The Higgsbury Memorial Museum

[Stormcat]

Emily hadn't been able to contact anyone at the "The Daily Toaster", so she figured it would probably be best if she just put up the fliers herself. It would be much cheaper this way, and since very few people in the village of Beans-on-Toast actually used the paper for anything other than fire starters, it would mean more people would actually see her fliers. She made her way out from her Ancestral estate and set about posting the fliers where ever she thought people might see them. Emily put the first of her fliers on the notice board outside St. Edmund's church. It read as follows:

HIGGSBURY MEMORIAL MUSEUM, STAFF WANTED.

Miss Emily Higgsbury, in accordance with the will of her late Grandfather, Lord Percival Higgsbury, is to open her ancestral estate as a museum for the public interest. Seeking individuals with knowledge of world travels, scientific oddities, arcane knowledge, and docents to catalog the massive collection of the late Lord Higgsbury. All interested parties please contact Miss Higgsbury at Her Majesty's Post, Beans-on-Toast, Post box Three.

After spending the entire day placing the fliers around the village, Emily returned home to the disorganized mess that was Higgsbury Hall. There was barely enough room for Bertie, the automatic tea cart, to deliver Emily a cup of tea while she sat in the only armchair not already occupied by some other manner of knick knack or whatsit.

[Fairley B. Strange]

The drunken yokel - one of many, he didn't try to notice which one was which - slumped outside the Public House, stirred himself and pointed a shaking hand towards the piece of paper flapping on its own on the village notice-board.
"There it is, Mister Lowe, mister personal valet to hiz lordship gawdblessim, mister too good for Beans-on-Toast, there it is... the new Ladyship has put em up all over. Staff wanted. Proper staff, too, not the likes of you..."
Then the cackling started.
And was cut off by a square-toed boot to the "...arghhh! Me jewels! You can't do that. Not anymore as such. You'll be out on your ear and right sharp..."
The sound faded as the boot swung back in an elegant arc and hung poised with the promise of another kick.
Kelvin Lowe steadied himself as his intended target thought better and slunk around into the pub yard, muttering about the jewels. Ignoring the curses, he regarded the notice with an air of mild exasperation and shook his head upon his long neck.
Well, it was there in ink. He idly wondered which one of the locals had managed to read it to the rest. Probably just the small words in bold lettering.
Turning, he climbed back onto his velocipede and absently wound the spring-starter to kick the flash-boiler's waterpumps into thumping life. As he shifted the gearknob forward into first, he reflected to himself. Best be getting back to the Hall, then. SevenHells knows how many charlatans and moonstrucks will turn up to a notice like that, and I'm betting this girl will have no idea what to do with them all...
The mechanical steed was in third gear before he reached the outskirts of the drab little village, its grooved rubber tyres sliding on the muddy cobblestones, as he headed home.

[MWBailey]

Mordavo saw the scuffle outside through the open door of The Boar and Cudgel as he sat at a table in the coner beside the bar, inconspicuous in the shadow cast by the giant boiler that produced the hot water for said cuppa. The publican had given him a hard look when he'd heard Mordavo's accent, bur looked him up and down and seemed to approve of what he saw, and poured out the water into the teapot, adding the teabag and setting it and a cup, saucer and honeypot on the table at which the Slavic itinerant now resided.

"Roight, you there, Jimmy, is it? You've 'ad enough, if you're going to run off customers! Off wi' you, if ye know wha's goof for you!" the publican bellowed as "Jimmy" shambled off. "Young folk these days, ah?" the older man said over his shoulder at 'Davo.

Mordavo made a noncommittal noise into his cup, as he perused the flier that he'd peeled from a tree outside the hamlet's tiny chapel.

