Present Day

As long as you stay clear of topics you would really love to understand properly, Diarmuid is very pleasant company and doesn't cause you to want to tear your hair out by its roots.

I enjoy listening to all the stories he tells me of the history of Peace Haven and its inhabitants. The man has a rather warped sense of humour, though, but since my own has often been described as somewhat off-key, I am prepared to forgive him for the strange things he says occasionally.

"You do seem to know an awful lot about the island and the Slatherties in particular," I remark during a lull in our conversation while we sip our coffee. I was pleasantly surprised when, instead of Leopold, a sweet-looking young woman brought a tray with two cups of my favourite beverage and two plates with generous slices of cheesecake. I am going to roll down the stairs one of these days and not out of clumsiness for a change.

I thanked her and tried to engage her in conversation, but she just muttered and nodded and curtsied, her dark eyes unwilling to meet mine. She looked ready to take flight, so I decided not to push it and leave her in peace.  She was pretty in a subdued way, at least in contrast to the gorgeous women I've seen adorning the walls of this mansion. Her dark hair was tied neatly at her nape, and though she was wearing simple dark slacks and a white blouse and not a maid uniform from the Middle Ages, she had this whole aura of servitude and demurity that made me feel rather garish in comparison.

She worked fast, unloading her tray and re-loading it with our dirty dishes, expertly balancing it all when she left. Once she'd closed the door behind her, Diarmuid assured me that she was not trying to be rude; she was merely shy and probably didn't speak much English.

"I wasn't able to find a lot of information about the Slatherties online," I tell him, sipping on the rich coffee, savouring each mouthful. I know what I want for Christmas! One of those huge coffee mugs that can contain about four regular mugs worth of coffee. I close my eyes, enjoying the aroma and sending ESP signals out into the mansion about bigger mugs. 

"I couldn't find even as much as one picture of any of them, and the information on the island itself is sorely lacking as well."

"To be sure, to be sure," Diarmuid says, his eyes suddenly wide while he blinks them slowly. "I probably shouldn't have told ye half of what I did." He laughs his signature I've-put-my-foot-in-my-mouth-laugh and uses his cake fork to scoop up the last bite of tangy berry cheesecake still left on his plate. The man all but wolved his down. 

He doesn't appear to feel too concerned about possibly breaching his contract by divulging Slatherty secrets, even though every word he said was probably heard in some way or another by the masters of the house. Yes, I'm steadfast in that belief.

"I'm the records keeper," he tells me and, picking up his cup, he drains it of coffee. Doesn't he ever taste anything?! "Aside from assistin' Alaric and Ransford with day-to-day administrative tasks, I make sure that the history of Peace Haven and, in particular, the Slatherties are properly recorded."

"That is... interesting." It's strange; that's what it is, but I cannot say that out loud.

"Aye, it really is." I don't think Diarmuid understood what I meant. "Theirs is a long and complex history; it is important to get the facts straight."

"Especially since it is riddled with allergies and superstitions." I just have to poke at him.

"Allergies?" he frowns, and when I tilt my head, giving him a look, he nods. "Oh, aye... sure, look." He puts his empty cup and saucer in his cake plate and leans back in his chair, folding his arms. I'm suddenly worried about the spindly legs snapping under his weight. Diarmuid is not a big man, but these chairs simply look too dainty to support actual people. I've been sitting very carefully and quietly on mine.

"Why can't they just keep diaries like other people?" I ask. "Why have their very own scribe?" It seems a bit pompous to me.

"There can be no mistakes or sentiments creepin' in, Aubrey," Diarmuid explains with an earnest expression on his face. He clearly takes the role very seriously. "When one has dangerous enemies, it is important to keep the facts straight and record them properly to prevent future generations from being misled."

Oh, there he goes, being all cryptic and weird again. If I ask about these enemies, I'm sure he'll start babbling about chess opponents or tennis matches.

"Enemies? Here on the island?" It seemed that boredom was Ransford's worst enemy... and possibly women with the wrong blood type and genetic make-up.

"Every powerful family have enemies tryin' to divide them and steal their power," he says, looking grim. "Not everybody is happy with how Alaric and Ransford are doin' things. Others would like a bit more... chaos. More shows of raw power and less benevolence. They find Alaric and Ransford to be... uhm..."

"Weak?" I offer a word that fits in his sentence when it seems he cannot find one, though neither of those men struck me as weak.

