In the Fog

[Rock of the Fraternity]

(Comments welcome.)

Mordent, 24th of May, 744

At first, Eleanor didn't even notice the creeping tendrils of fog unfurling themselves out of the distant trees. She was only five years old, was Eleanor, and she was having a tea party with her dolls. When you're five years old, your dolls can be a great comfort. To Eleanor, her dolls were just about everything. She was a solitary child, had been so since birth, shunning the company of the more active children in her home village, her two older sisters among them. Eleanor did not care too much for the company of anyone but her dollies.

So when the sun started to sink towards the west and the fog rose from the moist grass, recently cropped short by sheep, it was perhaps not so strange that Eleanor was too focused on her dollies, their teacups, their saucers and the toy teapot her oldest sister had carved for her, that she did not notice. She stayed placidly seated on the picnic rug that her second oldest sister had woven for her with her own two hands, holding up the 'tea conversation' with her darlings.
"Jezebel, you've spilled tea on your shirtfront again," she sternly reprimanded the doll she had inherited from her mother, the one with the real porcelain face and the lacey dress. "You shall have a spanking when we get home, young lady!"

Jezebel, whose name had simply been 'Jessie' when she had belonged to Eleanor's mother, did not reply, of course. Not in any way that an adult could have understood. Eleanor felt she could hear every word the doll with the porcelain face spoke, and who is to say that she was wrong? Is it not often said that children can see and hear things that adults cannot?

"No backtalk now, young lady," Eleanor sternly reprimanded Jezebel, picking her up and setting her down again with her back to the tea service and the other dolls. "It is time you had a time out."
Eleanor was, of course, mimicking what her own mother would say if one of her daughters fussed too much, or argued at the dinner table. Even the threat of the 'spanking when we get home' was a parroting of her mother's threat when her daughters misbehaved during shopping or visits to neighbours. And also just like her mother, Eleanor never made good on such threats.

"Shall we all have blackberry scones while Jezebel has her time out?" Eleanor asked of the other dolls. And, after a moment: "Very well then, let's! A blackberry scone for Molly, a blackberry scone for Janet, a blackberry scone for Michaela. There, and a blackberry scone for me, but none for naughty Jezebel."
The three other dolls silently received the (imaginary) blackberry scones from Eleanor's hands, while Jezebel stared sadly into the gathering fogs. Her eyes, made from real coloured glass, stared into the fog, little droplets of water condensing on them already while her mistress had tea and scones. If a doll's life exists in something other than a child's heart and mind, perhaps she saw.

In the copse of trees, which marked the edge of the Squire's Lands (grounds so sternly forbidden that even Eleanor knew not to go there, not even if the dolls told her it was a good place for a picnic), something moved. Something small and furtive, perhaps a little taller than Eleanor.

Do dolls really have voices, which little children can hear? Or did the chill touch of the fog simply penetrate Eleanor's little world of tea and scones? Did she hear the silent warning of her oldest - and if truth be told, favourite - doll, or was it just the white tendrils of the fog embracing her which made her look up?

"It is getting late," Eleanor declared sternly, "and you naughty girls should be at home already. Naughty, naughty! Go on home!" Rising, Eleanor pushed her dolls from the red-and-white chequered picnic carpet and started to roll the wooden tea service up in it, when something - Jezebel's warning? Her own instincts? - made her look toward the trees.
For a moment, nothing. Then, a movement of something small and furtive, not much larger than she.

Eleanor was a dreamy child, a solitary child. But she was not, contrary to the opinions of some in the village, an overly foolish child. Abandoning the carpet and the tea service, she snatched up her dollies and ran towards the village. Jezebel, Molly, Janet and Michaela swung and jolted in her little arms as she ran.
"I need to be at home," Eleanor whispered to herself, a small, cold trickle of sweat running down her back. "It's getting late and Mommy will be cross."

All around her, the fog seemed to leap from the ground, chill, white tendrils and clouds of it rising from the soil, from the grass, from every breath Eleanor sent out into the world as she ran, ran, ran.
And behind her, there was a sound that sent a jolt of terror through her small body: the sound of running footsteps.

Eleanor squeaked and ran at full speed, heading in the direction where home wa supposed to be. But as she was a little girl, still, and the fog was very thick, the inevitable happened. Somewhere in the fog, a rock was hidden, right in front of Eleanor's foot. And her foot caught, and Eleanor squeaked in fright, and Eleanor took a tumble, her face hitting the fog-wetted grass and her dolls' hard heads digging into her ribs.

When, gasping, she raised her head ... There was a shadow in the fog in front of her. It seemed to be about her height, maybe a little taller, a form which wavered and seemed to vanish, then returned, as if it was dissolving into the mists, then surging forth from them again. And a high, piping voice whispered from the fog: 'Do you ...?'

Eleanor squeaked again, this time in greater fright than before. She leaped to her feet and ran away, two dolls slipping from her grasp because she had to use one of her arms to lift herself up. She was running blindly now, running into the wavering, twisting fog, not knowing nor caring where she was going, so long as it was in a direction where that alien voice was not. Never before had she heard a voice so cold, never did she want to hear it again.

Run did Eleanor, run into the fog, run blindly, run fast, not knowing which dolls she held until she grasped their heads to squeeze them against her little body. One head was so cool and smooth - though now a crack ran down its forehead - that it had to be Jezebel. The other had a wooden head, which bounced and thumped against her shoulders as she ran, making her going more difficult.
That is, until she again heard the sound of the running footsteps behind her. Then Eleanor became mighty fast again, running like the wind, running like wildfire.

Running into a tree, which suddenly loomed from the blind, white fog that billowed all around her. It was Eleanor's good fortune that she was still holding the dolls pressed against her chest and tummy, for they formed a buffer which prevented her from slamming her head into the tree. Instead of being knocked out, she was simply knocked back and fell on her back, crying a little because she'd hurt her arms. Jezebel's porcelain skull cracked and splintered, the shards cutting into Eleanor's tender arms, so she sobbingly let her oldest - and if truth be told, favourite - doll fall from her arms.
Barely was she lying still, or the shadow was there, looming out of the darkening mists and standing over her. It was clearer now, a shape like a litle person, like a child ... holding something even smaller in its arms, holding it by the neck. A baby? Was it carrying a baby by the neck.
'Do you want ...?' came the voice, that eerie whisper, as the shadow leaned forward over Eleanor.

Eleanor wanted to cry out with fear, but her heart was hammering in her throat and her body wanted to be elsewhere. She rolled to her feet and ran, leaving the broken shards of poor Jezebel behind. Again she ran blindly, away from the thing following her, for the footsteps were running after her the moment she was off. And worse than footsteps, she heard soft, tinkling laughter, like the chiming of icicles, if icicles were also snakes. Cold, hissing laughter.

Where did Eleanor run? She did not know. She only knew that she ran, ran as fast and as far as she could, carrying her last doll, her lungs burning, her heart thundering in her chest as if it wanted to break out and flee further, without having to carry the rest of Eleanor's body with it. Run, run, run, Eleanor, run in the blind white world that is the fog. Run with that laughter in your ears -- and a hand flowing out of the fog, a small child's hand that caressed her cheek as she passed, making her gasp and change directions.

'Do you want ...?' came the voice again, dopplering weirdly out of the encircling fog, out of the air, out of the ground beneath her feet, perhaps even out of Eleanor's own sweat-slicked hair. 'Do you want ...?'

Another tree loomed out of the fog, but this time, Eleanor threw herself to the side and managed to miss it. Around the tree she ran -- right into the arms of the looming shadow, which whirled her around once, giggling. Up close, it smelled of strange herbs, sweat and something else. And up close, Eleanor saw the horrible thing it held, a baby malformed and mutilated. Gasping with fright, Eleanor looked up into a hooded face, obscured by shadow but for one thing. Crimson eyes burned out of the darkness, shone through the fog and regarded her with amusement. Again she wanted to scream, but the shadow released her from its odd-smelling embrace and sent her on her way, that teasing voice whispering: 'Do you want to play?'
That was scary enough to make her drop her last doll, just so it wouldn't hold her back.

On and on ran Eleanor, with the whiteness surrounding her, and the light failing as the sun started to set. The shadow was there, always there, heading her off left and right, looming out of the fogs or laughing at her side. The footsteps kept up with her, sped past her, lagged behind her. The world was nothing but confusion ...

... and then Eleanor tripped over her father's old boot. She knew it was father's old boot when she scrabbled to her hands and feet, recognized it clearly. Father had just thrown it out into the yard once he'd worn through the sole, so Rolf could play with it. Rolf was the family's guard dog, but he was an old coward; when the fogs rose, he would scrabble at the back door and whine until he was let in.