Ha. So the leathery fellow's worried about the Miss, he mused to himself. He sat awhile longer and pondered, and perused, and gulped tea until the pot was exhausted. He thanked the publican then,
dropped a crown on the tabletop (half again the quoted price, as a gratuity for hospitality and good service), and ambled as nonchalantly as he was able to the door, out into the dooryard and down the lane, ducking into a stand of lime trees beside the path, where his body stretched in odd ways as he gasped and moaned, and then a different shape in the same clothing leaped over the nearby stone wall and into the wood that bordered the Higgsbury estate, taking off at a four-legged run that belied any former human relation.

[Lord Badgersworth]

As Quincy Ford steered his aero-launch lower and guided her steadily towards the tumbledown old mansion
he observed a vulpine shape dashing through the woods toward his target. He thought nothing of it as it was not the first strange animal he had seen on his way north-east from liverpool. He slowed his aerolaunch as he came alongside the tower peeking out of the sharply angled rooftops and threw a rope over to the airship docking spire. He pulled his craft over so that it was only a short leap over to the rusty iron doorframe set into the tower. He leapt gracefully over the gap, landing in a crouch on the ledge.  After making sure his ship was properly tied on Quincy banged on the door. "Looks like no-one's home." The handle fell of into his hands when he tried to twist it so the aviator had to resort to pushing against the door with all his strength. But it would not budge for love nor money."Dammit! its rusted shut," his yell sounded through the air, directed toward no-one in particular. "Have to climb. Long way down but plenty of handholds." Quincy ford proceeded to tie one end of the rope wrapped around his shoulder to an iron spike potruding from the wall underneath the ledge on which he stood and dropped the other end into the gaping void below. About halfway down the strain on the rope increased and the old metal began to bend. Quincy, seeing this had the presence of mind to grab on to one of the many gothic ornaments that festooned the manor. The metal pole finlly gave to the pressure and narrowly missed his head on the way down before smashing a large stained glass window on the second floor. He glanced down and saw a tall, slender figure in a coat staring up at him as he straddled the gargoyle that was the only thing keeping him from a sudden fall. Seeing a possible handhold on a window ledge next to him, he lunged, grasping it firmly with both hands and released his legs from the gargoyle. In a simmilar manner he proceeded to make his way down the building until he reached the solid ground. After spending a moment regaining his breath, he dusted himself of and strolled nonchalantly over to the portcullis of the building. "How's it goin' Stranger?" He enquired,"I'm Lieutenant Commander Quincy Ford, formerly of the Independent Air Corps. I guess were here for the same reason." Quincy held up the his copy of the flier.

[Stormcat]

Though her dreams of an opened-shirt Mister Darcy would normally keep her occupied for hours, Emily bolted awake, as if she sensed the presence of others closing in on her lonely precipice.

It took her almost fifteen minutes to make her way to the front door. All her grandfather's hoardings blocking her way at every turn. By the time she reached the front door, Poor Emily had been molested by countless artifacts, and she looked far more disheveled and desperate than she truly was. The grand front doors still yielded to their mistress's hand, but on this dark and rather overcast evening, Miss Higgsbury could barely see across the threshold. She straightened her reading glasses and attempted to make herself presentable.

"Hello?" she called out over the grim landscape. "Is anyone there?"

[MWBailey]

Mordavo heard a racket above him; It wasn't his first time seeing a flying machine; the Fortele Armate had used three airships-of-war and around ninety fixed-wing, parasol-style "kitewing" aircraft, and all had overflown the various battles of the suppression of the so-called Little Rebellion. He looked up anyway (a precaution learned when the rebels began stealing aircraft and using them against the infantry), and immediately dismissed it as a civilian aircraft of the air-launch variety.

The wood seemed devoid of anything that might challenge an encroaching predator, but Mordavo sensed the telltales of a were presence. not very strong; perhaps the fellow had just been passing through, or this was just one corner of a vast domain; he couldn't really tell in his half-transformed state. he reached the outer curtain wall of the estate, leaped fluidly through a gap in the masonry, and immediately ducked behind a philodendron bush. He went through the rigorous, somewhat painful process of transformation back to human, stifling a groan as he did so, and then stepped back out again when the process was complete. He strode across the lawn that bore signs of having been recently mown, and paused a moment as he watched a figure leap from the air launch to the side of a seemingly dilapidated mooring tower; he nearly ran forward to catch the fellow when it seemed he might fall, but checked himself and continued to the walkway that stretched from the gateway, turned and walked up it, and arrived at the front door at about the same time as the intrepid airman.

