Nothing has brought greater shame upon me than the killing of Eiren Adair. Every horrid act that I have carried out, every murder set to me by the Lord Van Wyk, and it is the accidental murder that condemns my soul to unrest. The only glimmer of hope that I have, that I may cling to, is that I have granted him the one thing he sought so desperately: escape.

My punishment remains firm and unyielding. I will never be allowed such a mercy as freedom, nor have I ever been. I fear I shall die in some great number of years, cursed never to leave since I entered through those cold, cold gates of Kelfordshire.

The most esteemed sculptor has left, my only consolation being that he is leaving to die. He hacked his way through that fateful night, blood and tears pouring from his vile face as he coughed in the dark. His disgusting fanaticism to his work, however, can only be admired, for he at last completed those disastrous statues which he was begged to undertake.

Not so far from the front of the Estate, on the opposite side from the final Lady, are five new sculptures, each more saddening than the last. I fear that even if this never makes its way to the civilized world and out from under the tyrannical eye of my master, then those statues will paint a much more vivid picture of life how it was before Kelfordshire fell to ruin.

On the far left, tantalizingly close to the Western walls, is myself, a censer falling from my hands and an expression one could only attribute to blind faith etched upon my face. It indeed looks as though Mr. Quilby remembers me only too well from my earliest days of service with the Lord, when blind faith was all that I could achieve. Beside me stands Caelony, her face cast up to the heavens, her hands clasped over her heart. She is crying to the sky, penance and mercy being begged of our Gods from her pitiful expression. Situated in the middle of everything, and resting on a bench of solid white, our dear Eiren sits, a notebook in hand, and his curious gaze cast to the right, towards the gates. It is a flattering image, and one that depicts Eiren only as his purest form. One could not ask for more in death.

Lord Van Wyk and his greyhound close us all in on our right. They are the only near the gate, and the Lord's hand rests powerfully on the nightmare's head. I cannot determine which expression is more terrible, but I shudder when I look upon the haughty sneer of the Lord, and am overcome with a desire to pluck forth my eyes at the sight of the snarling dog that protects him.

I am, you see, fated to die here. My only regret henceforth is that I failed to aide the one person worthy of quitting Kelfordshire, and I have learned the extent of my folly from the twenty-seven statues of Severin Quilby.

Father Bele, Kelfordshire