When Eiren appeared downstairs, his wife-to-be, her father, and the priest were already at the table. It bothered him that nobody had thought to call him down, especially when he remembered how insistent the priest had been that he arrive before the Lord. He was not the only one irked tonight; Caelony and her father were arguing, the former's volume increasing steadily.

As Eiren drew closer to the table, the priest turned to him with a worried look and gave a sort of half-shake of the head.

What is it? he mouthed, but the priest repeated the motion, wincing as Caelony stood up and scraped her chair against the floor.

"No, damn you, I will not have that foreign filth ruining tomorrow!" She slammed a palm on the table, the sound making Eiren flinch almost as badly as the priest. Lord Van Wyk looked up at her with an expression that made Eiren's stomach lurch, and he wasn't even the target for the cold fury.

"You will do as you are told," the Lord said, the words forcing themselves out of his tight lips. "You are a Lady, and you had best act like it." Caelony snorted and threw her hair back. Unsure how she had the courage or the will to continue her disobedience, Eiren slowly sat beside the priest, hoping nobody noticed him enough to direct their anger his way.

"I am not a Lady yet. Let me have this final thing to myself, before you commit me to the thankless job of dying for someone!" The priest released a whimper and threw his head in his hands.

"She'll be the death of us all," he moaned quietly.

"What does she mean by that?" Eiren asked, the peculiar wording piquing his recent interest in the Ladies of Kelfordshire. He did not receive a response, as Lord Van Wyk stood at once, his chair flying backwards more violently than Caelony's had.

"Disrespect your own father all you like," he growled, his hands gripping the table so hard, Eiren wouldn't have been surprised if he broke it, "but you will adjust your tone for my wives." His powerful brown eyes, glinting almost red in the light of the chandelier, were narrowed nearly to slits. It was a sight to behold, and forget just as quickly, lest one be plagued by the memory for the rest of their days.

"Your wives," Caelony sneered, waving a hand before her face. "Since when have you cared about them? You let them rot and decay and die! You've only ever cared about yourself and that stupid, foreign, sculptor!" At this, the Lord made to grab Caelony, but she danced out of his grasp and continued her beratement. "Why don't you just leave, and let people live?" Eiren nearly jumped a foot when the Lord picked up a plate and threw it at his daughter's head. She twisted to the side and jumped up on her chair. "You're so obsessed with killing this and that, that you're going to poison everybody around you until you're all that's left, just like you poisoned those poor women, and one by one, dumped them in a grave!" This was, Eiren felt with overwhelming apprehension, the final straw.

Moving faster than he appeared able, Lord Van Wyk stood before Caelony, who at last had the sense to appear ashamed and slightly nervous. He grasped her arm and pulled her roughly down, throwing her in the seat. Leaning over and whispering so furiously that he actually spat, he growled something in her ear before standing up straight once more. "You will sit, and you will shut up, and you will spare the countenances of our priest and our guest. You would do well not to frighten your husband so, else he may find he would rather a wife who learned to hold her tongue. And by the Gods, Caelony, if you ever insult those innocent women ever again..." He needed not finish this threat - the point was made, and well-received. Silenced at last, Caelony stared down at her plate, angry tears silently filing down her red face.

Turning to the priest and Eiren, he nodded his head and retrieved his chair.

"I am glad you could join us at last, Eiren," he said quietly, as he brushed his thick hair out of his eyes and smoothed his shirt flat. "Caelony is, as you have likely heard, quite... irritated about some choices that need to be made regarding her birthday celebrations." He seated himself at last and peered down the table, ignoring the glares and sniffles of his daughter.

Eiren had no idea how to respond. He swallowed hard and threw a questioning look at the priest, but the old man said nothing.

"If Caelony is to dictate any part," he said, feeling an immense amount of pressure to agree with the Lord, as well as not anger Caelony any further, "no matter how small, I am sure her celebrations will prove sufficiently pleasing to anyone." The Lord smiled at this and shook his head.

"I see your sleeplessness hasn't affected your charm!" He shook his head and pulled the lid from a dish, swirling with steam. Through the whitish mist, Eiren just caught a glimpse of Caelony's eyes, narrowed at him in passionate fury, before the steam cleared away and her face resumed its downcast expression. He blinked and shivered - given a choice, he could not have said who was the more frightening of the two: the ruthless father, or the spiteful daughter.