"Myself as vell," he offered in clipped English, with just a trace of his Romaninan accent. He stuck out his hand in greeting. "Mordavo Klimt, formerly Kolor Sergent, Fortele Armate Rumania, retired. Most recently, Librarian and manservant off the late Count Prastenhammer off Kradallia."

"Da, Miss Higgsbury,.. Is it? Ve haff come for the advertissement for library staff." He called out in response to the voice from within the edifice.

[Fairley B. Strange]

Lowe stood discreetly behind his employer, watching the interloper warily.

Odd looking cove, and from his accent not from around here, but at least he seemed brighter than the villagers in this backward hole.

Above them he heard the unfamiliar sounds of an air-vessel. Unusual in these parts, he wondered if it was more applicants.
He had notified Cook to have a stock of teas and cakes readied for the Miss to take care of suitable applicants. The unsuitable he could take care of without cakes. From his reading of aerial vessels in the periodicals, he wondered if the North Lawn was of sufficient size for whomever might try to land... and whether he would need to warn the gardeners... he shrugged imperceptibly. It was probably just flying over to somewhere more interesting.

Then he heard the smashing of glass upstairs, and the bony hands clasped respectfully behind his back reached inside his jacket to grasp the haft of his knife as he turned to mount the stairs.

[Stormcat]

Emily was surprised that two possible applicants had shown up together, especially at this hour, but she welcomed them both and helped them maneuver inside.

"I do apologize for all the clutter" She called out to the applicants as they squeezed past all the baubles and bits. "My grandfather loved to collect things, and his will even stated I am not to dispose of anything unless it is in such condition it cannot be salvaged." Finally, the three of them managed to find the study. Emily sat at her grandfather's massive oak desk and started to inform the applicants of their prospective duties.

"Well Gentlemen, as you may have heard, Lord Higgsbury died several months ago in a horrific steamboat accident. His will was fortunately locked away in a watertight chest which was recovered from the wreckage just a few weeks ago. I am not at liberty to discuss this will in detail, as my solicitor Mister Wickerbottom isn't here, but the main clause did state that my grandfather's entire collection is to be turned over to the public for educational purposes." Emily adjusted her glasses. "If you would please wait for my manservant, Mister Lowe, to arrive, I shall interview you both individually."

[MWBailey]

"Da, Miss Higgsbury," Mordavo answered politely. "Nothing too untovard, I hope." He took out his notebook and pencil, and made a note, then stuck both back into the depths of his coat, pausing and looking at something in the middle distance behind his prospective employer. Since he'd been turned, all of his lupine senses had yet to overtly assert themselves when in human form - except for a keen sense of the otherworldly; not just sight,  smell, taste or hearing, but a smattering of what seemed to a sometimes strong, sometimes weak sense of all of the above - pertaining mainly to things magickal or otherwise recondine. He school s his face to expressionlessness; perhaps it was a normal occurrence that he had just witnessed - assuming that he had, in fact, actually witnessed it.

Of course, it was perfectly possible, in the rather  eclectic surroundings in the old house, that he had merely imagined the odd face peering out of a bell jar about twenty feet away on a high shelf behind Miss Higgsbury...

[Fairley B. Strange]

Hmmm, they do seem to have been talking for ages... I suppose that means the young Mistress must be considering taking those two strange coves on, because if otherwise the bell would have rung and I'd have been booting them out the door by now.

He had taken the tea-trolley laden with Cook's finest little cakes into the drawing-room and discreetly withdrawn, then after retying the anchor ropes on that floating contraption to a sturdier chimney, he had returned to the basement of the North Wing to check the drainpipe.
As expected, the plumbing problem was growing worse. Not only was the pipe cap rusting out, but the green thing inside was growing thicker and stronger than it had been last week.
On an idle speculation, he poked at the end of the tendril with his knife point.

