The priest had been yelling about the mess the sculptor was making, as Eiren found out when he made his way downstairs for something warm to drink.

"No, you imbecile! Keep your bricks and your dust out of the damn hall!" Eiren had never heard the priest swear before, and the sound made him peer curiously into the entrance hall on his way to the dining room. Holding his skinny hands up and stammering out several excuses in his odd language, Severin appeared quite overwhelmed by the screeching priest.

"Ach," he hacked, swatting at the broom that began to attack his head, wielded by the priest. "I will remove it, you madman, leave me be!"

"Remove it now!" The broom came down on the sculptor's head, sending the fluffy locks in disarray. "I will not have my house reduced to a workshop of filth!"

"Is this really your house?" Eiren leaned his head into the short hallway and smiled at the priest, who whirled around and scowled at the intrusion.

"You need to speak with Caelony, Mr. Adair," he shouted, and Eiren ducked out of the way as the broom jabbed out at him. "Now is not the time for lounging about!" The sculptor threw a worried look to Eiren under the priest's arm and darted out of the front door, eager to take any opportunity to escape the wrath of the irritated priest.

Having received his serving of abuse from the priest, Eiren made his way into the kitchens, wondering what Father Bele wanted him to speak with Caelony about.

The cook was, as usual, wringing his hands out over the stove and trying hard not to cry. Eiren had realized, in a strange sort of triumph that really, had no bearing on anything at all, the gender of the cook by complete accident. After dinner and his talk with the priest, the day before Caelony's birthday, he had stopped by the kitchens for a cup of much-needed tea and found the cook writing a letter to his wife.

Upon seeing his future lord enter so late and suddenly, the cook had dropped the letter straight into the sink and after staring at the ink, blushing away into the water, began to cry.

He was not very adept at the art of writing, and the letter had taken upwards of an hour to pen, despite its rather short length. Eiren, feeling sympathetic towards anyone that was not his caustic bride or her restrictive father, had stopped to rewrite the letter, much to the joy of the cook.

He shook his head and snorted at the memory of the sentiments the chef had tried to express to his young wife, who lived in the next town and very rarely saw her husband.

"What is it now," he called gently, not wanting to startle the cook, who jumped anyway.

"Oh, Mr. Adair," he moaned, after sending a spoon flying over the stove. "It's nothing to concern you with, sir, just my own mistakes, is all." Eiren raised an eyebrow and stepped around the cook, reaching for the kettle and the box of tea leaves.

"Isn't it always?" Jesting aside, Eiren looked at the fretting chef with a mixture of pity. There was something about him that reminded Eiren of his life in Perrinton. A sort of empty repetition, an everyday, lifeless existence. He shuddered inwardly to see what had been him, only, he was glad to know that he never slaved away over a fire and a stove all day.

"It is, sir, but that doesn't get the sauces mixed, or the steaks cut." The cook darted around Eiren and snatched the kettle. "The Lady isn't helping sir, no she isn't!" He filled the pot with water and set it on the stove, stoking the small flame on it until the kettle warmed. "Or the Lord! Always coming in and requesting the strangest things, or forever fiddling with food!" Eiren guiltily set the box of tea down and backed up into a counter.

"What kinds of things do they request?"

The cook gave Eiren a wan look and pulled a glass down from a shelf.

"I... am unsure if I am at liberty to say, Mr. Adair." This elicited a snort of annoyance from Eiren.

"What liberty would prevent you, I ask? I am as much of this family as you are!"

"Ah, but I am not of this family," was the response, and the cook pushed the glass in Eiren's hands before gently shoving him out of the kitchen. "And I am not sure I want to be, Mr. Adair!"

Armed with a hot cup and a head full of more questions, Eiren took to the upstairs, lazily drifting in and out of the halls. He was glad at that moment, not to be a guest, in the most real sense of the word, at the Estate. Although he dreaded the eventual union between him and Caelony Van Wyk, he was ultimately grateful not to be a part of the abused, as he had grown to thinking of the sculptor and the chef.

Who even knew how long the cook had been apart from his wife! The sculptor was subject to endless harassment at the hands of Caelony and the priest, none of whomever attempted to hide their distaste for him. No, Eiren was not going to complain about his proposed relations with the Van Wyks, not if it kept him out of the light of further stress and arguments.