"My Lord," the priest stammered out, fiddling with the edge of his plate, "when is Mr. Quilby to arrive?" The question seemed to considerably lighten Lord Van Wyk's mood, who lifted a slice of something drippy into the air on a fork and smiled even more widely. Juxtaposed with the pure anger he had shown just minutes before, it unnerved Eiren how quickly the Lord turned to anything resembling amusement.

"Tomorrow. He hopes to arrive in time for the celebrations, but there is a great deal of resistance at the border." Eiren looked on, transfixed in horror as the Lord took a messy bite, hot blood spattering across his marble-coloured chin.

"W-why does Mr. Quilby want to come to Caelony's birthday celebrations?" he asked, trying to tear his gaze away from the disgusting sight.

"Mr. Quilby is a very good friend of mine, Eiren," came the reply, and Lord Van Wyk smiled, his teeth stained red. "It has been a very long time since he has been able to make his way to this side of the world, however."

"Where does he live?" Eiren could feel his curiosity getting the better of him - he loathed speaking with Lord Van Wyk at all, but he was the only one who cared to have an intimate relationship with the filthy foreigner, as Caelony oft called the sculptor, and Eiren had an unsettling suspicion that this Quilby fellow and the late Ladies of Kelfordshire were somehow connected. The Lord raised an eyebrow; the priest shifted slightly from Eiren; Caelony bit down hard on her lips and turned away.

"And why are you interested, Eiren?" The question embarrassed him immediately. He should not have brought such unnecessary attention upon himself!

"I have heard but bits and pieces of Mr. Quilby," he replied, trying to keep his voice even. "He has had such an... obvious impact on the grounds - I was merely curious about the origins of such an influential person." Inside, he could feel all of his organs wince and curl. The Lord raised a drink to his red, red mouth.

"You shall have the opportunity to ask him yourself, come tomorrow," he replied as he took a deep sip.

Bright red and regretful, Eiren followed Caelony's suit and spent the rest of dinner in silence. As the priest questioned and clarified matters of the sculptor's arrival, Eiren stared hollowly at his reflection in his cup.

My eyes are still so dark, he thought heavily. He hoped that the stress of tomorrow's affairs would keep him well asleep, but he felt that he was likely to never get another decent rest, so long as he lived here. Turning the cup from side to side, he inspected his mouth, pale and lifeless. How does the Lord Van Wyk keep so refreshed here? Making a mental note to write this down when he returned to his room, Eiren rubbed a finger against his bottom lip, trying to force some colour into it.

The table groaned as the priest and the Lord stood, pushing plates and trays in. Lord Van Wyk's plates were empty, clean of all hints of food, while the priest had mostly pushed food around the plate. Eiren looked to the other side of the table and saw that Caelony had eaten nothing - he wondered if she was going to starve herself for tomorrow, and go faint for the dullest parts of the evening. Despite his frayed nerves from the shouting match the household had partaken in, he felt nervous and tired enough to find a giddy amusement in thinking of her slipping off the stool and collapsing to the floor.

I must not let this place muddle with me, he chided, shaking his head. As the dinner party began to traipse off to bed or boredom, Eiren saw the priest drift towards the front door.

"Father!" he called, and the priest turned around, waiting for Eiren to catch up. They walked outdoors together, hunching their shoulders against the cold evening.

"What is it, Mr. Adair?" The priest shivered and looked to the sky, furrowing his brow at the dense clouds that swirled overhead.

"Father, I wanted to talk to you about the sculptor." He peered up at Eiren and frowned.

"Whatever for?"

"There's something... very off about him, and his coming here. I was hoping," Eiren added slowly, kicking aside a rock that had fallen into the path, "that you could tell me something the other two wouldn't." The priest sighed and buried his hands deep into his habit's sleeves.

"I suppose I shall have to ask what the other two have told you." They approached the white walls of Hatchhanger Abbey and stepped to the doors. Before pushing open the handle, the priest looked to Eiren with a stern gaze. "I would not, however, recommend asking that which the Lord deems unnecessary to ask." He gave a sort of humph and turned inside.