It screamed and drew back into the wet darkness of the pipe...

[Stormcat]

"Excellent! So when Mister Wickerbottom arrives tomorrow, we'll sign the contracts and make this all official!"

The bell finally rang, and Emily directed for the two gentlemen to join her in the least-crowded parlor for tea and sweets.

"I'm afraid you'll have to find your own lodgings for the time being, even the servants quarters are stuffed to capacity. I've actually found it more reasonable to sleep at my desk in the study rather than attempt to clear out one of the bedrooms. I don't even know how many bedrooms we have here!"

[MWBailey]

"I am confident that I can find a place to sleep vithout much difficulty," Mordavo said, reining n his accent somewhat. He cocked his head slightly to one side as a strange, shrill noise just on the edge of being audible sounded from somewhere deep in the old house. A mouse? he thought, while wrestling down the coyote's sudden surge of hunting-lust. Nie, sounds more like something from the forest back home... he mused to himself, then shrugged mentally. Time enough to find out later, he supposed.

He added aloud, "I can sleep on the grounds if you do not mind, or I can find a place in town. That Inn seems reputable enough."

[Fairley B. Strange]

By the time Lowe had screwed the pipe-cap extra tight, and carried his bag of tools back up into the Kitchen, the Cook was already returning with the depleted tea-trolley.
Startled, her solid frame still managed a small jump that rattled the best china teaset and spilled a few small cakes from the top tier of the rack. She returned Lowe's quizzical look with a quilty blush.
"Ah, well, the young Miss, she didn't ring the bell for you to be taking it away... but, since just happened to be upstairs, well, after they all departed to find themselves places to sleep in all the Old Master's clutter, so I brought it down meself."

"So they're both staying, then? The young Miss is still in her study? And the other two..?"

The Cook shrugged as she began to gather up the dirtied teacups in her pudgy fingers, "No idea where they are. Lost somewhere in the big Halls, or perhaps gone back up into that flying-thing you were telling me about. Anyways, from the sound of it, if they aren't lost in the night, I'll be making breakfast for two more. She was talking about signing contracts tomorrow... uh, as I was just passing close to the door while tidying up, of course. The young Miss didn't even ring for to have rooms made up - or emptied of junk, morelike - for them as guests. So, I've got extra eggs and all, but she never even told me anything. How I'm supposed to cook for them if she don't tell me aught, and now on me own with no girls willing to work in this Madhouse since the last one, Margaret-Anne, run away screaming... Honestly, Mister Lowe, if this place isn't put to right soon, I don't know how it will go on."

Lowe scratched his roughly-shaven chin reflectively, "Hmmm, you may be right. Contracts, you say? Then we can only hope these new chaps can help the young Miss sort through all the stuff upstairs. And maybe then all the mess up there won't be driving the village girls away. Anyway, if there are guests for breakfast, you'll be needing your sleep. Off you go, I'll do the dishes since you fetched the trolley - fair's fair."

She accepted his offer readily, waddling down the corridor to her small private room beyond the main pantry, closing the door and sliding the heavy bolts home for the night as Lowe piled the crockery by the stone sink and worked the pump.


Ten minutes later, he stacked the last of the plates and turned down the lamps to retreat into the Butler's Office and the welcome rest of his palliase under the workbench of the rest of his tools.

Well, tomorrow will be a new day..., he mused as his eyelids fell closed.

[MWBailey]

For Mordavo's part, he found a small brick shed in the usual part of the grounds where such things can be found. A row of several scythe blades and their respective handles hung on one wall along with several other  tools of the groundsman's trade, and several hammers and smith's tongs, the scythe blades in various stages of sharpness; a short fragment of railway rail on the makeshift bench against the opposite wall bore the scars of having been used as an anvil for reshaping the scythes' blades. By the look of it, many other things as well had been hammered on it. A portable forge sat disassembled, tied together and propped in one corner; it bore only the slightest hint of a residual burnt-creosote smell.

