It was supposed to be a new beginning, the start of a new life for a man plagued by tragedies. Having been to the brink and back, he acknowledged that the past was gone. His past-a life that had included two lost families, and an unyielding drive for revenge. As the reason for his continued existence started to wane, he had been given a lifeline, so to speak, by one of the people he had deceived, someone he had also come to care for.

He had stayed too long in the role, he knew. It was evident whenever one of his companions exhibited a need for assurance, and he was quick to offer kind words. Though he hadn't intended to become reacquainted with that lost part of himself, he could not deny the end result. The compassionate man named Desmond Sycamore had taken center stage. His alter ego, Jean Descole, had planned for it to last only until the aura stones were collected, and the Azran key assembled. But he could not deny a certain fondness he had developed for these people, or how he appreciated the reciprocated warmth.

By that point, however, it was too late to start working with his new companions openly and honestly. The deception had been terrible for them all, Descole included. And despite pangs of guilt, he pressed on with his original plans until an unexpected development caused him to ally once more with his nemesis and new friend, Professor Hershel Layton. Descole had once asked the question of the fates-why, of all people, was his younger brother at the center of every plot, and as an archaeological scholar, no less? Certainly 'Desmond Sycamore' had carried the full burden on his shoulders, as well as the need to take revenge against those responsible for ruining their family. Admittedly Layton's involvement hadn't come entirely as a shock-despite the time they'd spent apart, Sycamore had occasionally tracked the events of Layton's life, and was fully aware of the man's interest in archaeology as well as what had initially caused it.

Even with Sycamore's best efforts, Layton had not fully escaped a life of tragedy. After having lost his good friend to an Azran trap during an expedition, Layton also lost his fiancee to an explosion from a scientific experiment gone wrong, and then nearly lost his own life in pursuing the answer of why. Sycamore understood what his little brother had gone through, but by then, Sycamore, too, had lost the sanctuary he'd spent years building up. Consumed by grief at the deaths of his wife and child, he gave in to despair, which in turn, gave birth to the existence known as 'Jean Descole.' All that had been left in the ashes was the husk of a broken man...and his loyal companion. Raymond, a butler who had served the Sycamore family for years, now followed his master around the world, regardless of which face Desmond Sycamore wished to present. Raymond had been there to help pick up the pieces after Targent destroyed the Sycamore family, and he had assisted in multiple schemes and getaways for Descole. He continued to be there after Descole's plot concluded, and was at his master's side as they embarked on a new adventure.

But as with many good things in Descole's life, the adventure ended too soon.

"Good night, Professor," the girl's voice softly projected into the hallway.

Hershel Layton stood at the door with a warm expression. "Good night, Flora." He slowly pulled the door shut and then turned, heading toward his study. In recent years, Layton's collections of books and artifacts had increased, as did the number of guests who frequented his flat; eventually he had made the decision to move into a three-bedroom house. It possessed just the right amount of space, allowing for both a master bedroom and personal study.

The professor's footsteps slowed as he neared his bedroom; though it was nighttime, he was neither in the mood to sleep nor read. He had been hit with so many changes in such a short period of time, that he had yet to process it all.

His life had been eventful from the start, a fact he'd been reluctant to embrace until his teenage years. A promise to a friend had fueled his drive to pursue a degree in archaeology, and later, an academic position. He would not stop studying and exploring...resulting in the occasional absence from a lecture, much to the disappointment of his students. He would gain an apprentice in Luke Triton and an assistant in Emmy Altava, reunite with several old friends (including one he had mistakenly feared dead) and confront the horrors buried in his past. Several times he would clash with a man almost as self-destructive as he was destructive, someone who unexpectedly turned out to be the elder brother who had once ensured Layton's protection. Then, after solving the Azran's greatest riddle, Layton and Luke would take in Flora Reinhold, an orphan living by herself in St. Mystere-a village populated by robots brought to life by a gifted man. After another adventure, Layton once again would come face-to-face with a tragedy from his past, reopening old wounds.

So much had happened in those three years. Now Luke was gone, having moved to a different country with his parents. Emmy, out of shame for her deception, had resigned as assistant. Layton's house served as a foster home for Flora, but in between university and studying, he did not always have the time to be the parental figure she needed. Layton deliberately scheduled his classes around Flora's own schooling as much as possible, but reluctantly acknowledged his limits. At times he considered seeking a mother for her, but with Claire's death still a fresh wound, he held off on it. Sometimes he felt guilty. Flora could be self-sufficient, but it was not surprising that she could get lonely. He often encouraged her to pursue her own interests...and hopefully, bond with those she met through those same interests.

With so much on the man's mind, there was no use going to bed now. A few minutes of fresh air grew tempting as he eyed the book on his nightstand. Though he didn't care to leave Flora alone at night, it had been so long since he'd had a moment to himself.

A walk in the park, he thought to himself. Just five minutes. It isn't that far away. I'll be back soon enough.

The streets were mostly empty during that time of night, with the occasional vehicle passing through. Layton remembered the many times he had walked by this area with Claire, or even with Luke and Emmy, just before they set off in pursuit of an Azran site.

The final trip into Azran territory had come a little over a year ago after Layton had received a request from a fellow archaeologist, someone who also happened to be an authority on the Azran. Desmond Sycamore, a well respected man in the field of archaeology, would bring Layton and his companions onto his airship, where he would take them to every corner of the world in search of the aura stones.

Layton didn't think much of it at the time, but there had been something strange about Sycamore. There was little information about him available, and he hardly divulged his past, though he'd once alluded to a dead wife and daughter. A slip of the tongue, but he had been guarded the rest of the time. He would keep his largest secrets only until it became absolutely necessary to spill them.

Layton often wondered what was going through the man's mind. What he truly thought of Layton, and had he felt the slightest bit of remorse over his deception and cold plots? He had been mild-mannered, compassionate and generous, only sometimes expressing irritation at a stranger's rudeness. He was the last man Layton would have ever suspected of secretly being Jean Descole...much less his elder brother. When that particular tidbit was dropped-and by Descole, no less-Layton didn't know what to make of it, or even what to call the man, someone who had been brother, rival, and good friend all in one. He wasn't even sure which role had made the greatest impact on his life, though later on, he would decide that a brother's sacrifice had enabled him to live a normal life, far from the tragic history of the Bronev family.

It was far more than what he had found for himself, he mused. While I'd reaped the benefits of a blank slate, he had taken a dangerous risk in pursuing Targent...losing all that he held dear.

Layton sometimes wondered what might have been, had they not lost contact with one another. Would 'Desmond' have let Layton into his life, relied on his support? Could the deaths of Sycamore's wife and child have been prevented somehow? Would he have stayed his path without the appearance of 'Jean Descole'?

It was pointless to ponder now. The past was gone, as was the man who had ultimately given in to despair. Layton decided to move on with his life. In addition to Flora, more people had entered his life, including an American lawyer and his enthusiastic assistant, and many people living in a city that might have been taken from history's pages, had they not been revealed later to be part of a government experiment. Then, after saying goodbye to Luke and his parents, Clark and Brenda...