"Oh, naw!" Diarmuid assures me, looking offended. "They can be right... frightenin'... to their enemies. Believe me, ye be wantin' them as allies, not enemies. The ones who want to steal their power find them too... uhm... nice."

I cannot stop the surprised giggle from bubbling up inside me as I have vivid memories of Alaric levelling his cold eyes on me, being stiff and daunting and of Ransford stealing the cream from my lips and promising to teach me the fine art of making toasties in the sandwich press... I don't know if I would call either of them nice as such...

"Too tolerant of those beneath them."

"Beneath them?" I frown. "Do you mean their servants and staff?"

"Uhm... aye... sure... and other humans."

"Excuse me?"

He is laughing again, and I think that was meant to be a joke, and it is rather funny. Alaric does seem to be above human weaknesses... but then, so is his butler. Perhaps Leopold is the one with the real power.

"So... where are these enemies? In this mansion?"

"Oh, I hope not!" he chuckles, looking horrified. "To be sure, to be sure."

Sighing, I lift my fork and eat my delightful cheesecake, enjoying the flavours, pretending that there isn't an exhausting man sitting with me at the small table near the golden windows with the sun shining happily in his hair while he drives me up the walls by never giving me clear answers.

"Do you have any idea where the sculpture is Antonio Corradini made of Clarice Dankworth?" I ask after a few blissful bites when my Diarmuid tolerance is once more restored to capacity. He looks startled by my request, blinking his eyes and chewing on his bottom lip. Surely, he doesn't think that I am planning to steal it! "It's just that I think I might be related to her... at least very distantly. My roots might be here in Peace Haven."

"Hmm... that's true," Diarmuid acknowledges, his expression relaxing. "There were Dankworths here for about a century if I remember correctly. They all left in the early 1700s... or thereabout. I'm not sure."

"Yes, I heard that too. I once saw a picture of the sculpture in a book, and I would love to see the real one... if I could."

"I am not sure it's here," Diarmuid mutters, thinking about it, scratching his head and shifting precariously on his dainty seat with the pretty yellow flowers among golden ribbons. "I'll see what I can find out."

"Thank you," I smile, happy that he will try to help me with what I think is an incredibly mundane request, but to him seems to weigh a ton. "Why would there be such a sculpture of her? Who was she?" I ask since he appears to be so uncomfortable about the topic, and, unlike with the sweet serving girl, I don't mind pressuring him.

"Deaglan Slatherty's... uhm... wife," Diarmuid says, narrowing his eyes, studying my face, and I'm not sure what he is hoping to see. I'm the one feeling uncomfortable now. That name! I saw it... The guy who hung around in my dream! "When he lost her in 1618, he lost his mind right along with her," he adds, snapping me out of the panicked route my thoughts were taking. 

What does it matter if my distant ancestor was married to the man I dreamed about? That is not the strangest part of that story, and I'd rather not think about that now.

"They had a son. The lad was a wee bit... problematic."

"Ransford?" The beautiful boy in the painting across from that of Deaglan? He was born around that time... if his mother passed away during his birth... or about 12 years before he was born... if I were to estimate his age in that painting... 

Ugh, no, I'm lost.

Diarmuid gives me a startled look, and then he laughs heartily. "Oh, Ransford is extremely problematic, to be sure, to be sure, but he is not their son."

Obviously not! I meant the Ransford in the painting, not the one who ignited my skin with his touch only this morning! Honestly, Diarmuid's jokes make my head spin. It's a bit funny, though, and I chuckle softly, scooping up my last piece of cheesecake. I shouldn't be laughing; this is a sad occasion for me. Who knows when I'll eat something this wonderful again...

Probably at 3pm when I get coffee... I hope.

"Wait, if Clarice Dankworth... Slatherty passed away in 1618; how was Antonio Corradini able to sculpt her, or did he just use imagination and make a sculpture representing her rather than one of her? He was only born in 1688."

"Portraits, I suppose," Diarmuid shrugs, waving his hand in the air, indicating the collection in my drawing room. "If he really did make a sculpture of her, he would've had plenty of paintings to work from. There are many portraits of Clarice in existence, more than of most of the other members of the Slatherty family. She rather loved having her portrait done. She would've been a great fashion model today."

Oh, yes, Ransford did say that the family loved having their portraits painted... some more than others, it seems. I think it is good that they captured themselves at least once in their lifetime. It wasn't like today, where people could have thousands of photographs of themselves, and it is nice to be able to put faces to their names.