Just like Rolf, Eleanor scrabbled forward on her hands and knees, blindly surging forward through the fog with the sound of those footsteps closing in behind her. If father's old boot was here, then ...

She bumped her head against the porch. She surged to her feet and banged her little fists against the woodwork of her home, screaming at the top of her lungs: "Mommy! Daddy! Let me in!"
And there, blessedly, a rectangle of light and warmth appeared out of the fog and the seemingly faceless woodwork of the farm's walls. Strong, hairy arms, father's arms, reached out of the light and grabbed her roughly, seized her like a mastiff might a kitten, and yanked her inside. But Eleanor didn't mind that it hurt a bit, didn't mind because from one moment to the other, she was safe. And just before the door slammed shut behind her and her parents and sisters descended on her, alternately hugging her and berating her for staying out so late, she heard footsteps in the yard, and that eerie voice calling: 'Don't you want to play some more ...?'

Mordent, 25th of May, 744

The next morning, Eleanor opened the door at a crack. In the courtyard lay her red-and-white chequered picnic rug, which her second oldest sister had made for her with her own hands. In the center of the rug stood the wooden tea service, which her oldest sister had carved for her with her own hands. All around the tea service sat her dollies, even Jezebel, her porcelain skull completely restored. Eleanor's arms were still wrapped in light bandages, sure proof that that same skull had been cracked yesterday night, in the fog.

A strange doll sat among the ones that Eleanor knew. It was soft, looking like a doll sewn together from rags and scraps. In the light of day, it just looked ugly, a misshapen thing with buttons for eyes and a smile that was stitched on, instead of carven or painted. It wore no clothes, it was lumpy and missed an arm. It wasn't too hard to imagine how it might be mistaken for a mutilated child in the fog and the shadows. In the light of day, its lopsided smile wasn't very sinister at all.

The card sitting on its lap, however, was. It was finest parchment, Eleanor's father would later whisper to Eleanor's mother. Finest parchment, the words inscribed on it in pretty, pretty writing, like a noble might use. It would smell bad when it burned, all the dolls, the tea service and the carpet would smell bad when they burned. Eleanor knew that because she was there, demanded to be there, when they were burned. In fact, she demanded the burning, screaming and crying for it until her parents and sisters agreed, that yes, they should all be burned.

Eleanor did not play with her dollies again after that. She did not play alone again after that. She started to make friends, though that was perhaps not the right word. She craved company after that night, the company of other children, of her sisters, her parents. And when even the lightest fog rose, she would make sure to be at home before it got any thicker. She did not want to let anyone think she was replying to the invitation on the card, you see.

'Tag was fun. Let's play another game together soon.'

[Boris Drakov]

Cool story!



Had me reading faster and faster.

[NeoTiamat]

Extremely well written, I would say, and pleasantly creepy. Once you actually know what the truth of the matter is, its even creepier.

Actually... I think the best part is the girl's reaction at the end. The chase is satisfactory, but its the depiction of Eleanor after the encounter that really sends chills down your spine.

[Rock of the Fraternity]

Mordent, 5th of June, 746

The Gladstone Cemetery lay, quiet and serene, under the wan sun of a Mordentish summer. As noon ended, faint wisps of fog started to rise from the soil inside the cemetery's stout walls. Very stout walls, they were, thick and tall, and altogether in better repair than one would expect for a cemetery that lay at easily an hour's walk from the nearest village -- and that would be an hour's walk for a strong and hearty man, who was well-rested and well-fed when he set out.

Truth be told, several such men came every year to survey and repair the walls, if repairs they recquired. They usually brought an nchorite along, to bless the wards hung on the cemetery's gates; great seals of foreign lacquer and native porcelain, impressive things with throbbed with power and were supposed to keep the gates closed and safe.
And still, every year, they needed to be replaced on the cemetery gates ... They were always intact, their power was undiminished and grew with every blessing, but still they would be found on the ground, one morning. Always the morning after a local girl had gone missing.

In the cemetery they would find her, that missing girl, her body all bare to the dew and the last strands of fog clinging to her unbound hair. Her eyes would stare at the empty sky, their own depths equally empty, empty of life. Her body would lie in state, as if she had been laid out, her face would be as serene as the cemetery. And yet, on that same body, would be the traces of passions both common and vile. There would be blood, splashed over the markers of the blameless dead. On very bad mornings, there would be even worse things thrown all around that poor body.

Everyone knew the cemetery took a girl every year. Everyone knew that it was a Bad Place.

People would mutter about Old Man Gladstone, the Prankster Wizard, who had lived nearby. The ruined stump of his tower was lost to the forest, the stones too worn away by wind and rain -- aye, and Mist -- to be visible from a distance. Only if you went into the forest would you find the last traces of the abode of that wizard, the self-styled Master of Revelry and Lord of Games, who had supposedly been the first to be interred in the Gladstone Cemetery. Truth be told, it was said that it was his visage chiseled into the stone arch over the cemetery's gate: the face of an old, bearded man, laughing madly, his eyes full of dark glee. In this area, people still observed Glad Night, a small festival where people played harmless pranks on each other or played great tournaments of wit and chance. Glad Night was supposed to celebrate Old Man Gladstone's birthday, when he himself had sat as judge of games of skill, wit and luck.

And woe upon anyone who cheated or did not play to win.

Maybe Old Man Gladstone wasn't as dead as he should be, people muttered fearfully, when another girl went missing. Maybe he was growing a bit lonesome in his grave. You know what they say about old men and their appetites, after all. Maybe someone should see about having an exorcism performed in that ghastly old graveyard, maybe someone should write to the great hunter of monsters, Rudolph van Richten, or else to the lord Weathermay in Mordentshire.

And yet, perhaps one should not do such things. Imagine what a wizard capable of calling pretty young girls from beyond the grave might do to a small village if he was angered. Everyone knew Old Man Gladstone had the very devil's sense of humor. His pranks and tricks had never been harmless. No, best tell the Anchorite to keep local concerns local, best to keep your head down and hope that the annual calling would snatch some poor traveller off the road, rather than a local girl from her home. Far, far better, yes.

Better to be small and quiet, better not to step forward.

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The sun passed noon in the heavens, and the earth inside the Gladstone Cemetery cooled. The earth yielded up moisture. The moisture rose on the cooling air. The cooling air churned into fog, which rolled across the grave markers, the tombstones and the statues.
It had been a long time since anyone was officially interred at the Gladstone Cemetery, long since it had been filled to capacity and people had been too afraid to break down the walls and expand the land. Too afraid that whatever evil dwelt there would be released to prey at will if the walls came down, rather than just once a year.
Yes, it had been long and long. And yet the rains, winds and fogs of Mordent had not done to the stone monuments of the dead what they had done to Old Man Gladstone's tower. Yet. Everything was still mostly recognizable, mostly intact. With a little effort, one might read the inscriptions lamenting the passing of beloved relatives and friends. One might, with one's fingertips, determine the features of a stone angel. Yes, this place was still mostly here, still mostly in the world of the living, though it also partook of the realm of the dead.
But the shroud of fog made it seem as if the balance was tipping to the realm of the dead. It obscured, it confused, it abstracted and hid. Within that shroud, that shroud which seemed to unmake the world, anything might appear.

As the sun rode the skies to dusk, the fogs only grew denser. The grey-white sea that had lapped at the grave markers spilled over the walls, rolling over the fields and into the forest. A few wisps of it even crawled into the dark depths of the Milesworth Crypt, one of the finer structures of the cemetery. This displeased Gerard Milesworth.
After all, no man of the gentry particularly enjoys fog appearing in his home, or so he fancied.

And so it was that a slight frown sat upon his face as he limped out of the family crypt, tugging his fine, black cloak onto his shoulders. Limped, for Gerard had been cursed with a twisted leg at birth. Twisted and malformed, a mark of his unpleasant ancestry -- the lesser and altogether least loved of three marks of his dubious ancestry. The second mark was that, in every other respect, he was a gorgeous specimen of manhood. He was strong without being overly bulky, elegant without being effeminate, his face was simply perfection. Handsome and well-educated, Gerard exuded an easy grace and grand charm. He would have been welcome in the circles of the rich and noble, and indeed he frequently was. Yet he always returned to the cemetery and the family crypt, for reasons of perverse amusement.