Layton was so caught up in his memories that he didn't realize just how far into the park he had walked. It has definitely been more than just a few minutes. As good as the night air felt, Layton felt guilty about enjoying it for so long. I should get back. Flora may need me.

Something felt familiar as he drew nearer to a set of statues. That's right. This is where Carmine Accidenti and Espella Cantabella were attacked, leading us into that unusual adventure. The car, at least, had long been removed from the scene, and the statues replaced. Additional park benches had been added to the area, which often attracted people at any hour.

Even now, someone was sitting at one of the benches, partly in the shadow, thanks to an overhead tree branch. The person was wearing a hat and cloak, but not much else was recognizable...until something else caught Layton's eye. It was in the pair of shoes the stranger was wearing, a style associated with someone Layton knew not too long ago. But that can't be. Did he...?

...Of course. That time, as we were all fleeing the Azran ruins...he pretended to perish along with the golems.

Layton had no idea if the man had seen him yet, but he knew he could not return home now. He slowly approached to confirm his suspicions, but stopped several feet in front of the bench. "You are the last person I expected to find here tonight...Descole."

The man looked up, offering a weak scoff, but otherwise made no move. "Well, well, Layton. I could say the same of you."

"My home is not far from here. It is not so strange I would come here to clear my head when necessary."

"Oh, don't be stupid. I'm not referring to that. It's late, and it's only logical to expect one to prepare for bed at this hour."

"Fair enough," Layton said. "Now I must ask...what are you doing here? The last time I saw you, you were taking your life...or, evidently, just pretending to do so."

"Well, one could say I did succeed. Or rather, I tried to put an end to the miserable existence known as 'Jean Descole' and start over. For once, I was traveling the world not as a man hellbent on revenge, but as an observer, a tourist, a simple traveler. I'd even befriended a few people on my own. The name I gave them...matters not. A tragic life story is of interest to no one, after all."

"I see. Then what brought you back here, of all places? And in that outfit, no less. You are aware that the police do not officially recognize Jean Descole's death, and are still seeking him?"

"I am aware, Layton." The more Descole spoke, the more weary he sounded. "This guise...it is a difficult habit to break, even after this past year. But enough about that. You wish to know what brought me here tonight? The truth is, there's nowhere else for me to go. Targent robbed me of my home years ago. Then, on the last trip I took with Raymond, my faithful butler...the Bostonius suffered engine failure and crashed onto a hill...in more than one piece. Raymond...most regrettably...did not make it."

Layton recalled the butler he had met on board the Bostonius as he, Emmy and Luke were on their way to meet Professor Sycamore. The man had been polite and hospitable, regardless of which master he was serving. "I...I am sorry to hear that. Raymond was a good man."

"Oh, how wonderful. The good professor's assessment is noted." When the sarcastic retort was met with a blank stare and uncomfortable pause, Descole backed off, but with a sneer. "My apologies. As you can see, this is another habit difficult to break. And...speaking of rudeness, enough about me. What are you doing here, and without your assistants?"

He must be referring to Emmy and Luke. "I haven't seen Emmy in months, though we maintain some contact. She resigned after that unfortunate incident, and entrusted her role to Luke. As for Luke, his family relocated overseas when Clark pursued a career opportunity."

Descole made an observant-sounding hmm at the response.

"Is there something wrong with what I said, Descole?"

"No. Not at all. Actually, it's what you aren't saying." Before Layton could respond to that, Descole scoffed again. "Don't worry, Layton. I haven't kept up with your life since we parted ways, and I'm not terribly invested in any of your secrets."

"That's the difference between you and me," Layton told him. "While I've made a mistake or two in my youth, I don't keep secrets anymore."

"Oh, silly me, of course not. You were brought up to be better than that, weren't you?" There was an understandable bitterness in the man's tone, but it still made Layton uncomfortable. "Hershel Layton, the goody-two-shoes who never stepped out of line. Granted, there was that unfortunate accident where you caused your friend to be swallowed up by the Akbadain Ruins-albeit indirectly-but he turned up after eighteen years or so, yes? Meanwhile, you basked in the glow of two adoring parents who encouraged you to follow your newfound dream of becoming a professor of archaeology. You had all the support of all your friends and neighbors...with no reminder of your dark past to hold you back. Truly, I envy you." With a long sigh, he turned his head to the side. "How it must have been to have a fresh start, a blank slate, without a care in the world. I took on the burden of avenging our family, while you played the days away in Stansbury."

Layton couldn't help it; the words were stirring up something inside him. Was it anger? Was it empathy? Whatever it was made him draw closer to the man.

"As for me...I was not as fortunate. Certainly, the Sycamore family had been charitable enough to take me in, but even they could not subdue the need for revenge. Every day I lived it, that moment Targent broke into our home, and stole our parents away from us. I thought I could free myself from that, until I'd heard our mother died in the Nest. Even after I had gotten married and started my new life, I couldn't forget. Not even as I looked into the eyes of my daughter could my resolve be shaken. And look what it cost me-my family, my friendships...even my soul. After the final remnants of the Azran Sanctuary were destroyed, there was a moment I was convinced I had let go of everything and could start over...but even that...has failed me..." He shook his head. "After everything, I have nothing. No purpose, no career, no friends, no one-I couldn't escape this cursed last name after all-" Before he could finish, an open palm rapidly approached him, stopping only when it had found flesh. Descole grunted as he was slapped across the face, and he nearly fell over.

Layton brought his hand back, glaring. "Enough of that, now," he scolded. "Cursed, you say? Nonsense. While it's true you've been through more horrors than most see in a lifetime, at some point, Descole, you must stop feeling sorry for yourself and take responsibility for your own actions. You can either hold on to your bitterness every time there's a setback, or you can accept the past is gone and move on."

With the skin of his cheek stinging, Descole looked up at his younger brother. "And who are you to rebuke me...?" he snarled angrily, then lunged at the man. "...Layyytooonnn...!"

Layton dodged the pathetic hail of fists coming at him, stepping aside in reflex to each of Descole's wild movements. Again and again the masked man charged, though soon each motion became slower than the last. Finally, Descole stumbled and lost his balance, dropping onto the grass in a heap. He was clearly winded. Layton wasn't certain if he felt pity or sympathy at that moment. "Descole..."

"No, don't-" Descole said the words in between sharp breaths. "Don't...say anything. It's over. It's all over. As I said, every attempt to start over in life has failed. Even 'Descole,' the manifestation of my despair, looked back once or twice. I couldn't leave behind Sycamore...not completely. So I brought him back...all for the sake of using you. But...I stayed too long in the role."

"What do you mean?"

"Desmond Sycamore...grew fond of all his companions during that time. It was just an act. At least, it was supposed to be...but I..." He let out a groan of pain and collapsed.

