SummerSimo Travel Troubles Notes and The Purring Page

The basement of the Mint Chocolate House felt like a stage set for a high-stakes drama, the cooling air thick with the heavy, velvety aroma of cocoa and an underlying chill of suspense. Marisa stood frozen near the crate, while Altea and Anna hovered like protective guardians of the village’s tranquility.
“Precision, Marisa,” I murmured, my voice echoing the methodical calm of Hercule Poirot. “We must observe before we disturb.”
I reached into my pocket and retrieved a pair of thin silk gloves. With the three women watching in hushed silence, I lifted the silver snuff box from its bed of Amazonian beans. The silver was tarnished in the crevices but worn smooth on the high points, much like the emblem on my mysterious blue book. The sleeping cat curled around the key seemed to watch us through the dim cellar light.
The Contents Revealed
As I clicked the latch open, a faint, bitter odor drifted upward—not the pleasant bitterness of dark chocolate, but the sharp, telltale scent of crushed almonds.

• The Poison: Inside lay a small residue of crystalline powder, reminiscent of the Amazonian vine extract that had once silenced Viviana Bellini.
• The Message: Tucked into the lid was a scrap of vellum with a single line written in shimmering silver ink: “The sweetest secrets are those that remain buried”.
• The Artifact: Nestled in the powder was a miniature brass gear, identical to the interlocking patterns I had seen on the hilt of the Raven’s Kiss.
  “This is no accident,” Altea stated, her fingers habitually reaching for a cigar she didn’t light. “The man in the gray coat—the one with the limp—he didn’t just deliver chocolate. He delivered a warning”.
  A Hitchcockian Pursuit
  “He can’t have gone far,” Anna interjected, her energy peaking like a caffeine rush. “Speranza’s streets are narrow, and a man with a limp is easily spotted by those who know how to look.”
  We ascended from the cellar, emerging into the honey-gold light of the setting sun. I looked toward the Coffee Taverna, where the evening crowd was beginning to gather. There, near the stone archway covered in ivy, I caught a glimpse of a gray silhouette. The man was moving toward the old well, his gait uneven, disappearing into the long, lazy shadows of the village.
  I felt the weight of Days of your Dreams in my mind, remembering its cryptic advice: Look not for what was taken, but for what was left behind. The snuff box was the “left behind,” and it pointed directly to a history that someone in Speranza wanted to keep in the dark.