“I’m sorry.”

It was a simple room Johann lay in, dark and dimly lit by the candle on his bedside. Through the black window crept in the darkness, like tendrils reaching down from the starless sky, flooding into the corners and streaking dancing shadows across the walls.

Klara leaned forward, elbows set on her knees. She looked away from him — peaked cap pulled down over her eyes — into her shadow.

“If that’s the case, my leave ends tomorrow.”

“I presume you’ll be gone by the time I wake up.”

“That’s correct.”

Johann sucked in his lips, eyes fixated on the blanket over him. She held out a hand to try and arrange it better.

“No.” he swatted it away. “I’m fine.”

There was a pause.

“Wish your mother was here.”

“Me too.”

Klara’s hands moved, grabbing tightly onto the knees of her uniform. Slowly, she stood up, figure looming over his bedside. He glanced upwards for a second, but again he looked away, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the blanket.

“I raised you better.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to sleep now. Don’t wake me.”

“I won’t. I’ll make you something for breakfast before leaving tomorrow, so you won’t have to strain yourself.”

“You can excuse yourself from my house already.”

Klara went quiet. Her cheek twitched.

“I’ll see you another time, then.”

“Don’t wake me, Klara.”

“Goodnight.”

With that, Johann lifted up the blankets to move. Like a veritable beast, the paled and wrinkled man turned to face the other wall, staring through the window ahead. Klara waited for another moment, before she heard him make a snort. And then she left, quietly shutting the door behind her.

Alone, Johann turned in his bed again, made another snort, and died.

----------------------------------------

In the western reaches, where the vast plains turn to rolling hills, and where those hills then start to stretch vertically into the rocky crags of Rowenna’s mountains, nuzzled in a wooded vale carved like a wound into the ridge, there one finds the Hildegard Estate. It darkly looms over the village below, and from its tallest tower, one could see for miles eastwards, where the ocean of snowy white fields melts seamlessly into a foggy horizon and a cloudy sky.

But the tallest tower isn’t there anymore. For two decades nearly, it’s been a pile of broken rubble, shattered brickwork and roof tiles in the estate courtyard. What few surviving sections of wall it has left lean wearily on the ivy-covered west wing of a vast and run-down manor that hasn’t seen maintenance or renovation in veritable lifetimes.

The Hildegard Estate is haunted. So, at least, go the rumours just a ways below, in the small village that the Hildegards once held as fief. It’s still theirs, by grant of the Raven Crown, that’s not the issue. The issue is that there’s just one Hildegard left, and she doesn’t really like to come and rule.

The young Lady Hildegard never cared to come down to the hamlet as her father did, tell the villagers what to do, order them how to live their lives. She asked no taxes, no tithes, she has no demands except that every once in a while they send someone up to that mountaintop abode of hers with some food and water.

Today is another day.

Darla’s knees hurt. There were so many steps chiselled into the mountain stone, winding up the gorge towards the manor. How spry her boy must be, she thinks, to climb these things daily, up and down, to and from that blasted gate. Her boots crush the moss blanketing the rocks as she climbs, huffing. Or how old I must be, she harrumphs.

The gate to the estate is permanently open, a handful of flat stones wedged under the bottom rails to keep the doors from swinging closed. Twin vultures loom on either side, cast in brass that’s lost its sheen, edges smoothed away by wind. Even then, it feels like the glassy white marbles of their eyes stare her down as she enters the estate courtyard, passing through the trench dug in the thick matting of snow by her son. It leads to the grand, black doors of the manor proper.

Hesitation courses through her when she lifts up a hand, and her bare fingers touch the frigid metal of the ornate knocker. Paul does this daily. It must be safe. The darkened, black windows glint with the light of the faraway sun, but none of it seems to pierce into the interior.

She knocks a couple times, tensely. No response. Another few knocks.

“Hello?”

Her voice cracks a bit, before she sighs. Paul left her the key, but when she slides it into the door, it’s already unlocked. With a deep breath, she struggles to heave the heavy thing open.

The interior is pitch black.

“Hello? Hell… bugger.” she sighs, and pushes the door as wide as it can open, to let some of the weary noon light flood into the entrance foyer. It’s a massive chamber, easily bigger than her whole house. Its corners are flooded with cobwebs, and there’s a huge web of silk spun between the unlit chandelier and the opposing wall, with tentative threads snaking across the whole roof like spider hammocks.