An alarmed Layton rushed to his side. "Descole! Are you all right?" Kneeling down, he moved the unconscious man over on his back. In the harsh light of the park lamp, Layton noticed a few scratches and soot on the skin of Descole's face. One scratch retreated into his boa, which was just as filthy. Even the cloak was torn and singed on one side, and sprayed with dirt. He spoke of the accident with the Bostonius...but he failed to mention how long ago it was. Though he was well enough to get here, he must still be hurt...and exhausted. I shall bring him back to my house. Layton slowly picked Descole up off of the ground, slinging one of the man's arms over his shoulder.

The trip home was much longer, but with Layton dragging the extra weight, this was no surprise. As he made his way through the hall, he tried to minimize the noise he was making to no avail. Entering the room once reserved for Luke, he brought his new houseguest over to the bed and carefully set him down. On closer inspection, Descole looked rather ridiculous in the outfit he often wore-even more so after his ordeal-and it probably did nothing for his rest and recovery. One by one, Layton removed the external pieces of the man's outfit, setting them on a chair beside the bed. Once he had loosened the cloak, he could see Descole's suit had not escaped the damage, with patches of soot staining the lapels and tie. The accident also had left a tear in the fabric of both the pant leg and jacket sleeve. Layton removed Descole's jacket with great care so as not to aggravate any possible injuries. After slinging the item across the back of the chair, he gently loosened the tie and belt, adding them to the pile. He finished by slipping off the man's shoes and putting them under the chair.

As Layton pulled back the bed sheets for his sudden houseguest, he couldn't help but observe the change in the last few moments. The last time he had seen Descole without his disguise had been at least half a year ago, when he had joined the man on a quest to uncover the Azran secrets. Even now, Layton was having a difficult time associating one face with the other. The only time Professor Desmond Sycamore had ever truly lost his temper was in the presence of Targent. Layton had never questioned this, though with Targent's reputation, there had been no need. Aside from that, Sycamore had radiated all things good and gentle. Jean Descole, on the other hand, had been bitterly angry, destructive, and cunning. Both men had been brilliant in their work. The face that appeared to Layton now was Sycamore's in every way, but he could only wonder which man would greet him upon his return to the conscious world...

Explosions rocked the entire neighborhood, accompanied by a roar louder than anything else he had heard in his life. The frightening sounds and violent events haunted him countless times since then, tearing him away from what might have been a peaceful sleep. Once again, Desmond Sycamore stood before his home, a normally welcoming structure now in flames, while muffled screams rang above him. Sycamore tried desperately to get into the building, pounding at the front door-locked, of course-and then tossing a heavy lawn chair into a window. He was finally able to climb in, but was soon overwhelmed by the smoke. As the screams faded, he caught a glimpse of Raymond lying on the floor, knocked out by a ceiling beam.

He never found his wife or daughter.

The traumatic memory invaded his dreams again and again. He couldn't decide which was worse, reliving the helplessness he felt as his loved ones died around him, or finding a happier ending...only to wake up to the coldness of reality. He wasn't sure when he stopped mourning them, or if he had stopped at all. With his second chance at a loving family ripped away, it wasn't long before despair consumed him, perhaps the only thing to drive him closer to Targent and the Azran. It was a darker and much lonelier path than he had originally intended, and every day, he justified this journey with the need for retaliation. After all, of course an organization as evil as Targent deserved to be brought down.

Looking back now, he wondered if there had been a more constructive way of doing so.

The fire never stopped flickering, but was now reduced to the size of a single, tiny flame. The angry hum and the screams all but faded, and Sycamore realized he was lying down somewhere. He couldn't make out the location-everything was foggy-but he could only guess it was nighttime.

Something warm was touching his flesh; Sycamore looked over blurrily to see a small pair of hands surrounding his forearm. Occasionally, there would be a flash of red and white, and then a soothing sensation. Sycamore felt the person wrapping something around the area, perhaps some gauze. When the task was done, something briefly blocked his vision, and then, settled against his forehead, cool and damp. He uttered a soft moan of appreciation, apparently startling the person.

Sycamore's eyes fluttered weakly, and for a moment he found himself viewing the face of a young girl. Her countenance was quite expressive, despite his current visual handicap. Something about her reminded him of the past.

But it couldn't be. I always imagined heaven as a vast paradise...but heaven would not have a place for someone like me. My soul is so burdened with sins, I couldn't possibly have followed her there. Her sweet soul, her sweet smile...almost an angel herself. She would have been about this girl's age now.

"Millie," he murmured, and then gave into the darkness once more.

"He was looking at me like he knew me," an agitated Flora Reinhold explained to Hershel Layton. "I almost panicked when he spoke. I mean, I don't think he was going to harm me, but...Professor, how long do I have to keep going in there and changing his bandages?"

"Just a little while longer," Layton assured her. "I'm deeply sorry for imposing on you, but I can't be here all day. The housekeeper will be here tomorrow so that you're not alone in here with him, but as you said, I don't believe he'll be any trouble. He's far too weak right now, and will be quite disoriented when he finally wakes."

"Just who is he anyway?"

"He's..." Layton bowed his head for a moment. "It's complicated. You might say he's an old friend who...went down a dark path until...certain events forced a change. He's come around and has been helpful to me since then, but right now, he has no one and I fear that much could send him into a relapse...or just a deep depression."

"Oh. Well...I hope he gets better. No one...should be forced to be alone."

She must be recalling the long days after her father died, thought Layton, with a pang of guilt. And though I swore to look after Augustus' daughter, in some ways, I have failed to uphold my promise. "...You're absolutely right, Flora. Don't concern yourself with this anymore, actually. It's my responsibility and I should not burden you with it. It's just that I wish to be there for him, as he was there for me."

"I know you will be, Professor...and..." A sad smile formed on Flora's face. "...I'm sorry for sounding selfish earlier. If you're friends with him, then I bet he's a real gentleman too."

Desmond Sycamore is, without a doubt. The trouble is, I don't know how long he'll keep the mask off. "There is no need to apologize, Flora. Now, run along and finish your homework. I'll take over from here."

When she was gone, Layton entered the guestroom, looking upon his brother's sleeping form. Desmond...I've kept your secret for this long. I wonder...will I change my mind the next time we speak?

The woman he loved was just out of reach, once again. The tears stung his eyes as he listened to her pleading somewhere nearby, nowhere in his sights. A young child's voice had once screamed alongside hers, but was now silenced. Helplessly, Desmond Sycamore lay trapped on the floor of his own house, his strength spent in just trying to reach Raymond, who was now dead. Soon the darkness surrounded him, crushing him beneath several tons of weight. He gave in, knowing he would not win this time.

After some time, the darkness dissipated and he was floating on air, in a place where no horrors threatened to drag him down. He slowly descended upon the softest bed of grass he had ever touched, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. The birds were singing a song, almost just for him. They chattered away and played, and he wondered once if they had a secret of their own.