"I would love to see one of her portraits," I tell Diarmuid. "It would be interesting to see if there is any family resemblance between us." Perhaps that is why her hubby paid me a visit in my dreams. Perhaps he thought I was her. 

Perhaps I'm a fanciful idiot.

"I know it's highly unlikely; 300 years is quite a distance, and many other bloodlines are flowing through my veins. Still, I'm curious."

"It would be interestin'," Diarmuid smiles. "There's one of her in the billiard room on the ground floor. I think it's her... it could also be one of their lovers."

"Whose lovers?"

"One of the Slatherty's lovers... they had many through the ages."

"So much for being true and faithful," I snort, feeling slightly irritated by that news, though I know it makes no sense for me to feel like this about men who are long dead and gone.

"Oh, they are extremely true and faithful to their wives, even when it was quite uncommon at the time. They form rather strong bonds with them," he assures me. "I'm talkin' about the periods in between."

"The periods... in... between?"

He flashes his hazel green eyes at me, looking grim and shrugs. "Through the ages, many of their wives and loved ones died due to a lack of medical knowledge. Childbirth, illness, that kind of thing... like most people through the centuries who didn't die in wars."

"Of course," I sigh sadly. "It must've been really hard."

When Diarmuid tells me that he has to get back to work and thanks me for letting him join me for lunch, I don't accompany him when he leaves. I need a minute to think.

After brushing my teeth, washing my face a few times and having a pep talk with the mirror, assuring it that I am quite sane and nobody could possibly be allergic to me, I grab my paper maps from my nightstand drawer and leave my room. I'm about to set off for the office when, on a whim, I decide to open one of the daunting closed doors lining the hallway while the sun is still shining outside, and I can get some extra light by opening the curtains.

I fold the map, stash it in the hidden pocket of my skirt and pick the door across from the drawing room for the honour of having my bravery focussed on it. It's the room between my bedroom and the beginning of my hallway.

My fingers tremble when I grab the doorknob, and I hesitate for a few seconds, bracing myself for any possibility before I turn it and push the door open. My first impression is that it is too dark, and I wish I had my phone to help me find the light switch because blindly feeling along the wall next to the door is not doing my anxiety levels any favours. My breathing grows progressively louder as my fingertips glide unsuccessfully over what feels like wood panelling.

I'm about to give up and try again later when I have my phone when my fingers connect with the switch, and I hastily flip it, the instant light going a long way to calm my nerves. This room is very different from the drawing room. It is all thick drapes blocking the windows, dark leather and heavy wooden furniture... and it makes no sense. It is clearly a study slash den! 

Why do I have to share an office with Alaric when I have a very efficient study with a huge desk and a comfortable-looking chair at my disposal?

One corner of the room is cosily set up with a recliner, a leather couch and a television set. It's not a modern flat-screen TV, but it is pretty large, and in the entertainment cabinet beneath it is a VCR. When I open the cabinet doors, I find a huge collection of videotapes in their cases. Movies! It's funny that I find this room and its technology old-fashioned and outdated while the entire house is filled with antiques, and this room is quite modern in contrast.

Walking around and inspecting the wall behind the TV and at the desk, I don't see any ethernet ports or satellite dish connections. Perhaps there's also no wifi available up here. I could potentially use my phone as a hotspot to connect my laptop to the internet, but I haven't tested the service provider's signal up here. I've only used my phone in the study; there might not be any signal up here at all!

I hope that is not the case, or I'll be completely isolated when I'm in my wing, unable to phone for help next time a man hovers over my bed or... something happens... I do not like the thought.

A portrait of two red-headed children is taking up a large wall section near the cosy fireplace. It's of a girl and what appears to be a little boy with longish hair. I walk closer to see it in more detail, adjusting my glasses on my nose in a futile attempt to focus better. I still need to make that appointment with the optometrist; these glasses are starting to give me a headache too. My eyes are not adjusting well to life in this mansion. I might have an allergy of my own. My eyes are constantly itching.

The little girl in the painting has hair a bit redder than the boy's; his hair is leaning more towards auburn. They are really cute, and the little girl's arms are wrapped tightly and protectively around the boy in an extremely endearing way. I take another step closer, squinting at the shadowy inscription on the small plaque in the frame and gasp in shock when I finally can make out what it says. Mairead and Ulliam Doyle – 1746.

Mairead and Ulliam Doyle – 1746

This makes no sense! Why would the Slatherties have a painting of two of the missing children? Perhaps it is another tribute to them. There might be paintings of the other children too. The date, though... They went missing in 1745, didn't they?