"So they use coal, do they? Smells like home," Mordavo muttered under his breath as he surveyed the shed's interior. He found the door to be serviceable and closed it against the gathering darkness and damp of the evening, and slid the bolt home; best not to let anyone walk in on him and think him to be a stray, after all. The tiny window above the bench looked toward the side of the dark pile of shadows that was the House; a tiny glimmer of a lamp of some sort shone through a window on the ground floor, and for a short time another did so from an upstairs window, and then winked out as Mordavo shed his clothing and folded it, laying it on the bench after carefully brushing the surface clean with a whisk broom off of the tool rack, changed, and laid down in the coyote's form on a fallen empty feed sack that smelled of oats. He closed his eyes and slept for a time.

[Stormcat]

Emily retreated to her study and locked the door behind her. She saw that last few rays of light disappear over the horizon, and she lit a gas lamp just before it went totally dark. Clutching the lamp close to her, she timidly made her way to the desk to review a large tome. Even though this particular book had been the subject of her fascination for some time, she really didn't like to read it at night. Whenever she did, she would swear that the shadows around her would begin to move of their own accord, yet vanish when she tried to get a better look at them. Emily supposed that reading a book called "The Codex Umbra" Literally, The Shadow Codex, would cause one to become jumpy about darkness.

The Codex was written entirely in a strange hieroglyphics not found in any known language, but before his passing, Lord Higgsbury had managed to make a translation key. Emily did not know exactly how much of the Codex her grandfather had actually been able to translate. In the dim light, Emily turned to a fresh page in her journal and began her work.

After the first few paragraphs, the shadows in the room began to move in Emily's peripheral vision. Usually, this only annoyed her. However, as the night went on, Emily could've sworn she felt a physical presence directly next to her. She spun around to face the presence, but it vanished instantly. In her haste, Emily had spilled the inkwell onto her journal. As she steadied it, the ink seemed to take on its own path, forming distinct streams. The streams reconnected and soon Emily realized the sentient ink was spelling out words:

Hello Darling.

[MWBailey]

Mordavo awoke sometime later; opening his eyes, the coyote's yellow irises seeing quite clearly in the darkness of the shed, he reared up and rested his paws on the windowsill. He noted the position of the moon's shadows on the lawn. He'd noted the moon's position a couple of nights before, when he had slept in a hayrick outside of some village in the Lake District, and judging by what his soldier's senses had learned for the purposes of telling time and navigating for night actions, he could tell that it was not actually terribly late; in fact, if he was any judge, it wasn't much past midnight.

What awakened me? he wondered. Not a scent or a sound, of that he was certain. dulled by his human form, his coyote's senses were not acute in that guise, but when he became the coyote, those senses and his newly-acquired sense for the supernatural were not only fully asserted, but actually enhanced. In the instant that he remembered that, he realized what had caused him to wake: Either stirring spirits, or another were or similar being close by. He paused, torn; should he change, don his clothes and check the grounds in human form, or perform such action as the coyote? He opted, finally, for changing and dressing, but keeping the coyote's eyes; he could feel that the lupine muzzle had not quite dissolved into the more human features of the rest of his face, but under the circumstances he figured it probably wouldn't matter much.

"The Miss is probably quite capable of takingk care off herself, " he muttered under his breath, "But better safe dan zorry." Taking the rather antique-ish largebore howdah pistol from the inner pocket of his frock coat, he checked the frizzens of both barrels, and made sure the strike plates were properly set; he had reloaded the pistol (upper barrel with lead, the lower with silver, just in case) not six days before, after helping to see off a highwayman on the highroad who'd tried to rob the coach he had taken from the harbor at which he had arrived from the mainland. He unbolted the door, stepped out into the cool and breeze of the night, and began checking the outer curtain wall. he completed his circuit, and muttered, "Hmpf. nothing." he raised his head; he still picked up the odor which was not precisely an odor of something not unlike magic; he stepped toward the house, and the sensation became stronger. He stepped toward the lighted window, mainly simply because it attracted his attention. he did not try to look inside just yet; looking at a light would ruin his dark vision, leaving him effectively blind except for the supernatural sensing ability, which had not so far proven entirely reliable for physical-world navigation. So, he stood about a meter and a half from the window, taking in the not-scent of magick and waiting to see what might transpire.