Sycamore opened his eyes as the song continued, but it was not a field of grass in which he found himself. His body ached still, but he managed to move himself up to a sitting position. Where am I? Sunlight peeked through a window bordered by open curtains, prompting him to scan his surroundings. The bedroom contained basic decor, but the furniture was of fine quality. The bookshelf, desk, chair, nightstand, and headboard were made of solid wood with a dark polish. Finally, he took a closer look at what was on the wall-framed photographs of ancient ruins, and-

His heart jumped at two of the pictures-though slightly blurry to him, he could see that one showed a man, a woman, and a young boy related to the two, and the other, a less formal shot of a man in a top hat posing with that same boy and a young woman dressed in yellow. He knew these people, for he had met them all at one point...even inflicting harm upon them in some form.

The memories rushed back to him. Layton must have brought me here. I tried to attack him, and he repays me by inviting me into his own home. Is this fate, laughing at me once more?

He turned his face in shame for a moment, noticing the objects on the nightstand next to him. First, a thin white candle, recently burned, and just behind it, another framed picture. The eyes grabbed his attention immediately. It's the girl I saw not too long ago. Though he had never formally met her, he was still inexplicably drawn to her. He then shook his head at that. No, you fool. Your daughter was lost years ago. This girl...shares nothing with her...no more than the Azran girl...or the other children we met on that adventure.

Still scolding himself, he threw the bed sheets off of his legs. He realized then that he was no longer wearing his disguise-he found it in pieces to his other side, set on a second chair. I don't look much like Descole now, he surmised. I look more like that man once filled with hope, a man who knew how to love and was blessed with a family despite his broken past. He wasn't certain which man he felt like...or even wanted to be.

Getting up from the bed proved nearly as difficult as just sitting up. When Sycamore was fully on his feet, he moved toward the nearest door, grateful to find what was on the other side.

Hershel Layton headed toward the guestroom, carrying a small paper bag and white plastic box marked with a red cross. He entered, only to be stunned by the scene before him. "What on earth...?"

The bed was empty, covers thrown back. There was not a sign of his houseguest, though Jean Descole's outfit was still hanging on the chair by the bed.

"Now where could he have gone...?" That's when he heard it, the muffled sound of a strong, steady stream hitting a large bowl of water. After a lengthy moment, it was followed by a flushing noise, and then more falling water. There was a pause before the door opened, and Desmond Sycamore appeared.

It hadn't been Layton's intention to do so, but he suddenly shouted, "Desmond!"

Clearly startled by the exclamation, Sycamore brought his hand to his chest, finally noticing his visitor. "What-" Out of reflex, or an old bad habit, he glared back, gritting his teeth. "Layton! Have you been there all this time listening?! You-" He caught himself, somehow more shocked by his own outburst. His facial features softened, and he covered his mouth with his other hand. He broke eye contact, politely clearing his throat. "...uh...that is...forgive me. I...you gave me...quite a fright."

Perhaps it was Layton's imagination, but the man seemed to be blushing as well. "N-no...the fault is mine. I was not expecting you to be up and about already. You were unconscious for a little over two days, not to mention feverish for a time."

"Oh...I see." An awkward silence ensued as both men stood where they were. "W-well...what is that you have there?"

"This? I came to change your bandages, so..."

"My bandages...?" Sycamore looked down at his sleeve, which had been rolled back to the elbow. Surrounding part of the exposed skin was a long strip of gauze. "Oh...I suppose...I should let you do that." He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, while Layton followed, dragging the free chair over.

Layton then took a seat, set both items on the bed and opened the box. As he was unwrapping the old bandaging, he heard a soft "why?" Confused, Layton looked up at the man. "I beg your pardon?"

"Why did you call me 'Desmond'?"

"That is your name, is it not?" Layton asked, examining the wound. "It looks as though it's stopped bleeding." He deposited the waste in the paper bag before moving to his next task.

"I have gone by many names," Sycamore said quietly. "It doesn't mean any of them belong to me."

"'Desmond Sycamore' does not belong to you?"

"I..." The man lowered his head with a defeated look. "I am not worthy of being its owner."

Layton tore open a small plastic pack, removing the antiseptic wipe. "Then what name would you prefer?"

Sycamore paused, then let out a sigh. "It...doesn't matter at this point. Any name will do."

"Then I shall continue to call you 'Desmond,'" Layton said as he gently dabbed around the wound. When he was done, he applied fresh ointment to one side of a square cotton pad, then set the item on the skin of Sycamore's arm. He had gotten halfway through wrapping the gauze when he added, "For the record, I believe you are worthy of that name."

"Layton..."

"There is much we have to talk about," Layton told him, but backtracked. "Forgive me, that is not how I meant it. Truthfully, there is much I would like to discuss with you. I will not force you, of course, but I will say this. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need...if you are interested. At some point, I would expect for you to find employment..." He smiled meekly as he finished the task of wrapping the bandage. "But as long as you stay out of trouble, I don't mind having you here."

Confusion covered the other man's face. "But...why?"

"What do you mean?"

"Layton, after everything I've done...after all the deception and lies...putting your life in danger...why would you help a scoundrel such as myself?"

Hershel Layton shook his head. "Because...Desmond...you weren't-and aren't-always like that." He paused a moment to reminisce. "Many years ago, there was a young lad, not much older than I was, whose capacity for charity surpassed even that of some adults. This remarkable boy could have taken the opportunity presented to him and gone on to live with the Laytons. Instead, he allowed me to find happiness in his place. He should never have had to make that sacrifice, as he was still so young himself. But because of that, I've had an incredible, fulfilling life, and I owe much to him. And while it is true he eventually found a dark road...even in that darkness, he found the strength to help me. Even if ultimately, his goal was to have his revenge against the Azran, he kept me from being drawn into corruption as our father was."

A despondent look covered Sycamore's face. "I...may have simply lost control of my inhibitions in the moment. After all, that man is responsible for the deaths of his daughter-in-law and granddaughter...even if it wasn't fully intentional."

"If you don't mind me asking," Layton started, disposing of the other waste, "what exactly happened back then? What did...Leon do? And how on earth did your family get caught up in his horrible scheme?"

"Well...the truth is...I was their target. It was about ten years ago, and they were actively seeking recruits. My wife and daughter had nothing to do with Targent's wrath, but would be victims of it regardless. It's true that they will resort to sordid methods, such as when they threatened the well-being of your adoptive parents to manipulate you...but in this case, they were only interested in me. They had been tracking my progress and had seen my potential for their side. I'd refused...and...deciding this was not to their satisfaction, they planted explosive devices inside of my house, set to trigger at their command. The message was clear: reject us, and you will lose something precious. I was...occupied late that night, but my wife, daughter, and butler went about their routines. And then..." His face contorted, and he turned away.

A sympathetic Layton put his hand on the man's shoulder. "It's all right. I apologize for making you relive this tragedy."

