantic. These devices, used in the proper conditions, created aethergates that—I do believe you and Agent Hill used for Lord and Lady Gosswich’s escape—connect two points in time and space, granting the users quick passage from Point A to Point B.”
    â€œHold on,” Agent Braun interjected. “I remember Agent Hill going on about these gadgets. He said these came from—”
    â€œAtlantis, yes, Agent Braun. The 1872 case took place there. The House of Usher had seized control of the underground—or to be more accurate, underwater—base many decades ago and were pulling both sailing vessels and airships to the murky depths.”
    â€œAnd this was in 1872?”
    â€œQuite.” Wellington retrieved the bound volume and flipped to the end pages. “The site was, indeed, the city of Fortuna Prime, what the Ministry research team of 1872 deduced was the capital city of Atlantis. The House of Usher had held that outpost for nearly fifty years, as far as we—the Ministry, to be precise—were to