Ahead, a twin set of staircases leads up to a second floor, the foyer overlooked by a balcony.

“Hello?” Darla steps inside, pulling the wool cloak tighter over herself. How can the interior be colder than the outside? This place is safe, Paul comes here every day, sweat beads on her forehead. Words echo hollowly through halls black as night. “Is there anyone there?”

Maybe the Lady is simply sleeping, or maybe she’s just busy. It’s a huge manor, after all. There’s more rooms here than in the entire village, probably. But the darkness feels oppressive. Everything is so old, so rundown. It all feels like it’s on the edge of collapsing under its own weight, like a strong shove can topple it over. Tall, mahogany bookshelves stretch all the way to the darkness of the ceiling, suffocated with more books than Darla’s seen in her whole life.

“Lady Hildegard? My lady, are you there?” she calls out. The words hang in the air. Is she meant to go looking? Darla throws a glance into one of the hallways to the side, winding throughout the whole first floor from their convergence in the foyer. Nothing but silent, muffling blackness looks back at her. “Well, if you’re not here, I will just…”

She takes a ragged breath when she hears the wind blowing — and, suddenly, the silence shatters. Every window rattles in its frame, the door creaks loudly on its hinges, before the air tugs hard on it, and the whole thing slams shut with a resounding noise like the devil himself closed it behind him. Darla lets out a yelp, fingers twitching, before she stiltedly sets down a basket on the carpeted floor, starting to back away.

“I will just… leave this here, and come back later, when you’re around. My Lady…”

“You’re not Paul.”

Darla freezes. Her eyes shoot wildly side-to-side, through the darkness that encompassed the whole foyer. That voice couldn’t have been the Lady’s. All of a sudden, she feels her skin prickle, as if a hundred different eyes begin to stare at her from the darkness.

In an instant, she feels the need to pray, to ask forgiveness at least, for trespassing in the haunted estate. To plead with the shadows. But words freeze in her throat, and paralysed where she stands, she slowly looks upward.

Standing on the second floor balcony, the Lady Hildegard looks down at her, lit candle in hand. Its light shines on a pale face, contoured by the shadows of sharp features, glinting on glowing eyes with pupils dark like flint, showing lips seemingly trapped in permanent frowning. The Lady’s figure moves briskly, descending the stairs with steps so light they don’t even make sound, and before Darla knows it, she’s standing right in front of her.

“My Lady… I…”

She sucks in a ragged breath. After hearing so many stories of the estate — spoken hushedly around the village church, shared under one’s breath at the market, murmured to scare others when the nights get dark — stories of a corpsely figure staring through the windows, of a gargoyle that stalks the halls at night, of a living daemon that only walks the gardens under moonlight or a hag that paints the walls with sigils to the Beast; even after Paul told her they were all just nothing more than stories… the last thing she expected was for Lady Hildegard to look like a normal woman. A young woman, at that, with a long mane of hair the shade of charcoal, wearing a thick coat of black fur that hides nearly all of her figure. In the vague lighting, it’s truly hard to tell where the coat and hair ends and where the darkness begins, and with vision blurred by fear, it almost seems like the Lady is simply a concerned, white face floating in the shadows.

“I’m… Darla. Paul’s mother,” she says, voice shaking.

The Lady pauses for a moment, tilting her head.

“Oh, you are? Why, where are my manners?” she takes a step forward, and again Darla feels like freezing up. But before she knows it, a leather-gloved hand reaches through the darkness, tightly gripping hers into a handshake. “A pleasure.”

She lets go of her hand, the woman still stunned, and after taking a step back, Lady Hildegard does this over-the-top courtesy, bowing deeply, until straightening her back again, strange eyes once more fixated on Darla.

“Paul told me about you.”

“A-ah… yes, yes, he told me about you, too,” Darla answers, stiltedly. The Lady’s eyes go wide.

“He did? Did he?” she asks. “I hope he left you with a good impression about me. I always asked him to.”

Darla sucks in her lips, staying quiet for an awkward moment. But thankfully she doesn’t need to think of what to say, as the Lady glances to the side.