"I relive it all the time, Layton, with or without your doing. Many nights, it haunts me in my dreams. I'm always too late to save them. Except when I'm not, only to find out our reunion was nothing more than a dream. I am not certain which of the two is worse. As for what happened, the house burst into flames just as everyone prepared for bed. They...were trapped. Shortly after the incident, Raymond told me that all of the windows had been sealed shut somehow. Targent's doing, I assume. Neither my wife nor my daughter were able to leave their bedrooms due to the fire in the hall. Raymond tried to get to them, but a beam struck him on the head. When I finally returned home, it was too late. I managed to break down the door. Sometimes it's a window in my dreams. The result is the same. I enter the house, and the air is thick with smoke...and...the lives of the ones I hold dear...extinguished. Pitiful man that I was, I could manage only a few steps before the smoke overwhelmed me. When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed wearing an oxygen mask."

Layton moved his hand back, clearly affected by the story. "Oh...Desmond...that's..."

Sycamore shook his head. "Don't. It is not your burden to bear, Layton. I made the choice to be careless, to underestimate the ruthlessness of Targent, to leave my wife and child vulnerable to their cruelty."

"You could not have predicted what was going to happen."

"Perhaps, but it doesn't change things. The moment I realized I was being monitored, I should have moved everyone to a safer location. My wife and daughter might be alive today."

"It's a possibility, but you said it yourself, Targent is ruthless. Who can say to what lengths they would have gone? I don't mean to imply your family doomed either way. I just hate to see you be so hard on yourself over something beyond your control. How could you have known that Targent would break into your home? It...must have been horrible, for all of you."

Sycamore's features remained tense. "I...barely had the strength to stand through the funerals, but Raymond...he insisted on being there by my side, cast and crutches and all."

Layton closed the first aid kit. "Listen, I meant it when I said Raymond was a good man. When we traveled together, I could see the magnitude of his devotion, and I'm glad you were not truly alone for all those years."

"Nngh..." Sycamore broke eye contact again. "I know...Layton. I understood your intent. I just wasn't ready to deal with the outpouring of sympathy. It's been a while...since anyone said the words 'I'm sorry' to me. Not that I've done much lately to deserve the phrase, nor have I used it in quite some time, myself. I'm...certain I have a lot of apologizing to do...to you, to your friends...to the citizens of Misthallery and Monte d'Or...and of course, everyone I tricked into attending Whistler's opera. And then...there's the matter of the police..."

"Desmond..."

"It's all right. As Jean Descole, I have much to answer for. Kidnapping, blackmail, multiple acts of destruction...the list goes on. Please...don't look at me like that, Layton. I don't need your pity."

"I don't pity you, but I do wish to be there for support."

"But...you've already done so much. I could ask no more of you."

"You went above and beyond for me when we were children. I only ask that you allow me to return the favor. Even while we were apart, you were looking out for me. Now it's my turn to do the same for you."

Sycamore gave a wordless expression of appreciation. "I imagine they'll be thrilled to see me in Scotland Yard...and disappointed once they realize the connection between Descole and me."

Layton nodded. "There will be much to sort out," he said. "However, I don't believe the situation is as dire as it seems."

"How can you say that? Have you already forgotten what I've done, Layton? I kidnapped your friends and impersonated them. I hired henchmen, built destructive devices, and even dirtied the hands of your friend, Randall Ascot. I tried to destroy you and those you care for..."

"...and you failed, several times." There was an odd sort of smile on the face of the man in the top hat, impish even. "With all due respect, Desmond, when it comes being a villain, your skills are...shall we say...somewhat lacking."

"What? What do you mean?"

Layton looked upon the stunned expression of his elder brother. "You tried too hard to throw it all away-everything you had, everything you were, and still are. Perhaps Descole is a part of you, but you yourself are not Descole. Otherwise, why hide within the shadows in order to carry out your schemes? Why don a mask to get your revenge on Targent? Do you honestly believe that man is your true self? Even from behind the mask, you could not bring yourself to take a life, could you?"

"...It didn't stop me from trying," said Sycamore.

"And yet, you went out of your way to preserve so many. I don't condone your trickery or destructive ways, but I can't deny the positive outcomes of your plotting. How many years did Henry Ledore and countless others spend searching for Randall Ascot, only for you to waltz into Monte d'Or with the man? And what about the Azran sanctuary, where you helped us prevent the golems from unleashing destruction upon the world? Or just before that, when you risked your life to save Luke from a trap in the ruins, and nearly died in the process?"

"Ngh...no, that's not..." A flustered Sycamore shook his head. "Look, Layton, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but...you are giving me far too much credit. I'm just a bitter, hateful man who wanted to destroy Targent and what was left of the Azran, and didn't care who was caught up in the storm. Please. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Layton nodded. "Fair enough. Forgive me for prying into your psyche, and pushing my own interpretation. You say I give you too much credit, but I think you don't give yourself enough. I will drop the subject, however."

"Thank you."

"Professor...?"

Both men turned in the direction of the female voice, which came faintly from the hall. A moment later, Flora Reinhold appeared in the doorway, wearing a short-sleeved blouse with a tie, a mid-length pleated dark skirt with matching knee socks, and strapped dress shoes. "Oh..." she said, clearly surprised by Sycamore's status. "I thought I heard voices in here."

"Good morning, Flora," Layton greeted her. "Are you headed off to school now?"

"In a minute."

"All right. Oh, Flora-" Layton then gestured to Sycamore. "-before you go, I would like to formally introduce you to Desmond Sycamore, a man who is an expert in the field of archaeology, and has even made a few magazine covers. He and I traveled the world together while researching the Azran civilization."

Flora was hesitant, but stepped into the room. "It's...nice to meet you. So...does that mean you're a professor of archaeology too?"

"Uh..." Sycamore seemed to be caught off guard as well. "I suppose you could say that. The professor...and your friend Luke...and a few others, assisted me in solving the Azran's greatest puzzle. Since then I have taken a much needed break. But enough about that. Miss Flora, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. And thank you for looking after me these last couple of days."

She blushed a little, but seemed genuinely pleased by the expression of gratitude. "Y...you're welcome, Professor Sycamore!" she said, beaming. "Um, I'd better run along or I'll be late."

"Be safe, Flora," Layton called out. "And have a wonderful day."

"How strange," Sycamore remarked as the girl left. "You speak of me as though we're old friends, when we both know how the mission at Targent's headquarters turned out."

"Well, in a way, we are old friends. In spite of what ultimately happened, I did feel a connection with you as we traveled around in the Bostonius. And I know both Emmy and Luke felt the same."

"Mmm." Sycamore's features tensed up for a moment, as though the memory pained him. It seemed he had something to say but refrained from doing so.

Layton started to respond himself, but remembered the man's earlier request to avoid certain past subjects. "Well, I should take my leave as well. I have a lecture at ten o'clock, and I'll need to organize my notes. Luke used to help with that, but with him gone..."

"You're completely hopeless?"