If whoever it is screams or there is a commotion, I shall take steps, otherwise, I shall simply wait, he thought to himself as he backed into the ivy-choked shadow of the side of the house.

[Fairley B. Strange]

Lowe drifted off to sleep.
He dreamed. It was always the same dream.
He fell into the icy water, his flesh instantly turning numb, unable to move, unable to breathe. He fell deeper, watching himself sinking rapidly, immobile as the circle of sky above him shrank and became faint through the thickening lens of the freezing brine. Then he was cushioned in the firm grip of an icy-cold clear ooze that trapped him even more deeply than the ocean. Then, finally, he opened his mouth to breathe and was consumed in the inrushing ooze. And that blackness, as always, took him into a deep and restful slumber.
He would wake in the morning, refreshed, but as always gasping for air as if for the first time.

[Lord Badgersworth]

Quincy made his way along an upstairs corridor, Avoiding piles of old belongings and heading back up toward the chimney the butler informed him the aero-launch had been re-tied to. He stopped outside a large, oaken door to listen to the strange, ghostly whispering coming from within, the lantern in one hand, his peacemaker in the other hand, he kicked open the door which swung outward with an audible creak, revealing Miss Higgsbury leaning over a desk, a dark creature composed entirely of shadow looking over her, evidently the source of the ghostly noises. Quincy raises his pistol and yelled, "You stop right there 'n leave the Miss alone or I might have to acquaint you with 6 o' my friends called 308 magnum. The creature turned and rose up to his full height, now facing him. Its voice rasping through his head, it raised itself up to its full height and uttered one single word. "No." His hand shaking, Ford dropped his lantern and pulled the trigger twice, sending the sound of shots ringing through the room. The creature was pushed back, but payed little heed to the damage the bullets should have done to it. Instead, the window behind the creature shattered, sending a gust of cold wind into the room. Quincy backed slowly toward the still open door as the ghostly apparition moved even slowlier toward him.

[MWBailey]

Mordavo started to attention as the voice of the young aviator rang out in the night, muffled though it was by the closed window. The window did not remain closed for long, however, as the glass shattered and bullets zanged off into the night.

"Cacat!" he swore, and bent down quickly to take a look through the window and saw the tableaux within. ""In ze room!" he shouted, "I am comingk in!" he shouted, and dove in through the window, using his shoulders, covered in the heavy cloth of the frock coat, to brush past the jagged remnants of the shattered window. He fluidly tumbled through, rolled upright, and drew Miss Higgsbury back behind him. "Your pardon, Milady," he said, and pocketed the massive pistol, and then withdrew a stick of chalk from another part of the coat. Bending down, holding the young lady gently beside him, he circled around, drawing a white circle on the floor around the two of them, finishing by drawing the stiletto from his boot , nicking  his finger, and letting a drop of his blood fall upon the junction of the circle.

"Please to stay vissin ze circle, Milady," he admonished her. "Iss only a, how do you say it, a stop-gap? But it should work well enough for now."

"Herr Quincy? Something with silver vould work best for such a creature," he called across the room to the young man.

[Stormcat]

Before any of the men could react, the shadow creature vanished without a trace.

The room suddenly became much brighter than it had been before as if the entity had been smothering almost all of the light sources. Emily finally peeled away from Mr. Ford and slammed both her journal and the Codex shut. Rather than thank the men for her apparent rescue, she seemed extremely agitated.