It had been Gerard, after all, who had seen all the other Milesworths into it, to further his mastery of the third mark that his father had left upon him by the very act of conception: the magic. Blood and suffering fueled the power, gave Gerard the feeling of boundless life tingling at his fingertips. He enjoyed calling that fuel forth, now. And why not? It was in his blood. His own mother had screamed that Gerard had been conceived by a fiend, which had visited her bed in the shape of her dear husband, had screamed it whenever she saw him during his childhood. No one had believed her, poor madwoman, not even that doting dolt of a husband, Gerard's stepfather, who believed himself his father.
The memory of the look of shock on dear old stepdad's face when the knife went in brought a sardonic smile to Gerard's lips as he stalked through the graveyard. Ah, the rush of life that had surged through him at that death, that sweet betrayal ...!

And now Gerard pouted and frowned. The life, the sweet magic, had been ebbing again of late. He needed to kill someone, torture them to death in his way and replenish his powers. He'd spent too much time here, among the bones of his dear family, practising and studying, and not enough time out in the world, harvesting. It was always thus: his magic was a consuming passion.

Fortunately, his next sacrifice was here in the cemetery, waiting for him. It always came once a year, some pretty young thing to despoil, torture and eventually kill to his own greater glory. He had specifically cast his curses on the nearest villages and roads, long and long ago, to see to it that he would have a sacrifice when he was in need of one. His own magic now told him that she was near, the next white goat to lay upon his altar. And if he read its tingle properly, then he was in for a special treat: tonight's meat was a virgin!

Gerard walked more quickly, following the threads of his magic in the air, his booted feet making not a sound at all. He rounded a small crypt, the last resting place of a family called Dellafleur and saw her, sitting on an old, old tombstone, so weathered as to be almost -- but not quite -- illegible. His heartbeat quickened. This was not simply a virgin, this was a sweet, sweet child!

Judging himself safely obscured by the billowing fog, Gerard considered the child with greedy eyes. Pint-sized she was, not yet ten years old if he was any judge. She wore a child's dress of grey, so she was little difficult to perceive in the fog. She sat on that old tombstone as if it were a bench, her back resting against the rising grave marker, her legs demurely folded underneath her slender little body. In front of her lay a picnic rug, checkered red and white, and upon it stood a cup of cooling tea and a saucer with a sticky bun, a candle -- its wick long since gone out in the fog -- in its center. A few books lay at hand.
'How sweet,' he thought with cruel amusement, 'a tea party in a graveyard!'
A small oddity, though: the child wore a hooded cloak, the hood drawn so deeply over her face that it remained in shadow, though she did not draw the cloak's folds around herself against the night's growing chill. Memory sparked, and Gerard chuckled quietly: 'It's Glad Night, of course, of course. Perhaps she expects to scare someone she invited to come here.'

"Who is there?" came the child's high, piping voice, just after Gerard had chuckled. "I can hear you, you know."
'The speech of a highborn child,' Gerard noted. 'Maybe not used to being obeyed, but certainly not used to being ignored.'
Smiling, Gerard stepped forward.

From the child's perspective, he seemed to suddenly materialize out of the fog, and she started. Gerard was tall and strong, dressed in a frilly white shirt unbuttoned somewhat too far, black pants which were a bit too tight, and boots that were better suited to riding than striding. His cloak already hung on one shoulder and fell to the damp ground as he strode forward and squatted at the edge of the tombstone.
"Good evening, ma petite," Gerard said, his own voice betraying his fine education -- had included quiet a few tutors in etiquette and elocution -- while his sparkling eyes betrayed only good cheer. "I am Miles O'Connor, the owner of this graveyard. And what, if I may ask, are you doing here?"
The child raised her head to look Gerard up and down. He could see the glint of her eyes, the flash of her teeth when she answered, but billowing fog obscured the rest: "I'm playing here. Do you like to play games?"

'Perfection,' Gerard chuckled in the privacy of his mind. "I adore games, ma petite," he assured the child. "Especially when I can play with pretty young girls. Would you like to play with me?"
"Since you insist," the child said, probably imitating some maiden aunt or similarly tiresome older female relative. "It's Glad Night, you know, so it's ever so traditional."
"How very kind of you," Gerard cooed, slowly extending a hand. "Then let us ..."
"Do you know Truth or Service?" the child asked, forestalling him.
"I do not think so," Gerard admitted, settling back on his heels. He could wait a little, increase his pleasure by playing this hunt out.
"Everyone gets to ask three questions," the little girl explained, her high voice extremely serious, "or ask the other person to do three things that they can do in turn. After that, it's the other person's turn. You play for four rounds. It's a really old game, you know." She lowered her head as if in contemplation. "We'd need a judge to see it's played honestly," she mused.
"No need, ma petite," Gerard chuckled. "I am an extremely honest man. As a show of my honesty, I will let you go first."
"It's in the rules, you know," the little girl insisted. "There has to be a judge."
"Well, if there were anyone else here, they could be it," Gerard replied, "but since there isn't, there won't be. Go on, take your turn."

The little girl hummed for a moment, then asked: "What is your name?"
"I already said, my forgetful little one," Gerard chuckled. "My name is Miles O'Connor." No need to give his true name to what might soon turn out to be a vengeful ghost, after all. He could feel several hovering around the graveyard already, confounded by his protective magics, yet too full of anger and sorrow to move away from this dismal place.
"What are you doing here?" the little girl asked.
"I am the master of this cemetery," Gerard lied easily. "I live here to make sure no one does anything bad."
"Does that mean you're like a Grim?" the child asked innocently.

This took Gerard slightly aback. "No," he replied. "But how does a wee little mite such as yourself know about Grims?"
"I read books," the girl replied solemnly.
"Mais naturellement," Gerard said, smacking himself lightly in the head. "And what kind of books do you read, my pet?"
The little girl held up one of the two volumes she had brought with her. "'A History of the Community'," Gerard read. "History books? Oh, little one, such a shame! Why does a pretty, pretty child such as yourself not read books of poetry and romance?"
"Those have nothing to do with me," the child replied, her high voice dropping a few octaves and going sad. Then she shook her head and said: "My turn again."

'Wait. What -? Oh, I see.' "You are a mean one, ma petite," Gerard said, feigning sadness, though he was somewhat amused. "I wasn't ready! Won't you -?"
"You already asked three questions," the child replied, as stern as only a child could be, even crossing her arms.
'Adorable. I might eat her,' Gerard thought. "Very well," he sighed. "Ask your questions or demand your services, stern one."

"Do you know everything about this cemetery?" the little girl asked.
"Yes," Gerard boasted. And as a matter of fact, he was fairly certain that this was true. He'd been here for more years than any human could hope to live, after all.
"Then is my mommy buried here?" the little girl asked.
Gerard feigned sadness. "Oh, my dear. Is your maman dead, then?" he asked softly.
"I don't know," the child replied.
"Then how would I know whether she was buried here?" Gerard demanded.
"You are the one who said he knew everything about this cemetery," the child pointed out with juvenile logic.
"Ah, but you have not told me your name," Gerard countered, grinning.
"You haven't asked for it," the girl said at once.
"Then what is your name?" Gerard asked. He blinked when the child told him and shook his head. "It can be a pretty name," he suggested, "if you shorten it a little. Otherwise, it's just a bit odd. Do you understand what I mean?"
"You already asked three questions," the girl replied quietly. "And before my turn was done, too. That means I can ask you four questions now, instead of three."

"Oooh, you're so sharp you'll cut yourself!" Gerard chided her. 'If I don't do it first, you cheating little brat,' he added to himself. It was a pity that he needed to recharge himself tonight, or he might have liked to keep this little mite with him for a bit longer. It could be fun to slowly break her before killing her. "Go on, ask, ask."
"Is my mommy buried here?" the girl asked.
"Yes," Gerard lied, nodding solemnly. "I oversaw the burial myself, as master of the cemetery. She was beautiful, your maman, in her burial dress."

As he had expected -- and hoped -- the little girl shuddered and her voice became sad again. But still she kept talking, now asking: "Do you have a weapon to protect yourself, when you're out here all alone?"
"Of course I do, ma cherie," Gerard answered, drawing the dagger from his long boot. It was one of his favourite things, that dagger, something he had traded for with the Fey of the nearby forest. Its black metal never grew dull, never lost its luster -- as long as he kept it out of sunlight -- and it was light as air. He twisted it left and right ... and laid it down next to the sticky bun. It would be but the work of a moment to snatch it up and stab it through the child's hidden legs, when the time came.

"Do you ever feel lonely?" the little girl asked, still sad-sounding.
"What an odd question, me cherie," Gerard chuckled. "No, I am never lonely. I have a house in town and lots and lots of friends. I am never lonely." What need did he have for regular companionship? When he wanted something from the human cattle, he went among them, but otherwise ... What was the point, for a natural predator like himself?

