The presence of the sculptor seemed a rather nasty surprise for nearly all of Kelfordshire's inhabitants - the priest disliked having his ceremony interrupted by a very late individual; Caelony had given herself a false hope that perhaps the sculptor had died en route to the castle; the cook despaired over the excess of food they would have to prepare, and Eiren was far too tired and distressed to bear another sudden change in the day's itinerary. Only the brooding gardener and Lord Van Wk appeared unaffected by Mr. Quilby's arrival.

Once the shock of the Lord's guest had died down, the sullen priest led the party to the castle, guiding them past the flowers he and Eiren strung up earlier. Rather peeved that it was now too dark to notice they were there, Eiren followed in the back of the group, holding his stomach as though he could keep its contents restrained this way. He tried to peer at Mr. Quilby along the way, but, though the stranger was bright enough to light even the foggiest of nights with his colourless skin, he was blocked from view by the Lord's impressively large coat and Caelony's small, but rather bouncy dress.

The cook bustled ahead to ensure the food was set on the table, and when the rest of the party made their way into the dining room, the table was already filling with food. The sight of all of the pastries and cakes make Eiren grow weak at the knees. I sincerely hope Caelony doesn't insist we all eat this.

Caelony did not look enthused about the cake. Nor did she look terribly excited about the frilled cookies, or the puddings or even the hot drinks that the cook had wisely prepared in advance. Shuddering at the look on her face, and feeling very grateful that it did not direct itself towards him, Eiren noted the burning scorn she laid upon the sculptor.

"What are you staring at?" she snapped, and he flinched.

"Nothing, my dear," he sighed, and he settled himself further down in the seat. I suppose I deserved that...

Bored with waiting and being yelled at, Eiren turned his gaze to the Lord and his rather animated guest. The two were talking rapidly in a language Eiren had never heard before. Feeling rather silly that he'd not known the Lord spoke more than one, he watched in a mixture of envy and revulsion the peculiar duo.

Severin Quilby was somehow totally devoid of colour. Almost resembling a statue himself, his skin appeared to have been pressed in several layers of lace and powder. He doesn't even look as though he's got blood, Eiren noted with suspicious curiosity. The foreigner's eyes were equally untainted by pigmentation of any kind. Wide-open, and totally unblinking - though he looked, Eiren had yet to see an eyelid close for any reason - the irises were fully on display, giving their watery, non-white colour the eery look of a glass eye.

The sculptor's hair was normal enough, except for the ashen hue it took on. He looks like he's been lying in the sun for decades. Indeed, even his teeth were white, whiter than snow, and he seemed to Eiren to have far too many of them. As he talked, they clacked together like a puppet's would, and when he listened to the Lord, he smiled, grinning widely in wait.

Eiren understood why the rest of the household hated the sculptor, but he was stunned nobody had expressed how very unsettling his appearance was. Eiren felt his entire body recoil from the presence of Mr. Quilby, which felt so wrong.

The evening was passed largely in silence from the rest of the party. Several hours into their chattering, the sculptor switched to their common language and addressed Caelony in a highly accented, wavering voice with a plea to entertain them at the piano. She had opened her mouth to refuse, but over the sculptor's shoulder, she caught a glimpse of her father's stern gaze, and she relented. The power of her birthday meant nothing when there was a guest in the house.

Carrying a few cookies upstairs with him, Eiren lagged behind the group. He wanted no music today - the last time Caelony had played, his heart executed a most painful series of twists, and he did not want the experience repeated. A grinding apprehension filled his stomach, his skin prickled, and his pores pushed out cold sweat. Before he could stammer out a reason to depart, they were all lumped into the piano room and Caelony was seated at the majestic instrument.

She gave one final scowl to the room and flexed her fingers, everybody's breath halting in anticipation.

The song she played gave Eiren pause to wonder why she was so vicious and callous, if she could illicit such sounds from an inanimate box of strings and keys. The music was surprisingly sweet. Gentle tunes lifted the breath of everyone listening, and Eiren had the sense that she was playing a picture of what her day should have been like.

When the song dipped, however, he felt as though something had crept into the room and breathed a deathly breath over the listeners. The sculptor opened his pale mouth and sighed, and Eiren unconsciously took a step back. He realized how close he was to the door, and before anybody could see him depart, he had snuck out of the room. Pressed against the wall outside of the terrible piano room, he gasped for air and fanned away the sweat that ran down his chest and face. Oh, how it hurt, to have the beautiful transports of music wrenched so cruelly from him! He would never again be able to stomach the sound of the instrument he had so loved, and the thought made him groan in agony. Leave it to Caelony, to ruin yet another thing!

Freed from the room and the unnerving presences of all its inhabitants, Eiren slipped down the hall to his room. He did not think he should have been so tired so early - although the sky was now dark, he felt as though he had only been awake for an hour or so.

"This damned stress," he muttered aloud, once he had closed his rather abused-looking door. The priest had done his best to fix it, when the mysterious beast had burst into the room, and although the damage was not as severe as Eiren had originally believed, the frame had been badly battered.