As Eiren wandered, he drew closer to the library, and it occurred to him how little fiction or poetry he had read since his arrival. Pushing his way inside, he sipped at his tea and peered at the large room.

The library was at least five times as wide as Eiren's room, and nearly as tall as the entire building. Imagining how impressive the room must look from the outside, he peered in breathless awe at the hundreds of shelves. There was no reason to suspect anybody had ever read more than a handful, but nevertheless, thousands of covers winked back at Eiren. Candles by the hundreds, trapped under twinkling glass jars, decorated every shelf, and Eiren wondered briefly who spent each day lighting such a vast number of lights.

Huge windows graced the far side of the room, letting in a view of the growing twilight. Days passed so quickly in the fall, Eiren laughed to himself as he pictured how many short days one could spend reading in here.

Finding a sturdy, well-plumped seat to rest in, he settled quietly and sipped his tea tranquilly.

The gravity of his recent readings made him somber, and the library provided the perfect atmosphere to his state. After a few silent minutes of reflection, spent pondering the First Lady, and thinking of the sort of books she would read, he stood and set his tea down, looking about at the shelves.

He drifted along the pages, running his hands along the spines. Stopping at a book that was thicker than he was wide, he hefted it from its place and prised open the covers. The weight of it staggered him, and he fell to his chair, just in time to avoid throwing the book upon the floor.

It was a religious book, but in a language Eiren did not understand. He flipped over pages of relics and cathedrals and martyrs, and looked with interest on the rather violent art, depicting what appeared to be the Consumption of the Gods. Although the validity of the particulars bored him and posed a skeptical reason for his meandering existence, Eiren still found that the Echoists of the world held the more interesting origin of mankind.

His father had ruined the Returnism sect for him. Debauchery was not frowned upon with its followers, and though Eiren enjoyed music and gentle entertainments, he hated the gambling and alcoholism of the Returnists. Celebration and hedonism, that's all they really worshipped, and after his mother had died, his father had never thrown himself so fully into his religion. The sects never even started the same - though they believed in the same Gods, everything else differed. Eiren raised an eyebrow at the gore splattered on a textbook, a vicious painting of somebody caught in sacrifice.

No, he was glad that this house and its bizarre inhabitants followed the grim, dreary lifestyle of a god who had killed His only companion.

He folded another page away and stared with interest at an image of a priest, offering blood from his wrists to a fountain. Eiren shivered - the priest was young in the painting, not much more so than Eiren. There was a familiar fanaticism in his eyes that Eiren knew, but couldn't place. Father Bele did not have that look; he was far too old and defeated by his life and station to muster anything so powerful as fanaticism.

The look in the picture was the same one, Eiren realized with a start, that Lord Van Wyk's second wife wore in her portrait. The image made his heart flip, and he marveled at the idea of what the Lady in question would have done for her husband's violent religion.

Eiren leapt to his feet, sending the book sprawling. He was so close to the Lord's bedroom, and there was no better place to find some depiction of the particulars of the Lord's behaviour with regard to this strange religion. If the Lord was keeping books, detailing the limits of Echoism, then why would he not store details of his own participation? And, Eiren thought feverishly, sliding the book back to its proper place and marching out of the room, why would his wives not also be made to follow these practises?

He was nervous, to be sure - he had already had a close encounter with the Lord in his rooms once before, and he did not wish to repeat the experience. Still, he needed this information. This was perhaps, he realized, with a mental boxing of his ears, the most important piece, the most important connecting factor between the sculptor and the wives. Oh, that he had ignored this foul Echoism for so long!

He slipped down the hall and pressed his ear to the Lord's door. There was nothing, no sound that could be heard beyond the heavy wood. He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and twisted it, his breath still catching even though he suspected he was alone. With a final glance over his shoulder, he pressed himself into the room and pulled the door shut.

He did not know where to look at first. His eyes roamed around the room, flitting from one dark corner to another. This was in no ways similar to the rooms he had explored the previous days. The curtain was as shut as it had been on his last visit; the dust still thick; the odour miserably suffocating. Gagging and pressing his hand to his nose, he crept forward, trying desperately to avoid the bed as much as he could.