“Sorry, one moment.”

She turns, and Darla keeps her eyes on her cautiously, taking a few steps back when the Lady’s back is facing her.

“Ksssss!” the Lady hisses into the darkness. Confusion wells in the woman for a moment, before the Lady hisses again, tapping her booted foot against the soggy old carpet. At last, on the edges of her candle’s light, Darla jolts. Did the darkness… move?

A furry leg steps into view, followed by another, and then a body dark like the abyss, with a head dominated by two big, luminous yellow eyes. The Lady bends down slightly, scratching the cat’s ears as about half a dozen smaller kittens also march into view, flanking their mother. The largest cat keeps staring at Darla, with the same eyes that she swore she felt when the door slammed shut. Little devil! she narrows her eyes on it.

“Did you bring them food?” the Lady suddenly turns to ask again. “Paul hasn’t come in a few days - they’ve been starving…”

“A-ah! Yes, yes. Paul said something about fish, I went and got some. I wanted to find some fresh, but in the middle of winter, my Lady…”

“They’re not salted, are they?”

“No no, they’re smoked—”

“Then that’s perfect. Kssss. Come here, come. Come on,” she whispers to the marching row of cats. “Go. Mrs. Sawyer has food for you.”

Darla can’t quite react fast enough to the furballs rapidly descending upon the basket she left on the floor. Within moments, one climbing over the other, the sea of kittens climbs inside, rummaging around with their little heads to find something to nibble on.

“I do hope they didn’t scare you.” Lady Hildegard straightens her back suddenly, and from the pile of rowdy cats, her eyes suddenly dash to look back at the woman again. Darla shivers and takes a step back. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing at all, my lady! Nothing at all!” she’s quick to wave a hand through the air and give a shallow, short bow. “Nothing at all. May I…”

“Ah, perfect, then. Join me for lunch.”

Darla’s eyes widen, and she looks at Lady Hildegard’s face again. For a moment, her eyes make contact with hers - the yellow halos of light that dance around her flinty pupils, glowing in the black inky darkness around her! Alight, luminous like the eyes of her cats, and when her pupils slowly narrow, she can sense how her gaze digs deep into her, and she can feel how her skin gets goosebumps and her bones shiver with the cold sensation of a bad omen.

The stories, the rumours, they were correct. The Lady is cursed. She has to be! Why else would her gaze alone be so terrifying, Darla thinks.

“Come on, in the dining hall. It’s not far.” Before Darla can protest, the black-coated woman turns on her heels. The thick damp carpets muffle her booted footfalls, and the flickers of light of her candle lick uselessly against the opaque darkness like a yellowed smudge streaking across a black canvas. Before she knows it, Darla has to follow, lest she gets trapped in the shadows again.

“Actually, my lady… I am very busy today, in fact, and-!”

“Oh, almost forgot, grab the basket, please! The food is all in there, no?”

“My lady, I…” Darla trails off. Lady Hildegard turns around. Her clothes so dark, all that Darla can see is her angular snow-white face staring at her, topped with those awful, golden eyes. She shivers with another cold sweat, then leans down, grabs the basket of food and stands up again. A lone black kitten remains in the container, staring ahead.

“You’re busy? I don’t doubt you are, miss Sawyer. After all, Paul told me already, you’re a hardworking woman. It’s why you’re having lunch with me, after all, I wouldn’t want you to have to go back down all those stony steps on an empty stomach, miss Sawyer.”

“Oh, my lady, that’s so very kind of you, but…”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Please, it’s just good manners. Please, please, come on. I’ll light the fireplace, too. I see you haven’t- ah, Paul brings firewood, too, usually, but it’s okay that you haven’t. I’ll light a curtain on fire or something.”

“My lady, please, don’t be so wasteful just for me!”

“Nonsense. Besides…” the woman stops when she enters a wide, spacious black chamber. She runs a gloved hand through her hair, tucking a long strand of her onyx mane behind an ear. “It’s quite freezing in here, no?”

“Well…”

“No?”

