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The mail came once a week, delivered by some means that Lord Godefroy had never bothered to divine. It merely appeared on the dining room table, neatly stacked to the side of his empty teacup and saucer. Though his appetite was long gone, he insisted on retaining the cup and saucer. Any manor lord would have done it. Old habits never died without good reason.

He made his way to the dining room, pausing only once to brush fingertips along a dusty tabletop. He had arranged for the house to be kept clean with the magical assistance of a minor spirit or two, something a business associate had arranged for him in the old days. The spirits weren't doing their jobs well, though, and being unalive were immune to punishment from the Touch. Lord Godefroy grimaced as he rubbed his dirtied fingers together.

At the doorway to the candle-lit dining hall, he nodded with satisfaction as his gaze fell upon the long, clothdraped table. As hoped, the week's mail awaited him.

With a sigh of relief, he settled into his dining chair, adjusting his pince-nez. Perhaps now he would have the time he was cheated of earlier with his history book.

Woe to that which disturbed him now, he thought to himself. He would have his due and more.

Thin, translucent fingers plucked the first of three letters from the stack. Behind Lord Godefroy, more candles came alight, attended to by the spirits who silently looked after Gryphon Hill and its master.

"Schupert," he whispered, glancing at the envelope. He knew the spidery handwriting well. He slid a long, gnarled fingernail under the back flap, breaking the wax seal, then pulled the thin page from the envelope and read quietly.

Comings and goings, plots and plans — the usual web. Schupert was too smart to say much, too unwise to say nothing. As was his habit, the old wizard's letter was so cryptic as to be virtually meaningless, nothing more than an acknowledgment of the receiver's existence and a request for any tidbits of information that the lord might have heard. Lord Godefroy set the letter aside, only half read. He knew of no rumors for the withered fool's ear, but he would have passed none along if he had. Schupert could burn for all he cared, and with the old wizard's constant meddling in the affairs of domain lords, his burning would not be long delayed.

Lord Godefroy cleared his mind and selected the second letter, noted the handwriting. His frown faded, evidencing less disappointment than usual.

"Narvis," he murmured. "My dear Narvis. "It was the first good turn his evening had taken.

Narvisek Grellar was someone Lord Godefroy understood. Dear, twisted, betrayed Narvis. His wife Viola, soft and heavy and stupid as a cow, had objected to Narvis's taste for vivisection. How like a little boy Narvis was, restless and curious, eager to see the inner workings of a still-living creature whose flesh had been entirely removed. Viola, Lord Godefroy had heard from other sources, had threatened to expose Narvis as a monster. Dear Narvis couldn't have that, so soft Viola became his next vivisection subject, right on their own kitchen table. Narvis never spoke of Viola's fate, but someday Lord Godefroy would have to ask how long it took for soft, stupid Viola to die. He would have loved to have seen her in her last moments on the table, every nerve and muscle open and burning, a red thing no longer human.

A twisted thumbnail broke the seal on the letter, and he held two scrawl-covered pages aloft in the candlelight. Not much on his experiments this time — only reports of bad weather and his fears that he was falling ill again. Narvis was obviously preoccupied, the letter scratched off in a hurry.

Lord Godefroy finished his reading in bitter disappointment. He had hoped for an accounting of a recent experiment, an exciting one with a human subject. Narvis had a lovely gift for detail and understatement, though his script and grammar stank. The letter was set aside with a sneer of disapproval. Narvis was capable of much better.

In an ill humor, Lord Godefroy picked up the last envelope. His narrow gaze fell on the cursive handwriting on the cover.

Wilfred.

Time stopped.

Wilfred.

The name filled his eyes and head. It was all he saw and thought.

Wilfred.

No one living called him Wilfred now. No one ever had.

No one but Estelle.

Lord Godefroy clutched the letter like a serpent's neck and saw her again, the earlier memory now in full bloom:

The wide, dark eyes on her pleading face. Hair like oily black smoke. His open hands and the red explosions on her pale skin. The dancing shadows in the barn, the frightened horses. Her white blouse. She had looked at another man. Her upraised left arm, fingers splayed. Black strands of hair thrown violently across her face. She had looked at another man and wanted him. The mattock by the hay bale. Wilfred, dear gods above, no, Wilfred, no. The mattock's swing like the flash of an insect's wing. The red on her blouse. Screaming, the screaming — Wilfred, Wilfred. The mattock high again. She had wanted another man. Wanted another man.

The mattock's swing an endless blur, the blouse all red, all red, all red, all.

Wilfred, said the envelope.

An automaton, he opened the seal. He pulled the single scrap of paper from within it and held it to the light.

A moment later, he flung it away with a hideous cry, unaware of the strength with which he threw himself back from the table. His chair was dashed to the floor. Candles throughout the room flickered; some went out. The scrap of parchment lay on the tablecloth beneath a wavering candle. Its words were clear even from a distance in dim light.

What became of the lord when they caught him at last?

"No!" Lord Godefroy roared at the room. "You are — it is not — not possible!" He struggled with the words as he wrung his hands, ridding them of the feel of the letter. "You are not alive! You cannot do this to me, you filthy whore! You damned whore!"

But he knew there was no reason she couldn't do it.

What was good for the gander was good for the goose.

He fled so quickly that one of his shoulders passed entirely through a door frame. It wasn't proper, but he never noticed.

The candles in the dining hall swayed with his flight.

Then, one by one, they began to go out.

He regained control of himself at the foot of the grand staircase. He was breathing again with rapid, shallow breaths. Stop it, he ordered himself, clasping the post and railing. Stop it at once. I am the lord of Gryphon Hill. I am the master of Mordentshire, sovereign of life and death. Nothing can take that away from me. Nothing can take anything away from me. No power in this world or beyond. She cannot even hurt me, much less kill me.

Lord Godefroy broke into high, brittle laughter. He had killed her, not the other way around! She had no power over him, even if she had come back from the grave herself. He was being a fool. She could not kill him now.

His pale hands clutched the stair railing until they resembled white crab claws. With an effort, he loosened his grip, slowed his breathing, and, coughing loudly, forced himself to stop breathing altogether. Then he settled back on the stairs to regain his composure.

Well, so she was back. If she was back, maybe. .maybe Amanda was back, too. It wasn't unreasonable, though the reason for the miserable child's return was beyond him. Amanda had counted for nothing in his life. A girl erroneously born in the place of the boy who should have slipped from Estelle's womb. Amanda had betrayed him by her very existence. He remembered her, too — not as clearly as Estelle, but he remembered the face in the background, the bowed head, her whimpers as he beat her with his belt, time and again. A worthless child, though beating her did bring pleasure, after a fashion.

Amanda had been there in the barn, too, hiding. Screaming. She had rushed him. He'd fallen back, surprised, while the child cradled her mother. Her hair was like strands of gold in the lantern light. He even recalled her last words — I hate you, I hate you, you evil old man. She threw something at him while he was still holding the mattock. I hate you, she screamed, clutching the body of her mother on the dirt floor of the barn as the shadows danced.