There was a desk in the corner, piled high with the traditionally heavy books only Lords and Ladies took the time to read. Half of them looked older than the castle, and the younger ones appeared to have been read enough to make them fit right along with the ancient covers. Eiren stalked forward and pressed a cover with a free hand, nudging aside the dust that seemed as much a resident as the rest of the family.

A strange rustle sounded in his ear, and he flinched, whipping his head around to squint in the darkness.

"What do you expect to find in here, Mr. Adair?" Eiren screamed and fell backward, his fall cracking the desk and pushing several of the old books to the floor.

The bed curtains whispered and pulled away, and Lord Van Wyk sat up in his bed. Eiren blinked in total horror from the floor - why had it never occurred to him, that the Lord could be in here, sleeping!

"I asked you a question, Eiren. I would not recommend that you ignore me after interrupting my rest so rudely." The Lord pulled his legs out from under him and sat tall, his powerful hair swept in a majestic mess around his shoulders. Eiren whimpered.

"I... I was... I," he spluttered, but the Lord stood and silenced anything that was to come out of his mouth.

"Where are your manners?" The Lord's voice was deep and raspy and very angry. "Who are you, to interrupt my sleep, to steal into my room, to touch my things?" His voice was almost at a scream, but just before it reached that particular height, he paused. He was breathing hard, and the sight reminded Eiren of a wild animal. Like a dog, he thought, before flinching once more as the Lord held a hand out.

"Get up, Eiren." He hastily stood, nearly whimpering as his breath caught repeatedly in his throat. Lord Van Wyk's hand was astonishingly cold, as though he was lying underground for a hundred years. From his place in front of the Lord, Eiren could just see the bed, but the source of the terrible smell was still invisible from here. He looked up at the Lord and winced.

"I... I'm really, truly sorry, Sir." His hands were shaking so badly that they tapped a senseless rhythm against his legs, and he crossed his arms to hide them. Was he going to die tonight? He was rather close to the window, though he would have preferred defenestration to suffocating much longer in the guilt and the stench of the room.

The Lord peered at him under a heavy brow. His nightshirt hung over a large, lean chest, and Eiren could just make out something dark and stained along the edges of it. Was that... blood?

"Never mind that," the Lord replied gruffly. "What are you doing in here, especially so late?" I was hoping he would get it over with and kill me without the response...

"Well, I was looking for something," he replied lamely, swallowing hard and looking up with a pained expression.

"Whatever for, in my private room?"

"Your... your practises." Eiren felt there was no way this evasive answer would pass, but surprisingly, the Lord sighed and sat again on the bed, sending a fresh wave of rot over to Eiren's lungs.

"Ah." Lord Van Wyk ran his hands through his hair and sighed heavily. "Why?" Feeling rather childish and small, and desperately hoping he would not be forced to remain very much longer in this room - his vision was going spotty, as he tried to hold his breath - Eiren feebly cleared his throat.

"I want to understand your daughter."

Lord Van Wyk laughed aloud, and Eiren jumped at the sound.

"You want nothing to do with her, Eiren. Ah, and this reminds me..." He stood suddenly and crossed the room, pulling open a closet and rifling through a shelf and a box, before turning to face Eiren again.

He thrust a book towards Eiren and took his place back on his bed.

"I understand that she is hard to deal with," he began, addressing Eiren's questioning look, "and while I appreciate your attempts - though invasive and highly inappropriate as they are - to know her more fully, I must remind you: You do not need to love her." He shook his hand, and Eiren took the book slowly.

"Sir," he said, frowning and looking him in the eye, "what do you mean? Are you saying I... don't have to marry her?"

"I said nothing of the sort," the Lord laughed. "I said you do not need to love her. You must, however, learn your place, and your duty. Your father did not die for nothing, and you will not live for no one." He gestured to the door and waved an irritated hand.

"I will speak with you tomorrow, Mr. Adair. Read what I have given you, and contemplate well what you must do, to accept that nothing you learn will change what you have been sworn to do."

And with that, the curtains closed, and Eiren was forced to leave the room, not with what he entered for, but a handful of questions, confusion, and a stomach full of turmoil. He did not read the book immediately after returning to his room, but once he was done retching into the sink, and he had cleaned himself of the filth he felt like he was mired in, he at last brought the book to his lamp and began to read.