“I do greatly appreciate it, my lady, but…” Darla feels the words die in her throat when Lady Hildegard turns again, and she can almost feel her gaze dragging white-hot fingernails against the back of her head. She gulps, then nods. “Actually, my lady, yes, it is indeed quite chilly in h-here…”

“Exactly. Take a seat, miss Sawyer! I’ll be right with you, I’ll be right with you.” and, just like that, Lady Hildegard sets the candle on a table, and her frame melts into shadow.

Slowly, awkwardly, the woman shuffles her feet along the carpet, a hand outstretched, feeling through the darkness. Her fingers cautiously touch what she assumes to be the fur-lined backrest of a chair. She stumbles around for a few more moments, before suddenly, a light appears in the darkness. Then another, and then another: dim, white flickers of flame, as the row of tall, red candles lined across the spine of the desk slowly come to life, seemingly on their own.

“My lady?”

The words echo. No reply. Not even a peep of golden eyes flashing through the black room. There’s just a lone, long dinner table in the sea of darkness, lit by candles that just keep on lighting themselves, surrounded by old velvet chairs that’ve been in dire need of new, less musty-smelling upholstery for decades.

“Ah!” Darla yelps and pulls her hand off the backrest she touched. At first, she thinks something dead might be keeled over it - but then she notices it’s just the Lady’s fur coat. In the candlelight, something glints on its chest: an iron broach, casted roughly and polished by time, of a skull.

“Something happened?” Lady Hildegard speaks suddenly, her eyes finally seen blinking at the far end of the table. Behind her, a weak and anaemic fire crackles in a faded fireplace. “There was some leftover wood, after all. No need to harm the curtains, the cats already do that enough.”

With her no longer shawled in the thick coat of a village hag, Darla eyes Lady Hildegard up and down. After all that’s happened, she expected to see bat wings bulging from her back, maybe clawed fingers, or at least one tentacle. But there’s none of that - the odd noblewoman looks like any other wild-haired 20-year-old, wearing a white buttoned shirt that’s got an unsightly stain on it. The Lady walks over and pulls herself a chair, motioning for Darla to also sit.

“So- hungry, right?'' She reaches for a knife and fork, and Darla tenses up. The Lady reaches into the basket, fishing out the errant kitten and setting him down gently on the ground, before starting to rummage for food. “Hmm… ooh. Okay, okay, this is nice…” she pulls out a loaf of rich-coloured bread and sets it on a plate, followed by a couple sausages in crispy, dark, smoky cases.

“My lady, the… candles, how did you?”

“Hm? Oh, same way I lit the fire. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. So…” Lady Hildegard trails off, focused on the food, and Darla finds her eyes wandering.

It’s a large chamber, this dining hall. Behind her, everything is still black, contained from the brightness outside by the thick red curtains over the windows. Ahead, though, the light of the fireplace is enough to illuminate a grand wall, covered in the same peeling beige wallpaper, bearing all manner of hanging animal heads. Deer, bears, boars - they say the late Lord Hildegard was an avid hunter, but that he seldom ate the beasts he’d kill. In the centre of the veritable head collection is a tall painting, showing a dour-faced pale man in a black fur coat like the Lady’s, greying hair slicked back along his head, wielding some manner of pearly sceptre in one hand, topped with a purplish crystal. A woman with similarly dark hair stands next to him, of slightly livelier complexion, wearing a dress of silvery scales. The colour has drained, by now, the varnish browned by time, the details on the faces faded away.

“That’s dad,” says the Lady, in such a way that makes Darla jolt. “Oh, sorry, I saw you looking.”

“Sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to not pay attention…”

“Don’t worry. That’s mom next to dad, too. She died a long while before he did,” she says, in a tone that’s just as sudden. Her words mellow out a little, shifting from that monotone, clueless politeness to something a bit more… solemn. “I think it’s-… actually, no, never mind. Not something I should talk about, to a guest.”

Darla gives the Lady a look, and with her head turned towards the painting, for the first time the old woman senses something in her heart. Not fear, but rather, pity. Lord Hildegard died more than a decade ago, and though she has vague memories of a second wife, she doesn’t recall ever seeing her visit the estate after his funeral. How long has this girl been living here, alone?

“I’m sorry, my lady.”

“What for? Death’s death.” Lady Hildegard shrugs.

