Marie let her gaze wonder over the room. Jacob resembled the man at Diana's beck and call in her little throne room. Though much younger, he seemed to age before her. No matter what she asked, he only pushed deeper inside himself. Old scars covered his forearms, she saw. Jacob fled to the prison of his misery to escape the ever watchful, open air incarceration.

"Excuse me, Miss La Voison," the man said, trans-Atlantic accent striking in Appalachia. "May I have a talk with you?"

She stepped out, "Sure, I love talking to people." The Van Lears were worth chapters of a book.

He looked at the cables being run through the house. They had set up a large generator to supply power, which had infuriated Diana, "Come, let us walk in the back garden," he smiled, though his eyes wondered, "Where we may speak without upsetting people."

They stepped outside, and he rubbed a dusting of stubble. Deep eyes were lost, crushed. Sandy blonde hair was short and combed in a conservative style. As he slowed, Marie stepped up beside him.

"Although this estate is lovely," she looked around, "why is there no electricity? The candles and torches are beautiful, but I expect a blood drunk fiend to descend upon me."

He stopped, "You know, I asked Diana, when I first came to House Lance. She told me the house and grounds are never to be altered."

"My mother would never speak of this place…Mister?"

"Henry," he smiled, and it struck her. His treatment by the matriarch returned to her. "I've…heard things about your family, but your record as a journalist is very impressive."

"Thank you," she smiled, "I mean to continue my work."

"Yes, about that," his face fell, lines deepened, "I know you may be tempted to record things personal to this family. Let secrets sleep. Please, accept the money, and get evidence to exonerate Jacob. The Gregory Clan wants him dead, and I've heard Rutger will have justice."

"The Sheriff is Blood first," she sighed, "and this feud is deep."

"If you take the money, Diana will expect results," he closed his eyes, aged before her.

She nodded. The money was her salvation, for living in Ashless Hollow would driver her mad. Dim Cassilda was heavy on her mind, and it had already got its hooks in her. Marie knew the shadows and whispers waited for her. "There is a lot to consider," she looked out onto the garden.

"I must leave you, so I can attend to Diana," he said, though Marie imagined a whipped dog, whose master had broken them. "Wait here; think about it," he stopped, "I'll be back…soon."

She was alone, again. Over the garden her gaze wondered. The old slave quarters still stood in rows. They were maintained with the same level of precision. From the center a chimney rose. Duel doors led to separate quarters. Each of the houses was exact copies, except one at the center. The rest were gathered to it.

A whisper called to her from the center. The house had a chimney on both sides, and twice the size of the other homes. Old timbers had turned a dark hue, nearly black. Slime oozed from the cracks and spaces, like a wound that festered. Gingerbread, which clung to her, also came out of the wood. It grew before her, and Marie realized she stood closer to the quarters. Eleanor, the house in Ashless Hollow, was the second home of its first occupant. This house whispered her ancestor's name, to beckon the blood that coursed through her. I stand close now; she thought but recalled taking no steps.

The old, oak door was locked, but there came a click. She stepped closer. It was the La Voison quarters. Although it was simple, its undeniable truth overwhelmed her. Marie pushed the door open, numb. Bottom of the frame bulged, wood rotted. A metal spike was driven into the floor, and she kneeled. Although Dim Cassilda was at the house in Ashless Hollow, it burned like a lifeless flame. The iron had nearly worked free, but enough to show the symbols carved in it.

Years had passed, since Bethany's lessons. Memories floated up into the bog in her mind. They sprouted from the dark recesses, spread and grew large. "It is a barrier," she muttered to the dry rotted wood, "but what does it stop?"

Now, with this revelation, she recalled seeing them at every entrance on the property. She plucked it free, without a second thought. The iron was icy. Whispers pressed against the ear, blackness shielded from torches gripped her. Stunned, she panted, drew in gingerbread aroma. It clung to her, poured out of her bronze skin. "Inevitable," a whisper breathed.

Darkness swept out of the house, over her to the rose garden. She fell to the soft earth, which caught her. Shadow formed a memory. People screamed, men begged, and women wept. Curses filled the air as oaths were sworn. Two figures were held, so they could witness the horrors. Oaks had stood on the land before the estate. Consumed by the night, they produced strange fruit that swung in a spectral breeze.

The only figure which was still, turned to her, "The dead deserve justice." The words flew both curse and oath. She held a spike like the one Marie plucked from the wood.

Mister Barnett strode through the garden. Murmurs pulled him. His lips drew up into a smile, for it had been another lovely night. After Marie had spoken to Alice, he'd take a little jaunt to town. Diana liked everything neat, and he enjoyed serving in her kingdom. It allowed her little indulgences and the pleasure of attending to the Princess in Red.

He slowed. Marie lied on the earth with a hand full of rust. The smile grew on his hard face. She looked up at him, through the world, and he scowled. A shoe rose into the air, and he felt the urge to stomp. A scar hid under the trilby hat, a thin line, but plastic surgery could only do so much. The stumps of his teeth flashed.

Alice appeared, smirk flashed. She looked at him, and he lowered his foot. Barnett straightened his tie. The Princess in Red was the first to see him as a man, and the only person to see his beauty. Both looked at Marie, interested in the open door. They'd heard stories of Batty Betty.

"What is happening?" Jacob rushed past them. She was unharmed, he saw. Mister Barnett and Alice watched him passively. He kneeled beside her, "Marie, are you okay?"

She jerked; shadows departed, "I…am alright."

"He helped her up, and looked at them, "What happened?"

"I must have tripped and bumped my head," she glanced at the shadows that gathered to Alice and Barnett. Utterances surrounded them.

"Oh," he looked at her head, but saw no blood, "Are you okay, Marie?"

"Yes," she said, and Jacob helped steady her. Bronze skin flushed, and Marie wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Tim appeared, and she felt the blush turned to flame.

"Inky," Tim looked at them, "are you ready to go?" His eyes lingered on Jacob, jaw set.

"Yes," she replied, and stepped away, "I need to get…away."

"Alright, Inky," he studied Marie, "we'll get out of here."

Barnett held up the suitcase, which she took without a thought. He guided her and Tim back to the sedan. They departed in silence. Tim sat with Marie, who wiped the rust off her hand. The spikes were everywhere, barriers, but she failed to recall their full purpose. Inside the silence, her mind gnawed at the questions.

Over the road they crawled, as she felt the vision at House Lance abate. The answer was in Dim Cassilda, she was sure. On the pages was truth, which she prided herself on seeking it. Truth was beyond that which was verifiable, and another it was horrid but necessary. Could she look at herself, and let true revelations rest undisturbed. This question pounded in her mind.

Even when they entered Mulberry Vineyard, she still chewed on the questions. Tim had to pull her out and onto the pavement. He shook, sighed, and recalled Bethany's internal wars.

Marie wiped her brow, and stepped to the window. "Here, I don't think I can take this," she held up the case. Barnett's smile grew wide, dry chuff nearly a chuckle. He pulled away from them.