"Are you ever sad?" the little girl asked.
"Yes," Gerard lied, "I always cry when the poor people are buried here, little mite. It is so sad to know they are leaving and never, ever, ever coming back, that everything is over for them for ever and ever and that their families will never be with them again."
The girlchild cringed at this. Such a fun game!

"It is my turn now, y -- indeed," Gerard said, catching himself barely in time from asking a question. "And I have a task for you. Take off your clothes." He grinned innocently.
"I can't," the girlchild replied, calmly.
"Why not?" Gerard demanded, frowning.
"My shoes and gloves get in the way," the child replied reasonably, "and I'd tear my clothes. That isn't nice."
"Then take off your gloves and shoes," Gerard ordered. The child obeyed simply enough, and revealed a new surprise. A thin, creamy white web of lace covered her hands and feet underneath the grey gloves and shoes, which she very neatly put down next to the tombstone.

"My turn," the girl said solemnly. "Last round."
"Shame," Gerard purred. 'Though it is about time that we get on to the next round of the night's activities.'
"Do you like games?" the little girl asked.
"I adore them," Gerard replied.
"Do you ever feel guilty?" the little girl asked.
"I never do anything wrong," Gerard chuckled, "so I don't have to feel guilty."
"Do you ever lie?" the little girl asked.
"A gentleman never lies," Gerard claimed expansively, "and I am the finest of gentlemen, so no, I never, ever tell a lie. And that makes it my turn, dear."

"Go ahead," the little girl said, standing up. Gerard matched her, rising and towering above her, looking down on her as a hawk might look down on a particularly tasty mouse before striking.
"The first is a task," he said, enjoying the moment. "Take off your dress."
The girl unhesitatingly unfastened her drab, grey dress, which fell to the stone. Lace covered her whole body from the neck down -- and the cloak remained on her shoulders. 'A little too unspecific there, old boy,' Gerard chided himself. Still, no matter. It might actually be a good thing: he could wrap the girl's body up in the thing and carry her down into the crypt for his dining pleasure afterwards. It could soak up some of the blood and keep her pieces together, too.
"Haven't you heard about the pretty ladies who disappear near here every year?" Gerard asked, cruel amusement in his voice.
"Yes," the child replied. "That's why I came." When Gerard didn't ask the logical question -- 'Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice ...' -- but just raised an eyebrow, she expanded on her explanation: "My mommy ran away from our home by the road that goes by here. I thought maybe she'd be here, so I came when I heard pretty ladies disappear and get found in the cemetery."
"And didn't you think," Gerard chuckled, "that you yourself might be in danger?" He beckoned to the dagger, which fled to his hand.
"No," the little girl replied simply. "Because this is Glad Night."

"And how does that help you now, ma petite?" Gerard asked, reaching out to seize the child's hood and flick it back. He blinked, startled, at what he revealed. Eyes with irises the colour of frsh blood regarded him steadily, completely unafraid.
"Because," the child-sized form in front of him replied, "mommy's daddy was called Gladstone. And someone has to judge who won the game."

The aimlessly rolling mist ... stopped. And then it started to turn round and round the two of them, man and girl, spinning counter-clockwise like a hurricane reversed. A sighing sound filled the air, sighing ... that turned into distant laughter. Distant at first, then closer, closer, until the whole cemetery rang with mad chuckles and giggles, guffaws and bellows of mirth. The stone walls pulsed with it, the shoulders of the stone statues shook with it, even as their mouths vomited it forth.
A spectral hand on a long, long arm shot forth from the tombstone, the arm it was attached to stretching impossibly long to grab Gerard's wrist and viciously twist it. The half-fiend screamed in agony as the bones in that elegant appendage twisted and splintered, the splendid dagger falling from uselessly twitching fingers.
The arm pulled, and Gerard found himself dragged downward and forward, through the stone and into the cold, dark earth underneath.
For a few minutes, his muffled screams could be heard above ground. The little girl-shaped creature shuddered delicately, hopped off the tombstone and wriggled back into her dress, tugged on her shoes, snugged her gloves on. When she looked up from all this -- and the screams had stopped -- a ghostly figure stood atop the grave.

He was tall and thin as a scarecrow, his face twisted into a rictus of mirth, a riot of teeth shining out of a ratty beard and mustache. His wizard's robes were ragged and tattered, yet brightly coloured. Even in death, Old Man Gladstone was more reminiscent of clown and scarecrow than of wizard.

'Little child of blood that flowed
through my own veins in times of old,'

the ghost crooned and cackled,

'splendid trick did play
on him on my birth's day
brought me tea and birthday cake
for hunger and thirst of mine to slake

Splendid girl of mine own get
bide awhile and answer yet
question of Revel's Master
to determine your fate all the faster
fear ye now great-granddad's trick
you who played a one so cruel and sick?'

The little girl-shaped thing ... curtsied.
"Not at all," she replied. "Because, you see, he cheated. He lied, didn't he, great-grandfather? Mommy was never buried here, was she?"

'Excellent girl! Hooray, hooray!'

the old ghost shrieked, turning cartwheels in the air, hugging his sides against his own spectral laughter,

'Glad am I to have been a parent today!
Ancient game you did invoke
this old ghost's interest did stoke
Master of Revels, Judge of Games
the rules violated fiendborn so lamed

Broke the rules, gave him a fright
chokes to death in my grave tonight
on the morrow I cast him hence
his face a fearmask upon the fence
yokels they see him, take fright anew
think I'll call men to cook in my stew

Upheld the rules, the game is pure
my reputation the fiercer for evermore
clever girl, sliest child
reward I give you, my blood's pride
great-grandchild who pleased me this time
receive great-granddad's gift of rhyme!'

Cackling merrily, the old ghost dived back into the tombstone, the way a living man might dive into a lake. When he had passed, the sticky bun and teacup, had vanished, all the white checkers on the picnic rug had gone black. The little girl-sized creature curtsied again to the grave ... and ran without looking back. From beneath the earth came the sounds of slurping and smacking, and the tombstone vibrated a few times. Vibrated enough to dislodge the book that the little girl hadn't shown to doomed Gerard Milesworth and cast it to the ground.

In the morning, when the men from the village came and saw the half-fiend's artistically dismembered corpse, they would see the book and wonder why a Van Richten's Guide on ghosts had been left at the site of such a gruesome murder. Had this victim perhaps been some poor, doomed monster-hunter who had meant to rid them of Old Man Gladstone's gruesome annual murders ...?
They would not stay overly long to wonder and ask questions, however. No, they would bundle up the remains and run for home, for a fresh fog was rolling in from the woods.

And somewhere in the fog, the thing the size of a little girl was, perhaps, looking for a new game to play. And possibly she sang rhymes to keep herself busy as she ran ...

[Rock of the Fraternity]

Étude en Rose

Dementlieu -- Delacoeur Finishing School for Young Ladies -- Seven Years Ago

"This is simply intolerable!" Mme. Ferrignault exclaimed as she rushed into the headmistress's office, and slammed an entry form down on her desk.

The headmistress, Mme. Delacoeur, drew a deep, slow breath. She had never gotten used to these eruptions, but at least they did not come as the frightful shock they originally had. Emélie Ferrignault had a hair-trigger temper when it came to matters which concerned the wellbeing of the school which she had been serving ever since her own graduation as a tutor. An education which, Mme. Delacoeur regretfully reminded herself, had followed on Emélie's graduation from the Delacoeur Finishing School for Young Ladies.

"What is it today, Emélie?" she asked patiently. She pulled the form towards her and started reading it.

"Some jumped-up brandy merchant is 'what it is today'!" Mme. Ferrignault replied in an indignant tone of voice. "The man is but a, a glorified merchant with money, and yet he thinks he can dictate to a venerable school, which has had the honour of providing a fine education to the daughters of real nobles, when he --!"

"The man wants to send his eldest daughter to study with us, does he?" Mme. Delacoeur said, cutting the excitable, red-haired young woman in front of her off. "And he can cover all of the fees. I do not see the problem with this, Emélie."

"Please read on, headmistress," Mme. Ferrignault said with a grim expression on her face.

Mme. Delacoeur read on. And her eyebrows climbed nearly into her hairline. "A private room?" she said. "With ... a lock on the outside? 'Child to be locked in at nights'. And he is offering us extra money to make it so ... meals to be eaten in complete solitude ... Merciful Ezra, you'd believe he wants us to keep her in that room and educate her and bring her everything else she wants or needs in there, privately."

"Does this petty beer-seller think that he can just order us around because he has paid for tuition?" Mme. Ferrignault fulminated. "And a private room! Private! We have excellent dormitories!"