Well, if it is a tribute and not a posed portrait, the date when it was painted doesn't really matter. The artist was very kind in rendering their likenesses, real or imagined, since Mairead doesn't have a single visible scar on her sweet face. I wonder if the real children were this pretty.

Thinking about two young ones like this going through whatever hell they'd been through is excruciating. Nobody has any idea what happened to Mairead unless she, too, just like her little brother, was chopped up and fed to pigs.

Swallowing against the sadness and bile rising in my throat, I turn away from the portrait, giving up on the idea of opening the curtains and letting in some light. I don't want to be in this room anymore, and I hope there aren't portraits of the other children in here. It is simply too heartbreaking. I cannot stand thinking about it.

I take a couple of steps towards the door leading into the even deeper shadows of the hallway and freeze, narrowing my eyes, cursing my glasses under my breath. It is rather dark out there now that the light is on in here, and my eyes are playing tricks on me, moving the shadows around even worse than before.

I'm still squinting, suddenly not so eager to leave the room with all its warm colours, when I jump back, shocked to see one of the myriad shadows break away from the others, solidify and move with purpose towards the open door. A scream lodges in my throat, too petrified to find its way out in sound as the shadow proceeds through the door, entering into the light. The figure scurries towards me, moving in a strange, jerky way in which no shadow or person has any business moving.

It takes me a while to realise it is a woman with black hair covered under ragged cloth draped over it. She might be beautiful, but I'm not sure since the dark golden skin of her face is decorated with jewels and tattoos like scars. Her strange eyes are terrifying, keeping me rooted to the spot until she places a hand against my shoulder, walking me backwards, pushing me up against a wall. She is strong, and the force of her eyes keeps me from making any sound.

Her face is too close to mine; all I can see is her eyes mesmerizing me the way a snake would mesmerize its prey before striking. Breathing in shuddering breaths, I smell incense and rot wafting from her skin, and yet, her breath whispering against my cheek, stirring my curly hair, has no aroma.

She is speaking in a language I do not understand. Euskera? It could be, but I am not sure. I am no expert on it. When I merely stare at her, not comprehending what is happening and too afraid to blink, she narrows her eyes, and their vibrant ochre irises seem to light up from within, burning into mine.

Her lips are no longer moving, but I can hear and understand her raspy words clearly, each word pronounced with care, grinding loudly in my mind.

"You were brought here with evil intent, Child," she says, and I suddenly wish she would switch to the other language again. Understanding her words is highly overrated. "But instead, you could be the redemption that is needed."

What the hell is she talking about?!

"The Knight of Slaughtaverty will be your salvation," she continues, her fingernails biting into my skin where my blouse has slipped slightly from my shoulder, causing me to wince. "And you will be his."

She stares into my eyes for a few seconds longer, searing her message into my brain.

"Stay close to Alaric Slatherty, or all will be lost." 

With that, she lets me go, scurrying back the way she came like a glitching internet connection, causing an animation to progress in stops and starts, covering some distance during the pauses. It takes me a couple of seconds to catch my breath and get my limbs moving again, and I nearly trip over the scattered rugs in my haste to follow her.

"Stop!" I shout when I see her leave my corridor, turning left past one of the rearing horses. She doesn't stop, obviously, and I sprint after her, wondering if it is wise to chase someone who doesn't move like a normal human being and has nails sharp enough to break the skin on my shoulder. Granted, the lighting here is spastic and intermittent, with shadows jumping and moving as it surges and wanes. It creates fascinating illusions when one is chasing after a woman dressed like she's going to read palms and crystal balls at the market fair.

"Please!"

I am about two steps away from her when she turns another corner, but she is gone when I turn it. All I can see is an endless corridor, barely lit by scattered wall sconces that got their globes at some discount store that sells garbage that scarcely breaks the dark.

No! No, no, no! People don't just disappear! She must've gone through a hidden door! That has to be it, or I'm going insane! 

Starting with the nearest section of the wall, I pat and knock and pull on light sconces and protruding candle holders, but I do not feel so much as a crack in the smooth wall panelling or hear anything that sounds hollow. Looking around me, I realise I'm once again in an unknown corridor with minimal idea about how I got here. I was running, blindly chasing the woman.

It's dark, and I'm scared. 