He crossed over to his closet and proceeded to tear his clothes off. The colour of his outfit - selected to best appease his betrothed for her celebrations - had given him a nasty headache, and he was only too glad to be rid of them. Once he was well enough naked, he pulled out a dark set of nightclothes, and when dressed, he comfortably slid under his sheets. He pulled his notebook from under the pillow, where he had taken to hiding it when not interrupted, and pulled open the red colour.

The page that greeted him was filled with little scribbles about each of Lord Van Wyk's unfortunate wives. He glanced over the notes he had written, and paused beside the note that questioned: Is the latest of the Lady's related to Severin Quilby? What a curious question, he thought, tapping the words with a thin finger. He pulled out the pen tucked in the crease of the pages and wrote only what the sculptor looked like. He felt the appearance of such a peculiar and pivotal person was necessary - if anybody was to read this after him, or he was to read it when he was safe from the eyes and walls of Kelfordshire Castle, then he wanted to remember exactly the repulsed sensations the most famed sculptor brought about in him.

Once the sculptor was immortalized in word, Eiren hid the notebook back under the pillow and blew out the lamp. He felt strangely alone, despite the sound of the paino echoing down the hall, and the faint laughter of the foreigner and the Lord. The window creaked as the tree outside pressed against the glass. There was plenty of noise, an abundance of proof that life was around him, but he could not shake the peculiar feeling that the castle was empty and populated only by dust and death and dreams.

It was in such a disturbed state that Eiren closed his eyes and began to sleep.

The first thing that he noticed was a fog, thick and swirling around him until he couldn't see.

"Hello?" he called, despite feeling that nobody was around to hear him. His voice echoed back, soft and broken. He swallowed and moved slowly forward, hands stretched out at his sides. All around, his voice pressed itself against him, like tiny whispers or hands.

The fog broke and gave way to a clearing. Surrounding the empty space was the forest on the East of the Castle, and scattered between the trees were various statues. Eiren whirled around, seeking the exit. He wanted nothing to do with this forest, not at night, and not alone. He moved forward, but found that his feet stuck fast. No, no, no, he cursed, looking up in desperation. Something had started making its way through the trees, but he couldn't see what, not yet.

"Leave me be!" he cried out in a tremulous voice. "I have no grievances with you!" Sluggishly reminded of the girl he had dreamt of, he tried to back up, falling down as his feet stayed, frozen to the dirt.

The trees rustled, the fog swirled faster, and stepping out from a statue of a howling dog emerged Severin. He walked slowly, as though he was unsure where he was going, or that he cared not how long it took him to arrive. Eiren wriggled and tried to push himself back, but he could move no further. The sound of his struggling reached the drifting sculptor, and he turned his head at once, smiling in his unusually wide way as he noticed Eiren.

"Stay away!" he shrieked, but the sculptor drew closer, until he sat down on his knees before Eiren and held out a skeletal hand.

"My pleasure!" he exclaimed, and Eiren screeched as the hand reached out and grasped his. Before he understood what had happened, the sculptor pulled him to his feet and began to drag him through the trees and the statues. They passed hundreds of marble and white stone figures, grasping at their hair and pulling at the branches. At their feet, petrified dogs snapped endlessly, dresses and flesh caught in their teeth.

"I beg you," cried Eiren, who felt near tears the further the sculptor pulled him along, "unhand me and I shall not tell! I shall keep this a dark, untold secret, if only you would let me go!" The sculptor swiveled his head, and his brittle, grey hair fanned across an exceptionally white face.

"You shall never tell," he said grimly, grating his teeth and making a most terrible sound. "You will go to the grave with more secrets than this, Mr. Adair." He at last stopped, throwing Eiren to the cold, hard dirt and standing tall above him. He put two sharp fingers in his mouth and blew hard, a shrill whistle shredding the night. Eiren screamed and threw his hands to his ears, but the sound penetrated deep into his head, rattling and echoing in his skull.

The fog thickened, and standing tall amidst the trees and the statues was a greyhound. Its teeth were exposed in a horrendous snarl, its hackles raised. It appeared to have come at the call of the sculptor, and when it arrived, its beckoner smiled wide.

"You see, Mr. Adair," he called, his voice piercing the depths of Eiren's soul, seizing it and ensnaring every thought he had, "this is my most protective secret, and I guarantee that it shall not let you go lightly." The hideous beast tipped its head back and howled, so sharp and hollow a sound, it woke Eiren at once. He sat straight up, gasping in a half-lost scream and trembling.

The sound had carried over. In the midst of the night, the greyhound, hiding somewhere in the woods on the edge of the Kelfordshire Estate, called out to someone, its high voice carrying an unknown message. Closing his eyes and gripping the sheets tightly, Eiren begged for the sound to stop, but the greyhound continued for the rest of the night, and only when the sun began to drag its way across the horizon did the violent howling cease.