“It doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Darla says in a softer, more gentle tone, reaching out a hand. She almost touches the Lady’s shoulder, before she turns again, and her eyes stare right into her. Those eyes!

Darla pulls her hand back. She’s a sad thing - but she’s not right to be around, either. Her manor, her manner of being, the candles and the fireplace… perhaps the rumours are overblown, but the Lady Hildegard is not someone she should turn her back to. She doesn’t want to risk it.

“I forgot to say,” the Lady speaks, suddenly. “I never actually introduced myself properly. I’m Red.”

She holds out a black-gloved hand.

“Red Hildegard.”

Darla looks at her fingers - like blocks of black chalk in those leather coverings. A burst of cold fear shoots through her; handshakes are not to be trifled with. Red’s eyes continue to stare, eyes shimmering with dark grey under all the gold, and she can feel the coldness in her form just growing ever-worse. Is she going to trust her with a handshake? I can’t, she thinks, I shouldn’t!

Shutting her eyes, Darla shakes her hand. Without so much as giving her a chance to protest earlier, Red had shaken it already. What’s done is long done, and if she truly did seal a pact with some malevolent beast, then she had done it way back in the foyer. A second handshake ought to do no more harm.

“Dar-“

“Darla Sawyer, you told me? Sorry, Miss Sawyer, I suppose I should call you. Paul said a lot of things about you, ma’am, and I hope I’ve made a good first impression to his mother.”

“You have, good lady. Thank you.” Darla forces a smile. Perhaps, maybe, she’s not an evil daemon. Maybe it’s just her manor that’s cursed.

Red suddenly runs a knife across the plate, roughly cutting a sausage in half. She grabs one of the two pieces in her fingers, before pushing the plate over to the mother. Darla looks at it cautiously, before grabbing it and taking a bite while Red tears off a chunk of bread, before starting to eat quickly and messily, hardly pausing to breathe between bites.

“Do you like it, my lady?”

“It’s-“ Red wipes her lips with her sleeve. “…Tasty. Thank you.” she nods, moving to cut the other sausage. “So… Returning to the previous question. Is Paul okay? I’m worried he might’ve gotten sick, he hasn’t visited in a couple days.”

The question itself. Darla knew she’d ask about her son at some point, and she wondered how she’d reply. They were friends, she knows that much - but after all that the Lady has done and shown, she’s starting to wonder if it really is the best idea to let her know what happened to Paul.

“Ah, he… well, I’m sure you’ve heard the news, my Lady.”

“I haven’t. News don’t really reach me often - Paul sometimes offered to bring the newspaper, but I don’t like reading it. All of the gazettes, they’re…” she trails off, roughly biting off another chunk of bread. “They’re rubbish.”

“Ah. I see. Well…”

“Sorry if you do happen to have a favourite,” Red is quick to interject, looking over her food and back to the woman. Darla stiffens up. “I don’t judge. I just don’t really like them. Too cosmopolitan, so many of them. Too political, too, it’s tiring.”

“No, no, my Lady. I too don’t really read the news that much, but…” Darla trails off.

“I just hope Paul is okay, Miss Sawyer. If there’s anything wrong...” the Lady interjects again. “I would want to help him, however I can. Tell me, is something wrong with Paul, Miss Sawyer?”

There’s another moment of simply waiting, staring into the dim light of the enchanted candles. The flames wane, they grow, they flicker atop their wicks, sometimes threatening to go out, but hanging on. At last:

“Three days ago, men from the army came. They told us the kingdom is calling upon its reservists. Gerald had a day to pack up and leave for the capital,” Darla finally decided to explain. The Lady raises an eyebrow - Gerald was a name she knew, Paul’s father. A veteran from a war fought a decade ago, just like her own dad. Only difference is, Paul’s didn’t need a casket when he came back.

Red listens in silence, hands dropping to her knees, where her gloved fingers tightly grab around her legs.

“Paul wanted to go with him, but Gerald refused. He went with the soldiers, but the next day, when I went looking for Paul… he wasn’t anywhere to be found. He grabbed a big bundle of his clothes and some food and left a note, saying he’s going to the recruitment office in Torain.”

“Is Paul stupid?” Red stands up suddenly, and the chair grinds along the carpet behind her, almost falling over. “Why would he do such a thing, what’s with him and wanting to join the army all of a sudden?”