"Ha ha. I can't argue with that." Layton gathered up the items he had brought in. "Anyway, there won't be anyone coming by today, so feel free to use the place as you wish. If you must leave, there's a key in the drawer of the stand by the front door. Just be sure to return it. I'll be back before dinner."

"Honestly, Layton, there aren't many people I expect to be visiting today, nor do I feel I'm in any condition to be walking around. But the thought is appreciated."

"Well then, please rest up until you've regained your strength. Is there anything you need, in the meantime?"

"Uh...perhaps some medicine?"

"Yes, of course. How bad is the pain?"

"I was thrown against the dash just before the Bostonius crashed. I didn't realize the damage until after I had buried Raymond, and I could barely move without half my body in excruciating pain." Sycamore reached down, untucking his dress shirt and the undershirt beneath it, and lifted it up one side. "Well, I suppose the color has improved some, but I could use something to take the edge off."

"My word." Shocked, Layton observed the large purple blemish covering that half of the man's stomach. "Forgive me, Desmond. I hadn't realized it was that bad. I'll call the doctor right away."

"I'm fine, Layton," Sycamore insisted, adjusting his clothing. "At least, I don't think anything is broken."

"At least allow someone to come look at you here."

Again, the look on Sycamore's face indicated he had a particular response to fire back, but instead, he nodded. "If it will put you at ease."

The doctor had arrived after Layton's departure, and after confirming that Sycamore was not a ticking time bomb, went on his way. Sycamore returned to his room, but it wasn't long before he found himself wandering about the house. In his mind was a raging tempest, full of questions and confusion. Thrust into this new setting when he had not yet fully processed the loss of Raymond, coming face to face with a man he had deceived and only earning his generosity. Sycamore could not decide whether to indulge in Layton's kindness, or to throw it back in his face with some profanity-laden rant about how the "punishment" did not fit the crime.

Why? Sycamore wondered. Why do you care so much, Layton? Who I was as a child...has no bearing on all the terrible things I did in adulthood. There's no reason to treat me as though some part of that person still exists within me. I am nothing more than a criminal, no better than Targent and their vile plots.

If Anna and Millie were here...surely they'd be disgusted to see what I've become. The people I'd used and hurt...all for the sake of revenge.

It had been a long time since Sycamore felt so uncertain and insecure. Yet the reason Layton's acts of kindness made him uncomfortable had nothing to do with any suspicions Sycamore had about the man's intentions. Rather, he could not fathom at the moment why anyone would reward a person's misdeeds in such a manner.

To him, I should be nothing more than scum. Something to be scraped off the bottom of one's shoe, rubbish to be tossed aside and forgotten. His stomach was twisting in knots as he tried to see it from his younger brother's point of view. I don't understand it. You owe me nothing, Layton. Nothing at all. Anything I would have done as a child would have been voided by everything I did as Descole. I don't understand. I don't understand...

Had it been for the sake of family? Sycamore couldn't wrap his head around the notion. After all, family hadn't meant much to Leon Bronev when his wife Rachel died, after which he stopped his resistance to Targent's evil, opting instead to move through the ranks so that he could head the corrupt organization. It was nothing to Leon to harass his own biological son, and later, to show no remorse for the deaths of his daughter-in-law and granddaughter. No reminder of 'family' stopped Leon from attempting to blackmail his other son by threatening the safety of the kindly couple who had chosen to bring up the lad.

Leon certainly isn't in the picture now. He wasn't sure what had become of the man, as 'Jean Descole' had run off before the end. But the lack of mention by Layton seemed to indicate the two were no longer in each other's lives. If that's true, does that mean he was unwilling to accept our father back into his life?

...and if that's the case...why would he allow me to be here, now?

He was so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed the front door opening and shutting. Even as a female's cheery voice rang through the air, it did not register that he was no longer alone until the young girl had entered the room.

"Professor- oh." Flora stopped dead in her tracks as she spotted Sycamore, who was sitting slumped on the antique sofa in the reception room. "I-I'm sorry. I though the professor was home already. I mean, the other professor. He promised he would be back before dinnertime."

Sycamore was surprised, himself. "Oh...well, he should be home shortly, Miss Flora." Sensing the girl's unease, he smiled warmly at her. "Worry not. Professor Layton is a man of his word. If you require use of this room, I shall return to my own."

"Er..." Redness spread across the girl's face. "No, it's...it's not that. Um...I'm sorry if I'm being rude. Could I offer you some tea?"

Some time later, Flora returned from the kitchen with a sterling silver tray, a steaming teapot, three teacups and their matching saucers, small ceramic containers of sugar and milk, and several spoons. Sycamore once had tried to help but the girl refused, insisting she was happy to do the job. However, at his insistence, she did stop short of pouring his tea for him.

While the man was up, Flora took one of the velvet-cushioned chairs on the other side of the table. "The professor won't ever let me do the cooking," she was saying as she stirred her cup, "but he doesn't mind it when I make tea."

"A gentleman must have his tea." Sycamore, who had returned to the sofa, took a sip before setting his cup on the saucer.

"Oh, I know that. It just bothers me that he would rather hire a cook instead of letting me make dinner."

Sycamore chuckled a bit at that. "That sounds...bothersome. And expensive." Though perhaps Layton has a good reason for doing so...

"Yeah. He says it's because I should focus on my homework instead of worrying about what to cook, but I don't believe that at all."

"Well...perhaps one day, you could finish your homework early, and ask to observe the cook, or even assist? Certainly there is no harm in learning a new recipe or technique."

"Exactly! Now you're talking." Flora put down her spoon, quietly sipping her tea. After a moment of silence, she lowered the cup, gazing at Sycamore with a pensive look. "Um..."

"Yes?"

"Well...it's probably none of my business, but...who's Millie?"

Sycamore's eyes widened in surprise. Had she been listening in on his conversations with Layton? But that was impossible...Sycamore hadn't divulged the names of his wife and daughter. "Uh...why...why do you ask? And how do you know that name?"

"You told me. I mean, when I was changing your bandages, you looked at me and called me 'Millie.'"

"Oh." Sycamore lowered his head, unprepared for the conversation. "That is...before I was exploring ruins with the professor, I had a wife and child. Millie...or rather, Mildred...was the name of my daughter. But...about ten years ago, I lost them both to a horrible...accident."

Flora's mouth fell open. "No...! I'm so sorry to hear that."

"It's all right. Thank you. But...while I was lying in that bed, I was dreaming of them. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and saw you while you were tending to me. You are about the age my daughter would have been, and I was delirious, so...that is likely the reason I called out the name. If...if I offended you in any way, I apologize."

"No...it's okay. I was confused at first, but now it all makes sense. So...that's probably the reason..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"When I first walked in here, you looked so sad. The professor said you've been through a lot of things but didn't really say what. But now..."

Sycamore's face was turning warm. "M-Miss Flora...it's thoughtful of you to show such concern. Uh...I don't know what to say, to be honest. You're very considerate, and Layton is lucky to have you around."