After hearing the gibberish the creepy woman spewed, I do not want to be all alone in a strange, dark corridor. Who knows what else is in here with me? Evil intent? Who had evil intent... with me?! All I can see is shadows with more shadows in them, and my blooming eyes refuse to focus! I rip off my glasses and toss them on the floor, not caring if I lose them or step on them.

Do I really want to find that woman, though? 

"Ransford!" I scream, my mind made up to get out of this horrible hallway with all its secrets it is refusing to share with me. He said he'd find me; I hope he meant it. My heart is beating too fast, and my breath explodes from my nostrils with the kind of force that could blow the house down if I huffed and I puffed long enough.

"Ransford..." This time, his name crosses my lips in a sob, and I sink to the hardwood floor, pushing my back against the wall. I fold my arms around my pulled-up legs to hide my face between my knees... and now I'm too scared to look up again, fearing to find yellow eyes inches away, staring into mine, ready to tell me some more fun things about evil intentions surrounding me.

I just need a minute, that's all.

I scream in terror when a cool hand touches mine, and when I jerk back in horror, looking up, I burst into tears of relief when it is Ransford's gentle face I see. To his credit, he doesn't mock me. He pulls me into his arms, and for once, there is nothing lascivious or seductive about the gesture. I cling to him while he strokes my hair and pats my back, soothing me to get my hiccupping sobs under control.

Now, I feel like a fool.

I'm a grown woman, sitting on the floor, crying wet splotches all over the expensive shirt of one of my employers. How professional! Well, he is not being professional, either; he is using his sleeve to dry my eyes and wipe my cheeks. He is being really sweet, which is much more dangerous than being seductive.

"I would tell you to blow," he grins, showing me his sleeve. "But that would be gross."

Feeling a lot better seeing that grin and hearing him joke, I'm finally able to relax enough to laugh softly.

"You really came," I sniff.

"Of course I did."

As my fear drains away, I become painfully aware of the fact that I am once again trespassing and that this is the second time today that Ransford has to play tour guide to get me out of trouble.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to trespass," I assure him, pulling out my map with trembling fingers. "If you'd please point to where I am, I'll find my way. I'm really sorry; I really am."

"It's quite alright, Aubrey," Ransford mutters, taking the map and unfolding it.

"I just... I  just wanted to..." I swallow, suddenly nervous about telling him why I'm sitting in this hallway, but he just saved me, and he is being truly kind. "I just wanted to ask the lady what she meant..."

"The lady?" he frowns, his eyes swimming with shadows and emotions I cannot read. "She spoke to you?" His voice falters, and he clears his throat. "The lady with the red hair?"

"No," I shake my head, a shudder running through my body when I remember yellow eyes burning into mine. "She... looked like a gypsy... or something like that... She said some weird things I didn't understand, and I tried to follow her, but she just... vanished."

Oh, excellent! 

He must think I'm completely nuts... and he might be right. Perhaps he's going to ask Leopold not to let me have wine with my dinner anymore since I obviously indulge in alcohol alone in my room during the day. My voice was also starting to sound a little hysterical, and there is a huge chance that I'm going to cry again. That will not be good because I'm already more snotty than the lacy handkerchief I pulled from my sleeve can cope with.

Yes, I keep a lacy hanky in my sleeve... I'm that old-fashioned... I was raised by my grandfather, after all.

"Oh! That would be Alazne," Ransford shrugs, looking at the map, his voice still sounding a little strangled. I don't care; he just gave the strange woman a name. I'm not insane after all! "She's a bit... interesting... She often scares the crap out of me too."

Interesting?! She spoke to me using her mind! 

At least, that's what I think she did. I was pretty freaked out at the time, and the lighting wasn't awesome. Her lips could've moved.

"We are here," Ransford tells me, holding the map open on the first-floor page and indicating an area way to the North of the paper. Great, we're not even on the map right now.

"I'm honestly sorry about intruding; it wasn't intentional."

"You can intrude in my space all you want," he assures me, and now I don't know if he is talking about the hallway or his personal space because his seductive grin is back in place. Suddenly, overly aware of how close he is squatting to me and how intimate this situation is, I hurry to get to my feet. I'm grateful when he puts an arm around me and pulls me up with him because I was seconds away from ending up with my face on the floor and my bottom in the air with my skirt over my head because my legs are a bit numb and not cooperating at all.

I step away from him as soon as I can stand steadily.

"What... what did she say to you?" Ransford asks, folding and handing me my map.

Should I tell him? 