"I see there is a second letter attached," Mme. Delacoeur noted, "from the girl's grandmother. Let us see ... Hmmm." She began reading, only part of her attention reserved for Emélie Ferrignault, who was practically spitting with rage.

"I have never been so insulted! The man he sent to make the arrangements was an utter boor, as well! He talked to me as if I were a, a cleaning maid or somesuch! I have a degree as a rearer of children! A commendation from the Cathedral of Ezra for my excellent work and the many young people I inspired to join the cloth! How dare he just --!"

"It seems that the girl's grandmother disagrees with her son on some points," Mme. Delacoeur said in a slightly raised voice, again cutting her subordinate off. "She does not believe we should keep the child in her room and wait on her there hand and foot, with guards on the door to prevent entry and exit."

"She still wants the private room, though," Mme. Ferrignault noted in a sullen tone of voice.

"Oui, oui," Mme. Delacoeur said, tapping her lips thoughtfully. "And in fact, she is willing to pay us extra for this privilege."

"Extra?" Mme. Ferrignault said, her mood switching at the blink of an eye. "On top of the tuition fees paid for by that odious brandy-merchant?"

"Indeed, yes," Mme. Delacoeur mused. "In fact, she is offering to pay us a sum 'not to exceed half the normal tuition fees', as she puts it. And she asks us to pay special attention to educating the child in matters economical. Hm. She seems overly fond of using the word 'heiress'."

"Jumped-up merchants," Mme. Ferrignault muttered rebelliously, but the gleam of greed was still in her eyes. "Half again, you said?"

"Yes, indeed," Mme. Delacoeur replied, nodding. "So. We have here a man with unreasonable demands, who has paid for tuition. His desires simply can not be met. And then we have a woman with slightly more reasonable demands, who does want the child exposed to other people and well-trained, so she may one day take over this ... What did you say again that the family does?" she asked innocently.

"They run a large firm which produces, imports and exports all sorts of alcoholic beverages," Mme. Ferrignault replied. "But really, headmistress, this sort of thing --"

"So she may take over the family business," Mme. Delacoeur smoothly cut in, "once she has come of age and her education is finished. In addition, I notice the grandmother has requested we expose the girl to the possibility of further education, and try to encourage her to study, so she might attain a degree some day, rather than simply return home after finishing her stay with us."

"An insult!" Mme. Ferrignault fumed. "We are the finest establishment for --!"

"Indeed," Mme. Delacoeur said, "but an insult blanketed by a healthy amount of money, Emélie. And we do have holes in the roof which urgently require repairs."

"Oh, headmistress!" Mme. Ferrignault wailed. "You know how much it upsets staff to have ... well, workmen on the premises!"

"A sadly unavoidable hardship, Mme. Ferrignault!" the headmistress said, waving away the younger woman's objections. "Now, since the father's demands are entirely unreasonable, I feel absolutely no qualms about forgetting them. The grandmother's demands are a bit more reasonable, yet still not entirely feasible. Therefore, I have no problem with the idea of, shall we say, interpreting them creatively so as to fit our current capacities."

Mme. Delacoeur pushed back from her desk and rolled across the floor of her study, the wooden wheels under her chair rumbling softly against the carpet. A thick blanket covered Mme. Delacoeur's lower body, and this was a good thing -- as everyone who had ever seen the state of her legs in the past thirty years could attest. The headmistress pushed herself along with a long cane until she came to her bookshelf, from whence she withdrew a sheaf of letters.

"Where was it ...? Ah, yes. Emélie," Mme. Delacoeur said, "kindly have a look at this." She held out a single letter, which the younger teacher accepted with a frown on her pretty face.

"I recall," Mme. Ferrignault said after a few moments of cogitation.

'You should,' Mme. Delacoeur noted to herself. 'It is what you were yelling about last week.'

"The daughter of monsieur De Penible," Mme. Ferrignault continued. "Well, I say daughter ..."

"But you mean by-blow," the headmistress calmly finished her sentence, taking a quiet pleasure in Emélie's sudden flush. "Yes. Monsieur De Penible also asks that the child be kept as far from the other students as possible. I suppose being the brother to a famous playwright makes having a by-blow a particular embarrassment, and he does not want her chatting to the daughters of the highborn about her parental situation, yet does want her to receive a suitable education, so she might be married off some day. Now, school regulations -- and our building's limited space -- forbid us from providing even the most high-ranking girls with private rooms. But I believe there is a little room where we might put two girls who are, shall we say, 'special'?"

"Room four on the second floor?" Mme. Ferrignault supplied dubiously. "It is horribly drafty, headmistress. Do you not believe it would be better to --?"

"No, Emélie," Mme. Delacoeur said in a stern tone of voice. "I do not believe it is a good idea to rebuff three people who have a considerable amount of money to spend, two of whom are willing to pay an extra fee for some 'special care', when we can accommodate them to some extent."

"It will end badly, headmistress," Mme. Ferrignault said, shaking her head energetically.

"I am prepared to take full responsibility if it does," Mme. Delacoeur assured her subordinate.

_____________________________________________________________


Dementlieu -- Delacoeur Finishing School for Young Ladies --- Seven Years Ago.

"This is to be your room," Mme. Ferrignault told the girl she had guided from the school's front gate to the second floor. She had kept a distance between the two of them which was a few inches greater than propriety demanded, yet her expression had not changed once from its usual haughty self-confidence. The truth was, however, that the girl upset her.

"Your roommate arrived this morning," she went on, her voice haughty. "You will have to take the bed she did not choose for herself."

The girl paused, visibly startled. "I was to have a private room," she whispered.

"Nevertheless," Mme. Ferrignault said sharply, "this is how things are. Rather than quibble, you should be grateful that you are being allowed to attend this prestigious institution!"

""But ... but father and grand-mêre both said," the child whispered, hands fidgeting on her skirts. Her voice faltered when Mme. Ferrignault frowned at her.

"Do not talk back, young woman!" the teacher warned her. "One of the things that you will learn at the Delacoeur School is discipline! You are in my ward, so any misconduct out of you will be punished by me! Is that understood?"

The girl hung her head low and whispered feebly: "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Mme. Ferrignault said, feeling triumphant. Then the girl raised her head a little, and she felt ... uncomfortable again. "Now take your bag into your room and get settled. When the dinner bell rings, all students are to gather in the main hall and wait until they are allowed into the dining area. A roster of chores in which you will participate shall be delivered to your room tomorrow morning. Is that understood?"

The girl just nodded, shoulders shivering. A girl this small and thin should not be capable of upsetting an experienced tutor like Mme. Ferrignault so, and yet she did. She truly did.

"What are you waiting for, then?!" Mme. Ferrignault barked. "Get in there!"
The girl visibly flinched, picked up her one small valise and scurried over to the door, knocking on it very softly.

"C'min!" a voice called from inside. The accent made Mme. Ferrignault grit her teeth in anger. Problem children. Children of merchants and, and hangers-on of court! So different from children that were properly, nobly born ...! She waited until the offensive girl had disappeared into the room, then strode off. She would ... go do something. Yes. The first thing she would do, would be to wipe the sweat, which had suddenly beaded on her forehead. She was an adult. She was a teacher. Children could not upset her like this. They could not.

_____________________________________________________________


The girl in room four on the second floor looked up from a book. She had been lying on the rightmost of two beds -- two rather small beds, whose mattresses had certainly been fresher once upon a time -- but now she stuck a bookmark between the pages and put the volume away.
Sharp, russet-coloured eyes inspected the new arrival.

"Don't just stand there like a coatrack," she finally said, her voice coloured by a rather thick lower-class accent. "Have a sitdown." A hand with creamy pale skin indicated the leftmost bed, which was no better nor worse than the rightmost.

When the new arrival edged to the bed and sat down, shoulders trembling still, the girl on the bed smiled. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she grinned. The expression was not altogether pleasant, but neither was it extremely cruel.

"So," the girl on the bed said, "they stuck you in'ere wit' me, huh?"
After a brief hesitation, the new arrival nodded once.

""Firs' time away from home?" the girl on the bed asked.
Again, a hesitant nod. Then a shake of the head. A nod again.

"Firs' time you'm away from home for a long time?" the girl on the bed guessed.
Just a nod now.

"Me, as well," the girl on the bed said, brushing back hair as black as jet, which had drifted into her eyes. "Thought as I might look forwar' to it, y'know? But s'far, this room is drafty an' the teacher's a hatchet-faced, fish-hearted ole prune."
The new arrival startled, then made the tiniest of sounds.