Darla opens her mouth, but the Lady continues.

“Does he want to die?”

A silence, then, dawns. It feels like even the candles weaken their light, and the whole room goes dimmer. Darla doesn’t have anything to say - or doesn’t want to answer, or doesn’t want to even think of an answer. Red’s lip twitches, and she continues:

“So, he left three days ago.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And he didn’t even come to tell me!” Red says, suddenly - and the flames of the candles flicker, before growing and reddening, until they are like torches on the table. The wax sticks begin to sag and melt, and the amber-brown liquid drips onto the cloth. “Why? Why would he do such a thing? Simply leave like that, without so much as a goodbye?”

“I imagine, my lady…” Darla trails off, looking at the ground. But she can feel Red’s piercing gaze already staring into her, and her skin gets goosebumps all over. “...He knew you would try to stop him. In the letter, he asked me to start being the one to take care of you while he’s away, and to apologise in his stead for leaving without a word.”

At last, the burning flames of the candles weaken again. They shrink, and shrink, and shrink some more until the entire room is practically dark again, and the tiny inklings of bluish-white fire on the tips of the wicks barely even register to the naked eye.

The Lady slumps down and falls into her chair, quietly. Looking down, a shaggy waterfall of dark hair covers the piercing, bright eyes that had been shooting daggers into Darla the entire conversation.

“I’m sorry, my lady. It’s… hurt me too, and I do hope Paul will be okay. He’s going to be with Gerald, at least, and I know he’ll take good care of him. And besides, he’s a strong young man. He shouldn’t have a problem in the army.”

“Do you think, Mrs. Sawyer,” Red begins, in a soft voice, so soft that Darla has to lean in if she wants to hear. “That the army would call up its reservists for no reason, in the middle of winter?”

Darla doesn’t reply.

“Something’s on the horizon, and whatever it is, Paul is throwing himself headlong into it.”

She stands up, suddenly, and the woman has to lean back in her chair to not awkwardly bump into her as she does. The Lady looms over Darla, but speaks in that same soft tone.

“But don’t worry. I’ll figure out what it could be… and I’ll go and find Paul, too, and make sure he’ll be fine,” Red speaks. Suddenly, she seems to turn her attention towards the wall to the right, where the thick, red curtains were blotting out the light of the world outside, tied together by knots of faded yellow rope. On their own, the knots undo themselves, and with the sound of rusted curtain hooks sliding against old wooden rods, the massive red walls move away.

Darla has to squint as light floods into the entire room. She didn’t realise up until now how much she spent in the darkness, but now that everything was so much brighter, it was almost blinding. After a moment, though, she can open them again, and she looks around.

In natural light, the dining room looks so much less terrifying. Without the obscuring shadow, not even the stuffed animal mounts on the opposing walls seem that scary anymore. Now that she can see well, the old dining room looks just like that… an old, sad, forgotten place, tucked away in the dusty wing of a manor that was never meant to have just a single, lonely soul haunting its halls.

“Yeah. This place needed this.” Red sighs. She looks a lot less looming, too, now that Darla sees her. A lot lankier - that fur coat really made up the bulk of her silhouette. And in daylight, her eyes seem to glow a bit less, even if their gaze is just as intense as before.

“Yes, my lady.” Darla nods in agreement.

Outside, no longer muffled through thick curtains, there’s the sound of rain. Greyish, cold drops slap against the windows, rolling down in wet columns, fogging up the glass. The winter is still young, and the weather is still in this state where it can’t quite make up its mind between rain or snow.

“That’s the last rain we’ll get until spring,” says Red, quietly.

“You think so, my lady?”

“Yeah. Look, the rain freezes as soon as it hits the window in places. By tomorrow, it’ll probably have turned into a right blizzard. It’ll be hard-going to get to Torain in this weather.”

“You’re leaving already, my lady? You’ll get sick on the road.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, a little rain won’t hurt me. And Torain isn’t far away, I just need to follow the coast of Solenna’s Eye. Besides, I need to hurry, Paul already has a couple days’ lead on me.”

She turns to face Darla, again.

“I’m going to need a horse. Can you get me a horse, somehow, Mrs. Sawyer?”