Flora seemed a bit embarrassed, but beamed at bit at the compliment. "Oh, th-thank you for saying so! I just want to be helpful. Sometimes the professor gets so busy he forgets to say 'thank you.'"

"Hahaha. Yes, I can imagine that happening with him. But please don't take it as a slight. I believe he truly appreciates your efforts, but he just may not know how to express himself at the moment."

"No, I really think it slips his mind."

"You may be right there," Sycamore started to say, when the sound of a door shutting was heard.

"Oh, Professor!" Flora called out. "We're in here!"

Layton appeared a moment later, briefcase in hand. "Good afternoon," he greeted them. "What have you two been up to?"

"Just a bit of tea and conversation," Sycamore replied.

"Wonderful." Layton set the briefcase down beside the couch. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

"Not at all, Professor," Flora told him. "We're just...talking about whatever."

Sycamore watched Layton's expression slightly change as he fixed his cup. He's wondering what I could possibly have to discuss with Flora. If he finds this strange or suspicious...I can hardly blame him. Sycamore briefly considered tossing some current events topic out there...but with his recent disconnection with the world and, as a result, limited knowledge of current events, went with a cheap quip instead. "Don't worry, Layton. I didn't go into great detail about our adventures, or the mess you made on board the Bostonius many a day."

"Hahaha. I probably did leave many things out of place while doing research, come to think of it." Layton took the chair next to Flora. "Fortunately, Luke and Emmy were there to ensure things didn't get out of hand." He took his first sip of tea, savoring the taste. "I often forget just how much they did when they were here. Honestly, with them gone, I become wracked with guilt whenever I think of how much I put Flora through."

"Oh, I don't mind it, Professor," the girl insisted. "I'm just happy to be doing something."

"Yes, well..." Layton started to finish the thought, but diverted. "I appreciate what you do, Flora. And thank you for the tea."

"Y-you're welcome!"

"Well, well," Sycamore said with a chuckle. "Looks as though he didn't forget after all. Isn't that right, Flora?"

Flora giggled at that, and then stood up. "Well, I'd better get started on my homework. I'll be back for the dishes."

"You two seem to be getting along," Layton said after she left.

"She's a fine young lady," Sycamore replied. "Well-mannered and thoughtful."

"Yes, she is. Most days...I fear I may be wasting her potential."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't...well, perhaps that conversation is meant for another time."

I sense he wants to have this conversation now...but is holding off for my sake. Desmond took another sip of tea. "...Perhaps."

"Incidentally-" Layton started, "-well, this may also be a conversation meant for another time, but you mentioned something earlier. I don't mean to pry, but...you said you had buried Raymond after the crash?"

Sycamore was taken aback. "Oh...well...y-yes..."

"I thought it curious, how the Bostonius crashed with no news of the incident anywhere. There was also no mention of Raymond in the obituary section of the paper. So, I must ask...where exactly did this crash occur?"

"It was...on a remote hill, about an hour's drive from here. Maybe two. There were no businesses or homes, except for farmland down the road. It...happened at night, and a storm was coming in, so I suspect a loud, thunderous noise seemed nothing out of the ordinary. In between the flashes of lightning, I did manage to find some tools in the wreckage, some in tact. I couldn't think of anything to do except to dig a proper grave for the man who had dedicated his life to serving me."

"So you buried Raymond by the crash site?"

Sycamore nodded. "I'm surprised I had it in me, considering my own injuries. When I was done, I placed a marker into the mound. That's when the rain started to pour, so I sought shelter in one of the bigger pieces of the Bostonius. I suppose that was...a day before you found me in the park."

"Then...how did you end up here?"

"I walked. At least until I found a town with bus services to London. I waited until it was late at night, of course. In that state, I would have invited far too many questions, and I'd lost my other disguises. When I reached London, I wandered around for a while. Not in the open, no. There was too much on my mind, so I eventually found myself at a place where I could clear it."

"I see." Layton set his cup down on the table, saucer and all. "It just...seems a shame to just leave everything there. Are you sure there isn't anything else you could have taken with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Something of value to you. Something to remind you of Raymond...or...would that be painful for you right now?"

Sycamore broke his gaze, looking downward with a sad expression. "Oh, I...I don't know, Layton. I didn't even think about that at all. Once the Bostonius went down and Raymond was killed, I just considered that chapter of my life over. I don't keep mementos of my past. Truthfully, I've never had that luxury."

"But if you had the chance..."

"...I don't know," Sycamore repeated in a whisper. "I think...that just having something he owned would just be a reminder that he was gone forever. I'm not suggesting it's foolish to have a reminder of the past, of course, but I cannot see how it would benefit me in this time."

"It would be painful to look upon now, but later, you might appreciate having something around." Layton took a moment to touch the rim of his top hat before transferring it from his head onto his lap. "Do you know why I wear this top hat, Desmond? It's a memento of the woman I loved...and lost. She gave it to me to congratulate me on my new career as professor. Now, one might say that it's more painful to keep it around, but the more I wore it, the more determined I became...not just to uncover the mystery behind her death, but to become a true gentleman."

"Yes," Sycamore said. "I sometimes forget that you, too, know the pain of losing loved ones."

Layton returned the hat to his crown. "You aren't the only one who forgets things. Speaking of which...I never thanked you for looking after me."

"What are you talking about? Didn't you make that speech this morning?"

"I don't mean when we were children..." Layton started to break eye contact. "When I...as I was pursuing answers to Claire's death, I was set upon by henchmen hired by Bill Hawks. I could have died right there in that alley...but by some miracle, I ended up at the hospital, albeit with several weeks of recovery before me. They say I had lost consciousness for much of that time, but early on, I had a dream...or what I had thought was a dream. In it, the doctor had entered my room...but his coat was too short and dark, his hair a little too curly, and for a man with perfect eyesight, he was wearing glasses..." Now it was Layton who appeared grief-stricken. "That was ten years ago. That very same year. I was the reason you were there, visiting. That's what you were doing the night that Targent killed your...your..." He could only choke on the word. "Desmond, I...I'm so sorry. If you hadn't taken me to the hospital and watched over me, your wife and daughter, they would still be..."

Sycamore was stunned by both the apology, as well as Layton's ability to unravel a mystery. "I...suppose I shouldn't be surprised you figured it out. But...Layton...please, don't think that for a moment. What happened with my wife and daughter was not your fault. Believe me, you weren't the only one with questions as to why there hadn't been any follow-up coverage to the explosion at the Polydimensional Research Institute. When I first read the name of the deceased, I knew I had to reach out to you. It was by sheer luck that I found you in that alley, especially in that rainstorm. As for why I watched over you...you're my brother; of course I had to make sure you were all right. But even if I had returned home earlier, it would not have prevented the deaths of my family, and chances are I would have also been killed in the blast."

"But..."