"Made ye laugh, didn' I?" the girl on the bed chuckled. "Look, I'm Mel. Melusinde De Penible in full, but if'n ye call me that, I'll punch ye in the nose. Yeah?"
The new arrival nodded quietly, eyes wide.

"So who're ye?" Melusinde asked, russet eyes curious.
"Li ... Lia. Mournswaithe," the new girl replied. "I am ... Lia Mournswaithe."

"Same's the booze?" Melusinde asked. "Good stuff. Ole man gave me an earful as he found out I'd bin stealin' his bottle."
Lia made that soft sound again. Melusinde grinned widely.

"Yeah, I'm after thinkin' we might do well," she said. "So. Why the mask, girl?"
"That's mine," Lia said, voice clearly audible for the first time -- and the implicit warning loud and clear.

Melusinde just shrugged. "Fine an' dandy," she said. "Fine an' dandy. So. You know any card games ta pass the time wit'?"

[Rock of the Fraternity]

Étude en Rose

Dementlieu -- Delacoeur Finishing School for Young Ladies -- Six Years, Seven Months Ago

As Lia walked down the long, long aisle between trestle tables, something struck the back of her head. She flinched, but did not stop. She also did not look to see who had started giggling; there was always giggling just after she was struck in the head by flying food items. And there were a lot of food items aimed at her back. The stains eventually came out, though they always drew down Mme. Ferrignault's wrath.

Melu, who had already seized a spot at the far end of the table, cast a rather unpleasant glare at someone or something behind Lia. And still, she felt something else strike the back of her head.

"That girl is looking to get punched in the nose," Melu muttered angrily as Lia sat down opposite from her. They used to sit side by side, but this -- like so many other things -- had drawn Mme. Ferrignault's disapproval. Apparently she thought they spoke rebellion when they had their heads together, though she was never clear on what they were supposed to be rebelling against. Mme. Ferrignault, most likely.

"If you touch her, you'll have the old fish down on us," Lia whispered to her. 'Old Fish' was but one of many charming nicknames they had created for Mme. Ferrignault over the course of three months. "I'm not sure the welts have healed yet from last time."

"Miserable old trout," Melu grumbled. "Don't know what she gets so worked up over."

"Your father does pay the school to teach you things," Lia noted. "In class. And sometimes you don't go for a whole week."

Melu had actually been learning quite a bit during her stay at the Delacoeur School, but she had either been learning them from the books in the library -- "No substitute for going directly to the source, Lia, old stick" -- or she had been learning them from people in the nearby town. And on that latter note, she had been teaching herself the many ways that an enterprising girl could defy curfew and sneak out of moderately well-guarded teaching institutions.

Mme. Ferrignault had sadly taken a rather dim view of this, and has not only disciplined Melu by means of her trusty switch, but also Lia -- this on the basis that Lia had failed to turn her roommate in, and in the hope that Melu might relent from her acts of defiance because they had caused her roommate discomfort. What she had managed to do, in fact, was cause Lia to turn from passive to active defiance of her rules.

"He's a miserable ole trout an' all," Melu muttered rebelliously. "Sent me a play by Uncle last week, told me I should read up on it and 'mention it in polite conversation with the highborn young ladies'."

She cast another venomous glare at the other end of the table, where Cathérine Montieu was holding court. Cathérine was the daughter of a minor nobleman, one of the current favourites of the Council of Brilliance. It was a commonly held opinion that she would manage to become a major noblewoman not long after graduation; she had the ambition and the blond-haired, violet-eyed, angel-faced beauty to land herself any noble in the land. Already, many of the other highborn girls were lavishing attention on her, hoping to ingratiate themselves with someone who was 'going places'.

It was not a good thing to be considered an 'undesirable element' by Cathérine. Getting food thrown at you during breakfast, lunch and dinner, with all of the dining hall monitors suffering from temporary blindness, was just the beginning. There had been nasty letters, rude comments scrawled on the walls with particular names signed under them. And Mme. Ferrignault, who was apparently a very straightforward thinker, punished the owners of said names and then had them scrub away the comments.

"Got so many notes stuffed in under the door this week," Melu grumbled, "I thought as we might stuff the holes in the wall wit' 'em."

"With," Lia corrected her.

"With," Melu sighed.

She had been learning, oh yes. Just three months of exposure to Lia Mournswaithe, and she had learned not to talk like a dockworker's daughter. Lia, on the other hand, had learned to do just that. Knowledge had flowed equally between them, one might say. There was, after all, the Plan.

"Read a fancy word for this," Melu said, pointing between them. "Elocution. That right?"

"Exactly right," Lia said, nodding. "It's very important, too. ... I finished the last bit of it this morning, after you went out for your run."

The morning runs were yet another sticking point between Melu and Mme. Ferrignault. Mme. Ferrignault was of the opinion that young girls should take physical exercise through riding horses -- in a suitable demure manner, of course -- and dance. Not by running and swimming when the weather allowed it. It was just a good thing she'd never found out Melu had been taking a few lessons in swordsmanship from a Bard in town, before he wandered on again, nor that she'd been trying to keep up with training.

And she must certainly never find out about any of the other parts of the Plan.

"Good to know, good to know!" Melu said, grinning and rubbing her hands. "So. When? Tonight?"

"So soon after the last time the old trout switched us?" Lia asked dubiously.

"Yes!" Melu insisted. "Tonight. I think I've got something new going on. I want to show you. It's like ... like a fever, only good. Y'know?"

"Not like --" Lia started to say, then stopped. And looked up. A shadow had fallen across the two girls, and it belonged to a decidedly unwelcome guest.

"Well?" Cathérine Montieu said, a gorgeous smile on her perfect face. "Are you two girls not going to say anything?" Her gemlike eyes sparkled beautifully as the smile on those rosy lips widened.

With all this beauty, one might consider it boorish to note that Cathérine was always very exact, very proper in her speech. If she was addressing the son of a baron, she would call him baronet. The daughter of a government official, madémoiselle. 'Girl' was a title she reserved for commoners, the school's maids among them. Some of them were at least thrice her age ...

The first time she had come over and asked this particular question, Melu and Lia had not, in fact, known this. They had been mildly puzzled about how this angelic creature opened a conversation. Once they understood what was being said to them, Lia had simply turned her head away, whereas Melu had suggested in colourful language what Cathérine should do with her suggestions and where she should stick them. They had both been reported for Swearing and Rudeness, which were punishable offenses under Mme. Ferrigault's regime.

"Can we at least finish eating this time?" was all Melu said on this particular occasion. Her tone was annoyed, but also somewhat resigned. "Be a sport. I'm still hungry."
Lia merely watched Cathérine through half-closed eyes and muttered something unintelligible.
"Non, non!" Cathérine chuckled, tossing her curls. "What do you say? Come on now, be good little girls."

Melu heaved a sigh which was full of loathing, but then stood up at the same time Lia did. "Please have a seat," she growled, then stalked off, Lia in close pursuit. They passed Cathérine's giggling courtiers on the way to the door and sure enough, received a few pushes and kicks in passing. The monitor turned her head and saw and heard nothing until the girls had reconvened at the other end of the table. Once this was done, she was sure to give Melu and Lia an earful about not lying down on the ground or walking funny.

"Tonight," Lia agreed as the twosome slipped out of the dining hall and made their way to the stairs. She had not come naturally to active rebellion, not after her early childhood, but circumstances had driven her to it.

Forget the infuriating indignity of Mme. Ferrignault's unfairness; if Lia had not started to join Melu for her nightly escapades, she might already have starved to death! Cathérine took an evil delight in forcing anyone she didn't like to leave their seating at mealtimes. And once you got up, you were supposed to have finished eating, and the hall monitors made you leave. Unless, of course, you were part of the angel-faced girl's little clique, in which case you got away with everything and anything.
_____________________________________________________________

"Are you really sure this is safe?" Lia whispered, not for the first time since the two girls had snuck from their room in the dead of night. They had walked on tiptoes, a black shadow and a grey shadow, through the school's hallways and into the catacombs underneath.

The Delacoeur School had been built in an abandoned church. Not an Ezran one, Guardian in the Mists forfend, but one that had belonged to some forgotten deity of antiquity. The catacombs had been cleared out decades ago by dedicated Anchorites, but no new bodies had been interred. Nowadays, the catacombs served as storage area -- and, unintentionally, as a way to get around for enterprising young girls.

"Safe as houses," Melu assured her with a confident gesture. "Been through here dozens of times without you. Never any trouble. Now if we go down here ..."