“Um,” the woman drawls, surprised, but nods after a moment of thought. “Yes, I think I have someone I could ask.”

“Splendid, then I’ll go and prepare my bags. Oh, and before I go… I have another favour to ask of you.”

“Would you like me to take care of the house while you’re away, my lady?”

“The manor? Psh.” Red makes a dismissive scoff. “The dust’s already inches thick in most places, what’s a couple inches more while I’m gone? No no, it’s not that. Wait a moment.”

She pats her old shirt down for a pocket, but doesn’t find it. Then her pants, and she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, either. When she starts combing through the inner pockets of her fur coat, though, she pulls out a large, jangling ring of keys.

“Which one was it… ah, which one, which one… nevermind.” Instead, Red simply holds out her hand, offering the entire ring and anything on it. “Here. One of these is the key to the vault, in the upper basement. Take the staircase below the right one when you go in, and if you see wine bottles, you’ve gone too far and entered the cellar. Go back up and take a right at the first door, and then you should find it.”

She shrugs.

“I haven’t been there in years, but when I last saw it, there were still a lot of shiny jingle-jangles in there. Take whatever you’d like, and then a bit extra, as a gift from me.”

“Oh, my lady!” Darla puts a hand on her chest and blushes in surprise. “Why, I can’t accept that… to be trusted with the key to that? We’ve only just met…”

“You’re the same blood as Paul, aren’t you? And I’d trust him with the key to my soul.” Red insists, holding the ring a bit closer. “And besides, I’ve no use for whatever’s down there. Now, take it.”

With bashful politeness, Darla takes the set of keys and hides it away in her own coat, before looking back to Red. She wonders, though:

“Does nobody else come around here, my lady?” she asks.

Red answers promptly: “Paul did. Every day.”

“Well, besides Paul, my lady. My condolences, again, for your father, but is there truly nobody else who comes around?” Darla asks - the curiosity is shamefully burning by now. This whole grand estate, and only the pale lady to keep count within it. The pale lady and all of her cats, that is.

But she remembers - vaguely, of course, but still well enough to be able to recall - that someone else would come around, sometimes. Before her Paul was of age to climb the steps, and probably when the lady herself was merely a child. For a moment, the bright halos of light around Red’s eyes dampen, look downwards, and in her dark pupils swirls an emotion Darla finds difficult to pinpoint, in the second or so she can bear to look.

“There used to be. But not anymore,” says Red. Her tone is cold stone. “You needn’t worry about visitors. Aside from Paul, whoever else used to come here…” There’s a pause, now, and the lady’s hair falls in a waterfall across her face as she looks down. “Moved on from this dusty place, a long time ago.”

Darla, again, tightens up. She opens her mouth to say something, but Red’s moroseness doesn’t seem to last. From the darkness, there’s a squeaky meow like someone squeezed a rubber duck, and the lady’s attention whips towards it, instead.

“Right, right,” she adds before the woman can get a word out. “I said I had a favour to ask of you.”

By now, Darla’s begun to feel the sensation of a dozen little furry beasts rubbing against her ankles, moving past to get to their owner.

“I’d like you to take care of them, please. They need to be fed, brushed, have their claws trimmed every once in a while if you can be bothered,” Red says. “I don’t know for how long I’ll be gone, but… if you could maybe take them back to your home, I’d greatly appreciate it. You can take something extra from the vault in return for that.”

“Why, my lady…” Darla drawls, looking down at the swarm of cats. She winces a bit, but nods nevertheless. “I’d be happy to, of course.”

Red’s luminous eyes narrow, and faint wrinkles deepen around their corners. Crow’s feet, at her age? She nods and she smiles, before leaning down, carefully clutching one of the inky, furry kittens. When she stands straight again, she’s holding it gently by her face, the little thing clawing and swatting its paws through the air to be let down, but otherwise having a pretty passive, calm expression.

“Don’t let the superstitions fool you, Mrs. Sawyer,” Red says and turns to the side, gently kissing the forehead of the little black cat. “All cats are good luck.”

The woman does manage to crack a smile, at that sight.

“How many provisions should I pack you, my lady?”

“Not many. I’m only going to Torain and back,” Red answers. “It should be a very quick journey.”