I swallow, uncertainty tugging at my heart and twisting spitefully in my gut. Ransford won't be one of the enemies Diarmuid was talking about, would he? It sounded like he and Alaric were a team. Why would Alazne tell me to stay with Alaric? Ransford is the one who is always saving me; besides, the Knight of Slaughtaverty has been dead for at least a couple of centuries.

"I'm not entirely sure what she was trying to say," I opt for semi-honest. "That's why I ran after her. I wanted to ask her about it. It sounded like nonsense about redemption and being saved... It made no sense..."

"She was trying to convert you to her religion?" Ransford gives me a sceptical look.

"No," I chuckle, then my smile slips away, and I frown. "At least, I don't think so... What is her religion?"

Ransford shrugs, running his eyes over my features in a rather intimate way, causing me to suffer from momentary memory loss.

"She didn't vanish, Aubrey. I know that much," he finally smiles, his mind made up about something, and I don't pull away when he gently takes my hand and crosses the hallway to the other wall. I watch him slide his fingers over the framed painting of a ship sinking into hell - or something rather dreadful like that - and am surprised to hear a loud click. A whole section of wall detaches itself, and he swings it open, revealing a very unwelcoming tunnel.

"I knew it!" I didn't, but I'd hoped. Except... I'm not going in there, especially if scary women with yellow eyes hang out in there.

"Come along," Ransford invites, and I give him a look, signalling that he is nuts if he thinks I'm walking into the dark with him.

"Are you inviting me to go into a dark tunnel in the wall with you, Mr Slathery?"

"Yes," he shrugs with a grin. "Doesn't it look like a fun thing to do?"

"No!"

"Don't worry," he chuckles. "I know the way."

"Oh, and you can see in the dark, can you?" It is pitch black in there, not dusky and filled with shadows. He pulls a face, his eyes darting from side to side almost comically, causing my tense face to dissolve in a grin.

"I know the way," he says again. I do not like this idea, and seeing the look on my face, he slips a hand into the pocket of his pants, pulls out his phone, turns on the torch and gives it to me.

"It's really best to walk it in the dark because the light attracts... critters," he says, and now I'm even less sure about the wisdom of this adventure, but I follow him into the tunnel.

It is not a pretty hallway, poorly lit but covered in exquisite artwork like the corridor from which we just came. It is rough, walled in by wet stone, smelling of rot and moss, and I have to jump out of the way more than once when rats dart past us... probably attracted or confused by the light. I screamed the first three times it happened - Ransford offering to carry me after the first time - but now I'm more or less expecting it, and as long as nothing pauses to gnaw on me, I manage to trudge along, clinging to Ransford's hand as if my life depends on it. 

It probably does.

"I wouldn't recommend you using these shortcuts," Ransford tells me when we make a right turn at a junction with more branches than the logistics tell me it should have. "You could get lost, and it will be harder to find you than in the hallways out there."

One man's shortcut is another man's secret tunnel, and it doesn't feel very short to me.

"One also needs to know exactly where the exits are and how to open them," he tells me, stopping in front of a stony wall of nothing, feeling around its surface and 'click' there is light... and fresh air. As fresh as the air in Slaughtaverty mansion can ever be.

Grateful to leave the tunnel, I give Ransford his phone and take a couple of hesitant steps forward, surprised to realise that I am on the second-floor landing facing the foyer. To my left is the top of the stairs I always use to get to the office.

Did we climb steps at some point? I didn't notice.

"Oh! Well! That actually was a shortcut... that I never want to use again; thank you!" I tell Ransford, smiling, happy to be back in familiar territory. "Thank you for helping me... again..."

"That's what I live for," he grins, using his fingers to tug some cobwebs from my hair.

"Oh! I must look a fright," I grimace, planning to grab my phone and laptop from the office and run to my room with it. I can see some smears on my blouse as well.

"No, you're as beautiful as always," he smiles, looking at me as if he actually means what he says, and now I'm slobbering and snorting and giggling like a fool again, so I hurry to run away from him. It is not working out all that well since he follows me into the office, stopping at Alaric's desk when I trot over to mine.

In true Ransford fashion, he smirks, cocking an eyebrow when Alaric takes in his less-than-immaculate appearance and glances in my direction. I'm hiding behind my big screen right now, peeking around the edge, blocking my mind from being read by the guy - I need to stay close to unless I want all to be lost - sitting at his desk, looking puzzled and a little... Is he alarmed?

Perhaps he thinks I had a quick roll in the hay with his brother... or was it a tumble in a tunnel?

~~~