I return to the manor invigorated! Even that dratted raven perched upon the apse of the church cannot dampen my spirits. Through Father Crispian I wield the power of Heaven, and with it I will either bind Eleanor to her grave or release her from her doomed state. I am not Catholic, and therefore unfamiliar with the details of all that supernatural rot. However it works, Eleanor will be purged from Drakesheath Hall forever. Finally there will be an end to the paranoia, speaking in codes, always looking over one's shoulder to see the Dark Lady listening to every word and marking every action.

Felix is another matter. Being rid of him will require some thought. As the wheels turn, I check in on Mary, Patience and Mel. Mel is infernally cheerful, but at least her pace is satisfactory. Mary and Patience, however, are absolutely hopeless. Mary is quite contrary and Patience tries mine to no end. My prodding and scolding does little to improve the situation. The raven will not drag me down into the mire of melancholy, nor will the maids.

I gingerly pour a glass of brandy for Felix when he shares with me his desire to have a gala within the Hall. My cheer is dashed to bloody bits like a heifer in an abattoir. The whole idea is absurd, but it is not within my power, at this moment, to deny Felix his request. I swallow hard and blink slowly. "Why...the idea is a capital one, Sir." I want to lodge a bread knife into his head. "If you'll excuse me," I say as congenially as I can muster, "I shall tell Erzsebet, presently. After your meal the two of you may make the necessary arrangements."

I curse to myself as I ascend the long and winding, crimson staircase. "That malapert, dim-witted blackguard!" I know where to find Erzsebet this time of night. Opening the door to the master bath, I find the housekeeper reclining in the bath tub full of blood. Suspended from the ceiling above, in an iron rack, is the pallid cadaver of a young woman, bound to a contraption that pumps blood directly from the arteries, through a pipe, and into the tub. Desmond, though raving mad, is possessed of unquestionable genius. Erzsebet devised the concept for this instrument, but it was Desmond who designed the mechanism and built it. A creative pair, those two.

Erzsebet believes that virgin blood has a rejuvenating property and, when bathed in, it preserves her own youth and beauty. I daresay I am of like opinion. Her arms dance slowly and gracefully across the top of the dark, red pool. "Do you never knock?" she enquires in her usual calm.

"Not when the housekeeper is at leisure during working hours," I answer with agitation. I dare not take out my frustration on Erzsebet; that is a risk I cannot afford. I cut to the chase: "The Prodigal Son has got it in his thick head that he warrants a celebratory homecoming gala. The fool plans to open the doors of Drakesheath Hall to the wide world in only two days time -- too short a time, I might add, to throw a party! We cannot abide this disaster! Think of it! This house filled with every vagrant and his dog, gypsies, rogues, whores, not to mention Felix's Oxford cronies with their long hair and matching robes! We absolutely -- !"

"Shhh..." Erzsebet hisses, in her soothing, tranquil manner. "Patience, Edmund. Unwind yourself. Your anxiety will only cause you to lose another button off your waistcoat, and you've so few left as it is." How can that damned woman remain so serene? Perhaps that is how we get on so well. We are acid and base, fire and ice. "His lordship will need time to send invitations and receive replies," she answers sensibly. "But I see no reason why Master Felix cannot have a gala in his honour. Personally, I consider it a grand notion. Let all of Drakesheath enter our Hall. We will be sure to give ourselves time to prepare and make the old place presentable. Desmond will be on his best behaviour, I assure you. ...I have always wanted to meet Lady Amalie of Delbeath. We must invite her, too, as long as she's in town."

God, please tell me I misheard her. My lips form the word, but I have trouble getting it out. "Who?" I stutter, dreading the reply.