"What are you all doing here!?! I thought I told the lot of you to go back to the village!" The men attempted to speak an apology, but Emily was having none of it. "Nevermind! Just! Just get out of here!" As instructed, the two gentlemen left her alone.

Once alone, she curled up in the corner farthest away from the broken window. She tried to steady her breathing, and just pretend like her secret research hadn't just been exposed to her two newest employees. At least since the contracts would not be drawn up until tomorrow morning, they could still leave if they wanted to. How could she blame them? But it seemed as if those men had dealt with creatures like that before.

Somehow she managed to fall asleep there, the sunrise peering through the broken window. Emily stretched and attempted to work out the terrible soreness in her shoulders. The Codex and her journal remained on the desk where she left them, but there was a piece of paper on top of the codex. It contained a simple message:

Mummy and Daddy miss you very much.

[MWBailey]

Mordavo followed Ford out of the room.

"I vould suggest zhat ve stay close by, that is to say, the village, as instructed" he said. He noticed Ford's stare. Frankly, he supposed, he couldn't blame the fellow. Mordavo's own infantry company (those left after the weres had killed and devoured the rest) had been suspicious of him, and he had nearly been chained and silvered to death himself before he convinced them that he wanted revenge as much as they. Best to allay the young man's fears now, rather than later, he thought.

"My nature iss obvious, yes? I could change completely, but my clothing becomes hopelessly jumbled when I do zhat." He took out his howdah pistol, checked to be sure the frizzens were still charged and the lead and the silver balls still in the barrels, and replaced it in his coat. "I suggest you keep your weapon charged as vell, but please to be careful vhich vay you aim, my friend. If I had looked in the window at the wrong moment, I would have been one wery angry coyote," he winked. "Incidentally, I always keep vone barrel loaded with silver, if you should have need of such. Let us return, as she said , to the village, and wait until the appointed time for contract-signing. Perhaps the Pub has more than just tea to drink, ha? Shall I help you find your flying machine?"

[Lord Badgersworth]

"That sounds absolutely fine, Mr Mordavo, was it? A good strong whiskey would be just the ticket right now. And don't concern yerself about me judging your Lycanthropism, I used to trade and do some mercenary work with the Navajo Indians. Great airmen & superb warriors. Their god is a man-wolf and to them, lycanthropy is a mark that the person is chosen to be a mouthpiece of Niltzi. It is considered a great honour.  So let's not fuss anymore and head up to the 'Admiral von Kippers'." Quincy adressed the man before him. "Zhe Admirel Von Kippers?" Replied Mordavo, evidently confused at his words. "Oh yes, that's my aero-launch. I named it when I was 10. After my cat. I still use it on ovassiobs such as these and it has been reliable even in the hurricanes of the Bermuda zone." The two men made their way up to the aero launch and headed into town for a whiskey and a good nights sleep.

[Fairley B. Strange]

Lowe woke, straining and gasping for his first breath of the day.
He crawled out from under the workbench, stretching as his limbs seemed to flow back into place after being freed from the cold grip of the ooze.
He rubbed his hand across his chin, roughly-shaven as he was every morning. He'd tried his sharp knife, carefully hand-stropped straight razors, and even those new-fangled safety razors but it was always the same. Never smooth, never a beard. The same with his long hair, always just to his shoulders, never longer, even when he had tried using the razor, every morning it was always the same. He pulled on a freshly ironed shirt - at least Old Mrs Potter still came by each week to collect the washing, even if he had to hand the bags over at the back door steps as she would no longer step inside - and readied himself for another day...

Cook had prepared a tray.
Obviously the young Miss had rung the bell for breakfast in her study not the dining room, so he hefted the weight of the cloche and its warmly steaming contents and headed 'upstairs'.

He knocked discreetly at the door but Miss Emily was already awake, absorbed in the documents on her cluttered desk.

"Your breakfast, Miss. Is there anything else you may require...?"