The tunnel went down, then up. And came out in an abandoned garden. Weeds and wildflowers had choked the old flowerbeds, and a small tree was stretching to the night sky. Blind walls rose all around; the garden was a victim of reconstruction, or perhaps it had always been meant to be secluded.

"I'm thinking maybe the old priests an' priestesses liked to have a spot where they could be 'alone', yeah?" Melu said, grinning and elbowing Lia in the side.

"Oh, stop," Lia sighed as she picked her way between stinging nettles and daisies until she found a moss-covered bench to sit on. Gingerly, she lowered her weight onto it, wincing slightly. "Welts still haven't healed up," she said morosely. "This place is so awful sometimes."

"Yeah," Melu agreed companionably as she just plopped herself down next to Lia. She swept her black hair out of her face, which had lost a lot of its creamy pallor since she'd first arrived here. In defiance of Mme. Ferrigault's expectations, Melu kept running around outside at all hours, and she was getting a tan. It rather suited her.

"Better than my place, though," she added after a moment of thought. "Stupid old man, always talking about Uncle this, Uncle that, waiting for Uncle to get us all rich by becoming a favourite of the thrill-seekers." She spat like a dockworker. She also omitted to say how else her life at home had been ... less than desireable.

"Yes," Lia agreed faintly. She, also, did not elaborate on how this oppressive, gloomy place with its Ferrignaults and Cathérines was better than her home in Mordent. After three months, the two girls had bonded quite well. And become well aware of their respective home situations -- as much of these as they were willing to reveal.

---To Be Continued Soon---

[Rock of the Fraternity]

Étude en Rose

"So," Melu said after a few minutes of companionable silence and stargazing. "Who's first? You or me?"

"You or I," Lia corrected.

"Yeah, her," Melu agreed, grinning like a mischievous child.

"I'll go first, then," Lia said, and pulled a tightly scroll out of her bodice. It was a fairly safe hiding place; most people in the building thought she'd been scarred by the pox or burn scars, and of those who did, none wanted to know what was hidden beneath Lia Mournswaithe's drab, grey dresses.

"This is a story," Lia started to read the scroll, "about a time when the world was a simpler place. Back when the world was divided into twelve houses of day, and twelve houses of night, and the clever witch girls snuck through all the houses, looking for chances to play tricks ..."

"An' that's us," Melu said with a grin, as she put an arm over Lia's shoulders. "The witch girls. Cleverer than anyone."

"Most assuredly," Lia agreed quietly. "Now, the story goes that in those days, there was a man who had grown rich from selling all sorts of drink that made men stupid in the head ..."

Melu leaned back and listened as Lia read the latest story she'd written. She nodded a few times, hummed under her breath, and waited for the story to end. When it did, she squeezed her friend's shoulders, stood up and declaimed the entire story back to her. When it was over, Lia quietly patted her gloved hands together.

"Marvelous," she said. "Just marvelous. You're getting better every day, Melu!"

"Thank you, thank you," Melu said with a ridiculously florid bow, "my adoring audience. I think I dropped my 'H'es a bit during the second part, though. Anyhoo ... Did I leave anything out?"

"Not a bit," Lia assured her as she started re-rolling the scroll. "And you make it sound so good! Is ... is it a good story?"

"It's got characters that make you scowl and giggle," Melu assured her, "a nice come-uppance for a nasty character, its nasty little twist at the end ... I've heard much worse in the marketplace, and the fellas as tells it couldn't move for copper pennies!"

"We're going to need more than pennies for the Plan, though," Lia cautioned her.

"Pennies add up, Lia, old stick!" Melu quipped. With unexpected quickness, she slipped into a handstand, then rolled forward, coming up on her heels in front of Lia. Her russet eyes sparkled, and she was grinning widely. "This feels good. With you writing the stories, the rhymes and the songs, me telling and singing 'em, an' the wide open road under our feet ... We can go anywhere."

"It's dangerous out there, though," Lia murmured.

"So's we, when we put our minds to it!" Melu said bracingly. She backflipped and rose to her full height, gesturing in an exaggerated manner. "Behold, young maiden!" she declaimed in a pompous manner. "The might and the power of your knight protector!" she went on in a sing-song voice. "Saltate super me, lumines pendentes!"

Small, flickering lights sprang out of thin air around Melu's twirling fingertips, and started to gently circle around her head. Lia chortled, then started to laugh, one hand pressed to her mask to smother the sound. Melu bowed again, in the best tradition of courtly chévaliers, which made her roommate laugh even harder. Grinning herself, Melu plopped down on the bench again, lights continuing to tumble and dance.

"The open road beneath our feet," she said with obvious satisfaction. "Just as soon as we're ready. Jus' as soon as we've squirrelled away enough of what the old trout gives us from the stipend the old folks sends from home. Jus' as soon as we've hid away enough a' them rations."

"Just as soon as we have enough stories and poems readied," Lia added, "that no one else in the world has ever heard, and you're confident with your sword. Just as soon as I -- as I ..." Her voice faltered and she hung her head; even after three months away from home, she was still afraid to say what she'd been doing at nights, after hours.

"C'mon," Melu said, again putting her arm over Lia's shoulders. "Show me."

"No," Lia demurred, squirming to get away.

"Show me!" Melu insisted. "C'mooooon ..."

"I don't want to," Lia insisted, trying vainly to get away.

"Showmeshowmeshowmeshowmeshowme!" Melu nagged, managing to maintain her grip. "You know what happens if you don't!"

"Stop it!" Lia squeaked, now really struggling to get away. Alas, in vain. And Melusinde, illegitimate daughter of the De Penible family by ways of a Vistani woman who'd had one too many to drink and did not cherish the idea of raising a Giogotto -- started to tickle Lia, eldest daughter of and heir to the Mournswaithe Spirits & Wine Company, in a merciless manner. It wasn't too long afterwards that Lia was rolling helplessly on the ground, laughing so hard that she was crying, with Melu rolling right along and keeping it up.

"Show me, show me!" Melu nagged, grinning.

"Alright, alright!" Lia howled. "I will! Stop it!"

"Yes," a rather dry voice said. "I think you should stop it as well."

The two girls froze where they were, and simultaneously looked up. One of the Ezran nuns that were part of the teaching staff was standing a few feet away, and was holding the scroll with the slightly dark story that Lia had written. This, however, was not the worst of it. Her expression was stern, but not entirely unkind. At her shoulder stood Mme. Ferrignault, however, and her expression was thunderous to say the least. And even that was not the worst of it. A few steps behind the Old Trout stood Cathérine Montieu, and her expression was ... angelic. A beatific smile, to be exact.

"On your feet, both of you!" Mme. Ferrignault growled.

Lia and Melu slowly clambered to their feet, the Mordentish girl already trembling like a rabbit caught in the light of a coach's lanterns, Melu looking sulky. This seemed to incense Mme. Ferrignault even more.

"Do the two of you," she said in a low, choked voice, "have anything to say for yourselves? Do you?! Curfew transgressed against ... restricted areas entered ... cavorting like filthy heathens!" She pointed a trembling finger at the little lights still lazily circling Melu's head. "And this! Witchcraft, on these hallowed school grounds!"

"Well, I dunno," Melu said sarcastically. "Is there anything we could say so's not ta have you switch us?"

Lia cringed and half-hid behind Melu, who grinned sarcastically at the fuming, red-faced Mme. Ferrignault. Before the latter could explode, the nun cleared her throat. "I believe it would be best if we return these girls to their room right now," she said in gentle tones, "and talk everything through with the headmistress in the morning, rather than do anything ... ill-conceived right now."

Mme. Ferrignault audibly gritted her teeth, but nodded once, then snapped her fingers at the two offenders as if they were dogs. Lia visibly flinched and really did try to hide behind Melu as they reluctantly closed with the older women. The nun rather gently put her hands on Lia's shoulders, and managed to hold on when the girl flinched, trembled and quietly tried to jerk herself away from that grip.

Mme. Ferrignault closed her hand in Melu's thick, black hair and gripped it like a bird of prey might a coney, or a rat. "Move," she growled, shoving the girl ahead of her. Melu did as she was told, walking forward without loking sideways -- and yet somehow, as she passed Cathérine, she managed to punch her right in her smiling face. Cathérine yelped with shock and pain, and wobbled on her feet. In an instant, Melu was on her, both fists swinging. It took Mme. Ferrignault's switch to get her off the bawling, blonde, and now less-than-perfectly-pretty girl.

"Totally worth it," Melu voichsafed to Lia before Mme. Ferrignault dragged her off into the tunnels. The nun helped the crying Cathérine up without making a fuss and walked off into the tunnels as well, assuming Lia would follow.