"Really, you have nothing to be sorry for." Sycamore found himself falling back into his habit of offering a gentle smile to those in need of one. "If I hadn't gone to check up on you, well, you said it yourself. You could have died in that alley with the injuries you sustained. Of course, it's horrible what happened, and I've never forgiven Targent for what they did, but the truth is, it could have been much, much worse."

Layton looked at the man for a moment before uttering a dry chuckle. "Listen to me, feeling sorry for myself when you'd been through far worse, and had just come out of another ordeal! I apologize for being so selfish. It's just...I'm sure I would have enjoyed meeting my sister-in-law and niece."

Sycamore's smile only broadened. "I'm sure they would have liked that too. Anna was an intellectual, and incredibly kind. Millie inherited some of her mother's qualities, and had an insatiable curiosity. They...brought me so much happiness, even if it was for a short while."

"It sounds like they were wonderful people."

"They were." The smile suddenly disappeared, replaced by a solemn expression. "Um...listen, Layton...about before...what you were saying about...having a keepsake...I think...I think I would like to see if anything still exists at the crash site."

"Of course," Layton told him. "We can go tomorrow. I only have one lecture, so I can take you there before lunchtime."

"Thank you..."

"When you spoke of this being 'remote,' you were not exaggerating in the least," Layton remarked, turning the car onto the dirt road. "I'm not surprised no one has noticed the wreckage yet. In between the hills, and all of these trees, I can hardly see the Bostonius."

"Yes," Sycamore agreed, then pointed to a cluster of trees. "You'll want to park right up here. There is much debris, and I would hate for something to happen to your vehicle."

Layton complied, bringing the car to a stop. The two men exited, wordlessly trekking on ahead.

The horror of the wreckage reached Layton's sights before he passed the last tree. "My word..." The Bostonius, or what was left of it, was scattered across the ground in pieces of varying size. They seemed to lead a trail up to the side of a hill, where the largest piece had come to rest. "It's...it's just as you said, Desmond, but..."

Sycamore slowly walked past Layton and then stopped, observing the scene. "...it's unfathomable that anyone survived this. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Well...I couldn't believe it, either. I don't know why I walked away with mere scratches and bruising, while Raymond's body lay broken on the hillside."

"I don't know what to say."

"Then say nothing, Layton." With a sigh, Sycamore approached a giant orange chunk surrounded by numerous personal belongings and trinkets. He stepped around and then knelt down, digging through the items.

Layton followed Sycamore's example and found another piece of the airship to examine. All he found were white cabinets with broken dishes spilling halfway out of them. This must have been part of the kitchen. I remember those days when Aurora and Emmy would gather around the range to help Raymond cook. Layton was then thrown out of the memory, surprised at himself. This is Desmond's airship, not mine. We are not here to find anything precious for my sake. But he couldn't deny a certain sadness at seeing the Bostonius in its current state.

Sycamore gave a soft chuckle in the distance. "Feeling nostalgic, Layton?" he asked, a joyless quip. "I haven't forgotten the trip with your friends...and the Azran girl, Aurora. Strange that that should be in the forefront of my mind in all my years of owning the Bostonius. But then...you all had made that journey memorable." He appeared to be holding an item in each hand.

"Did you find something, Desmond?" Layton asked.

"What?" Sycamore turned around as Layton approached. "Something like that..." he said, lifting his left hand. "The blasted ship was torn to bits, but my glasses case doesn't have a scratch on it...and believe it or not, the glasses inside are intact as well."

"Well, that's fortunate. But...that hat...did you...?"

"Yes." Sycamore pocketed the case and held up his other hand, which had in its grasp one of Descole's hats. "Sometimes I think I had too many of these, and not enough actual disguises." He scoffed. "Though for the sake of convenience..."

"Hmm..." Something then caught Layton's eye. "Oh."

"What is it?"

"That marker over there...is that...?"

Sycamore turned around, following Layton's gaze. They were looking at a mound of dirt close to the hill, with a fractured stake poking out of the end. "Y-yes. That is where I buried Raymond."

"But in your state..."

"I know. I don't know how I was able to do it. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, perhaps I was so numb that I didn't notice my own injuries. I just knew I wanted to do something for Raymond. I can never repay the debt I surely owe him, but..." He walked off toward the fresh grave, hat still in hand.

Layton quickly caught up with the man, and the two stopped just in front of the dirt.

"I...never said goodbye. When I found him, he was barely moving, with the blood trickling down his face. He managed to look up at me, uttering 'Master' with his final breath." With a deep sigh, Sycamore lowered himself to one knee, reaching out to the grave with his free hand. "Raymond...was my most loyal companion. I know I've said this before. I've known him even longer than the woman I would eventually marry. He did more than just look after the Sycamore household. He sometimes helped me with my research, and kept tabs on Targent. Anna and Millie were fond of him. Millie, especially, always wished to include him in family events..." His hand moved side to side in a slow, light motion, causing ribbon-like tracks in the dirt. "He was there when Descole was 'born.' He never...tried to sway me from taking my revenge. He simply suggested I take a hat with me." Desmond briefly lifted the item as if to demonstrate. "He helped me sew together the cloak. The ribbon had come from one of Millie's dresses, one of the few things that managed to survive the fire. The original boa was Anna's; by chance, she had left it in our car. Even the mask was inspired by a phase Millie went through after watching a certain movie. It sounds silly now, but keeping their belongings on my person, to me, it was a way of allowing them to get their revenge on Targent as well. But...now I see I was just blind with grief...and hatred. I know Anna would have wanted no part of such foul plots. And while Millie might have grasped the concept of revenge, she would not have understood why her father would show such cruelty to anyone else."

"Is that what you truly think, Desmond?"

"Of course. I can barely look back on my own misdeeds without revulsion and disgust. Why should they feel any differently?"

"Because, Desmond, they were your family. They will always be your family. You all meant something to each other, and I do not believe they would have easily abandoned their love for you. They might have felt shock or confusion, but undoubtedly they would have found compassion in their hearts for a man who has lost family twice in his young life."

"I appreciate what you are trying to say, Layton, but...it doesn't matter now. They're gone. It was...a nightmare in the months that followed their deaths. I couldn't prove Targent had anything to do with the explosions, so the police couldn't make any arrests. I...was about ready to give up, but seeing Raymond there, still carrying on, still so dedicated to serving me...I knew I had to find another purpose. He was there through every decision I made, sound or poor. He was there...when the Azran nightmare was over...and we embarked on a new adventure." Sycamore set the hat upon his own head, pulling it downward in an apparent attempt to hide his face. "He...was there...whenever I found myself still thinking of them. And now...he's gone...the last remaining tie...to my wife...and daughter..." He trailed off, head bowed, and there was a barely audible pat, followed by another, and another, as tiny holes appeared in the dirt. Sycamore was trembling now, and it sounded as though he were trying to stifle something, but this soon gave way to tortured sobbing.

As the man wept, Layton's expression turned somber, and he removed his own hat in respect. He placed a sympathetic hand upon his elder brother's shoulder as he looked on, ever the silent guardian.