Following closely behind and ignoring this last bit of advice, he pressed the priest, running his hands along the tops of the pews.

"Well, Caelony has told me he's foreign, and that he has know Lord Van Wyk earlier, possibly, than even you. Other than that, and his obsession with sculpting terrorized young women, I know nothing." He followed the priest to a back room and down a short, poorly-lit hall. Pushing open a smaller door and revealing a modest, grey bedroom, the priest beckoned Eiren in before taking a seat on his flat bed.

"I don't remember this place being so small," remarked Eiren, and the priest snorted.

"It was a proper abbey at one time, well before the Lord was here. It's mostly been torn down and shipped away, though the name is still here." He looked to a small, dusty window and heaved a melodramatic sigh. Eiren gaped and shook his head, supposing that even priests needed to feel sorry with their lot in life some days.

"Father, can you help me?" The priest shook his head for a second and then proceeded to nod reluctantly.

"Of course, only... I would avoid mentioning to anyone else that I did so." He swallowed and winced. "The Lord is rather... protective of his friends, if you will. Especially Mr. Quilby."

"Yes, yes, alright," Eiren replied impatiently, leaning against a cold stone wall. This place seems rather like a prison, he thought distractedly, before continuing. "Do you know where he's from?" The priest held his hands up and gave Eiren a look of pained amusement.

"You have no grace about you, sometimes. No, Mr. Adair, I do not. Caelony was right in this - he has been a sort of distant fixture of this Estate since long before I was ever officially here."

"Officially here?" Eiren raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"Yes, officially. I have known the Lord since my late teens, when I was not too much younger than you, but priesthood does not come easy." He laughed to himself for a moment, reminiscing about something Eiren didn't care to question. What did interest him, however, was the timeline of Kelfordshire - whoever came earliest had to know the most about the wives, and the statues, and the actions of the eccentric Elmund Van Wyk. The priest was the most likely to have information, but if the sculptor outdated even him, would he know something vital?

The priest recovered and continued.

"As I was saying, I have no knowledge of his origins. He has never found it necessary to tell me, and I have long since given up the habit of asking questions unrelated to my duties."

"Why is that," countered Eiren, "don't you want to know what's happening around you? Aren't you curious how others are affecting your life?"

"Bear in mind, Mr. Adair, that I am not your enemy." He gave Eiren a sympathetic smile that the latter found he disliked immediately. "I have lived here many years, so what I don't ask will usually be answered one day."

"Excepting, of course, anything at all to do with the sculptor." The priest winced and held his hands up.

"Calm your anger, please. Mr. Quilby's homeland is irrelevant to any of my duties. I ensure he is comfortable when he stays, and that he has his necessary materials, and that he is left well enough alone."

"Alone? Whatever for?" Here, the priest opened his eyes wide and swallowed hard.

"Mr. Quilby dislikes being... interrupted. I would be remiss if I did not inform you, Mr. Adair, that the tensions in this household increase tenfold when the sculptor is at work."

Eiren felt as though he was getting nowhere closer to finding answers - every time he inched closer to a result, or some conclusive reason for something, he was given a more difficult mystery to solve.

"Why do I care!" He pushed himself off the wall and began to walk back and forth. "I want to know who will be living on the property that I am to inherit! If the Lord should pass, will I need to know anything more about the sculptor I don't already know?" He was practically shouting, bringing on a fresh flinch from the priest with each word.

"His sculptures are always a mystery, Eiren!" The priest stood and stared at
Eiren. "Nobody knows what he will make when he comes, but nothing good ever follows for the subject of those abysmal statues. Only our most esteemed Lord has any notion of what the stone will turn to, and his suggestions, his notes, his ideas, they are turned into something increasingly worse when that damned man arrives." The priest was dangerously close to Eiren, his lips wet from shouting.

"I question nothing anymore, you see, nothing to do with that heathen, because those who ask questions will invariably become subjects of Mr. Quilby's next work. That is why you should care about such frivolous tensions, and why you should learn to keep your queries to yourself."

The priest had no more words for Eiren after that, and it was with a head full of those queries that Eiren made his way back to his room.