And after a while, she did. The Plan required Melu, after all. Until it could be enacted, they had to endure.

[Rock of the Fraternity]

Étude en Rose

The wind howled outside the window, and gusted through the cracks in the wall with full impunity. The room was dark, the candles confiscated as punishment for misdeeds. In their beds, the two girls shivered ... and moaned when they did.

"I think the old bat drew blood after the first minute," Melu finally managed to say. She had to whisper to keep their conversation secret, yet also had to speak louder than the howling of the wind outside. It was ... a delicate balancing act.

In the other bed, Lia just moaned into her pillow.

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Mme. Ferrignault had been ... upset. She had recommended sending both Melu and Lia home to their families to the headmistress, and had already drafted a strongly worded letter to accompany them. She read it out loud in the headmistress's office. Twice. By the time she was halfway through the first one, Lia had already been a nervous wreck and Melu was sweating profusely.

The headmistress had seemed to consider Mme. Ferrignault's at first, but matters had derailed somewhat when Lia fainted out of sheer terror. After a 'well-intended' slap in the face from Mme. Ferrignault had failed to have the desired effect, the headmistress had made her fetch smelling salts from the infirmary. Once Lia was awake again, the headmistress had decided she would not send the girls back home.

"No, I will not hear any more about it!" she cautioned Mme. Ferrignault sternly when the teacher started to protest. "These girls have been entrusted to our care, Emélie." (Mme. Ferrignault made a face as if she'd bitten into a lemon when her first name was used in front of the two 'delinquents'.) "Just sending them back at the first sign of trouble - I just said I would hear no more!"

Mme. Ferrignault slowly closed her mouth, her expression of indignation turning into one of smoldering resentment.

"Just sending them back at the first sign of trouble," the headmistress went on, "would cast aspersions on the reputation of our fine institution, Emélie. No, this is simply an act of girlish defiance. All these girls need is to see the consequences of such acts. They need some discipline, which I had hitherto believed was your specialty."

Mme. Ferrignault's expression had shifted into one of nearly diabolical joy, a fact which caused the headmistress to raise one eyebrow. No more.

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And an hour later, Melu and Lia lay facedown on their beds, trying very hard not to move.

"You shouldn't," Lia muttered into her pillow, "have hit the Montieu girl."

"It was worth it," Melu maintained stubbornly. "We'll heal up."

"Not as fast as she will," Lia countered. "The nuns will have been at her. They will not come for us with their healing prayers."

Melu grunted. "Bleedin' nuns ... Don' need ... bleedin' ... uh! ... nuns ..." Moaning and wincing, Melu levered herself up on her hands and slowly slid off the bed. "Don' need," she muttered again, as she limped over to Lia's bed and slowly waved her hands over the recumbent girl as she softly sang:

"Flesh I restore and bones I knit,
If I fix you it's fair, 'cause
I dropped you right in it."

Gently, Melu ran her hands along Lia's back, eliciting a series of gasps and some twitching -- and then a sigh of relief. With rather more ease than Melu had just shown, Lia sat up and faced her friend.

"A new trick," she noted. "Two in one week. You're getting better at it."

Melu gingerly sank down beside her, face twitching as her backside hit the covers. "I can only do it once a day, though," she said ruefully. "Used it a few days ago to cover up a bruise I got climbing over the wall. There I was, cussin' an' moanin', worryin' the Ole Trout would see the bruise, and suddenly it hits me: Do like this. An' I did. Damndest thing."

"I have a new trick, too," Lia admitted shyly. "Just came to me, like you said. But --" She glanced at the door, and the tiny window set in it. That little spyhole could only be opened and closed from the outside, and Mme. Ferrignault's wrath would be great if they blocked it off.

"Yeah," Melu said with a glare at the window. "We'm have ta wait."

"Wait," Lia agreed. Then she looked down, shocked and surprised; her hand was now intwined with Melu's, and she honestly did not know which hand had seized which. She hesitated for a moment, then squeezed the fingers interlocked with her own. "Wait," she repeated. "We have a Plan."

"Damn straight," Melu agreed. In the dark, she grinned.

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Breakfast the next day was ... uncomfortable.

As soon as Melu and Lia entered the dining hall, all the little conversations dropped to a muted buzz. Eyes flicked to and fro between them and Cathérine's little clique. Some were curious, others clearly looked forward to a fine show. Quite a few were frankly hostile and disapproving.

"Les' jus' sit a ways away from her," Melu advised without looking at the coolly imperious Cathérine. "Maybe get a few bites a food in us before she shoos us awa'."

Lia just nodded, and they started to move to a vacant spot. The next moment, an earthenware mug went flying through the air and slammed into Lia's temple; with a cry of pain, the Mordentish girl fell to her knees, and her tray and breakfast went spilling every which way.

"You filthy bitch!" Melu roared at one of Cathérine's cronies before she could stop herself -- and even the whispering died away into nothingness.

The dining hall monitor blinked once, then started walking. She approached Melu and Lia, slapped the former and lightly kicked the latter. "Ill-bred street urchin!" she viciously chided Melu. "What kind of person starts shouting such filth in public? And you, get up! Go fetch a broom and clean up this mess! Cook doesn't make good food just so you can trip and waste it!"

"Trip?" Melu repeated, now trembling with fury. "Trip? You were right there, you saw what that b --" She shut up when she was slapped again, but her face was livid with rage.

"I think skipping breakfast will be good for you," the monitor said in a silky tone of voice. "Report to Mme. Ferrignault and tell her I sent you for Swearing."

"Yes, fine," Melu growled, then started to kneel to help Lia up.

The monitor seized her by an arm and yanked her upright again. "None of that, I said you had to go to Mme. Ferrignault!" she told her sternly.

"But she's --" Melu started to protest, and was slapped again.

The monitor bowed her head slightly at Cathérine, who nodded back, and then started to drag the protesting, struggling Melu away. Barely had the door slammed shut behind her, or the first breadrolls started raining down on Lia, who was still on her knees holding her head.

Horrified, she glanced up and saw most of the student body rise, food items in their hands ...

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"Flesh I restore and bones I knit
I want to pop Cathérine head
Just like a big zit."

Slowly, Melu ran her hands over Lia's face. The Mordentish girl was sitting bolt upright on her bed, shivering from head to toe, eyes wide open. Her clothes were still stained with food and drinks from the dining hall, and she had more than a few bleeding wounds. Her hands were raw from the cleaning she had been forced to do upon the dining hall monitor's return.

Melu herself had some fresh welts on her back, on top of all the old ones.
"There now," she said in a soothing tone of voice. "There now. You're plenty safe in here, so relax. Come back. Come on back to me, okay?"

Slowly, the Mordentish girl's shivering subsided and her shoulders relaxed. With one last, great shake of her body, she seemed to snap out of whatever strange state of mind she had been caught in. An entirely new set of shivers erupted when she realized her mask, veil and gloves were gone.

"Melu," she whimpered, hair starting to fall in front of her face. "Please. Give them to me. Give them to me."

"It's alright, shh, shh," Melusinde soothed her friend again, and slipped the mask onto Lia's face. "Your gloves are in your belt. It's alright. It's all alright, nobody can see in here. I hung me coat over the door. You okay if I goes an' fetches it now? Yeah? Alright, sit easy."

Lia said on the bed, completely silent but for the sounds of frantic application of veil and gloves. When Melu returned and sat next to her, she whispered -- no, growled: "All of them, or as close to all of them as makes no difference. I thought I was going to die from all the crockery thrown at me. In the end, I just curled up on the floor and put my arms over my head. I thought I was going to die in there! And that old cow made me clean up the whole mess! That cow!"

"I figured," Melu said, and scooted up on the bed to get behind Lia. "Relax, alright? Shh. I'll rub your shoulders for you, it'll be alright." She did as she promised, and started to rub and squeeze Lia's shoulders. "Relax, relax, relax," she said in a singsong tone of voice. "Shhh. It'll be alright."

"No, it won't," Lia grunted even as she swayed back and forth. "That bitch has it out for us now. You shouldn't have punched her. Before, she just wanted us miserable and humiliated, now she's on the warpath."

"I know, I know," Melu soothed while her fingers poked, prodded and rubbed at tensions. "It's all my fault, I know. But it'll be alright."

"Will not," Lia corrected her. "Not unless we make it alright."

The fingers on her back stopped moving.

"Make it alright ... how?" Melu asked. Her soothing tone had been replaced by one that was calculating and somewhat eager.

"We does to her," Lia replied in the brogue she'd learned from her friend, "as what she's been doin' ta us. Only we does it better. Better an' worse."