[Stormcat]

"No, not now," Emily said, devoid of any discernible emotion. "Mister Wickerbottom should be arriving today to draw up the new employee contracts... if they are still coming, that is." She was still rather disordered from the night before. She had chucked the note about 'Mummy and Daddy' into the waste basket and sincerely hoped no one would discover it by accident. "Please do not disturb me again until Wickerbottom arrives."

Once he left, Emily daintily ate her breakfast of eggs and kippers. A bit of hot food was usually all it took to revive her after an emotional upset, and this morning was no different. Mrs. Babley's cooking always did have more of a healing effect that food prepared by anyone else. Revived, Emily returned to the cramped bedroom where she had stored most of her possessions to make herself presentable for the day.

The Hawk-like Mister Wickerbottom arrived at Higgsbury Hall at exactly 9 o'clock. The chimes from the "Great-Great-Grandfather" clock in the reception were still ringing when Lowe opened the door for him. He breezed past Lowe with his nose in the air to the parlor, Where Emily was already waiting. "I'm afraid the new hires haven't arrived just yet." She told him as he sat down on one of the settees.

"That is typical of the lower classes, never punctual," Wickerbottom said.

"I asked them to be here at noon, you are three hours too early." Emily replied.

Wickerbottom sniffed. "How Gauche, they are putting on airs!". Emily rolled her eyes. It was a good thing Wickerbottom had strong delusions of grandeur, otherwise, he would've never agreed to be the Higgsbury family solicitor. He didn't even mind that her late grandfather was a bit of a nutter, he would only willingly associate with the upper crust, living or dead. "It truly is a shame that you are unable to find good help to manage the estate, in my day, any man worth half his salt would do all he could to even land a position cleaning the toilets for an established family like yours."

"Well, we don't need to, we have automata that do that now." Emily replied.

Wickerbottom seemed to ignore Emily's explanation "You know, Baron Melchett's elder son just lost his wife to typhoid. It would be a good way to continue your family's legacy-"

"Absolutely not!" Emily shot back "Baron Melchett and his sons are all frivolous layabouts. If it wasn't for Dowager Baroness, the lot of them would be in the poorhouse. She made a wise investment in those Cambodian mines."

"I meant no disrespect ma'am."  Wickerbottom sniffed again. "But in all seriousness, you may want to seek out a husband in the near future. Pop out a few heirs, and keep the noble heritage alive."

Emily rolled her eyes again. Wickerbottom always had to ask her when she was getting married, didn't he?

[Fairley B. Strange]

Lowe waited dutifully just outside the Parlour as any good butler also would. Keeping an ear open for any summons, but not actually listening to the conversation of the young Miss and her legal advisor. While not technically listening, he contemplated the brass handles of the Ballroom doors opposite.
Highly polished, but still definitely a knob..., he mused, ...and so is that door handle...

After a while the conversation became fainter, and Lowe drifted silently down the corridor.
If there was anything else, they could ring the bell.
The two prospective helpers were still over two hours away - if they came back at all.
In the meantime, he could board up the broken window in the Study. He presumed the young Miss must have thrown something while studying those weird books last night. He shook his head - the old Master had spent his last years and what little of his health remained on whatever was hidden in those strange scrawls, and it hadn't helped with the Hall or the rooms full of stuff he had called his 'collection'. Now, it seemed to be driving the young Miss into a similar frustration to be throwing things.
He pulled aside the curtains and began to sweep up the broken glass.
Hmm, it seems to be all on the inside... So, something was thrown in from the Garden. Probably the superstitious villagrs throwing stones again. He'd have to check the grounds tonight, just in case they came back.
Lowe took the dustpan of broken glass downstairs, collected his toolbag and went outside to board up the broken window.
He entered the shed to get some spare planks and paused at the strange smell of a dog - either it had come up the hill with the villagers, or there were wild dogs prowling the grounds in the dark.
Better bring the shotgun tonight, just in case...
He shouldered sufficient planks and set off for the window.
Well, it wouldn't matter, the young Miss was usually too busy studying to look out the window anyway.

He had the job done in under an hour, so headed back inside to check on the Parlour.