"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance."

George Bernard Shaw

Luckily Estley stays behind with the company downstairs, so I can wash myself and change in peace. Understandably, I do not stay only in my undergarments. Not only because I am going to have to spend the night in the same room as Estley, but also because soon I am going to leave this room. After all I can't exactly call the ghost right in front of Lord Cameron. I will have to wait until he falls asleep, and then search for an available room. So I decide to put on a negligee, seeing as such a dress is considered quite appropriate for a domestic evening, and besides, the "groom" in any case has already had the opportunity to see me like this. In the meantime, I decide to take advantage of my short-term freedom to talk to the maid about the topics that interest me.

“Our hosts seem to be very nice people.” I say, sitting in front of a mirror, while the maid takes apart my hairdo, removing multiple hairpins. “They are handling the tragedy quite well. It must have been very hard for them to lose their father.”

“Yes, they took it very badly,” she confirms, laying another hairpin on the nightstand. Although, frankly, they shouldn't have. He was a very difficult man.”

“Really?” I sit up and perk my ears. “What do you mean?”

“He was very strict,” willingly responds the maid, who is clearly not averse to talking. A very common weakness among the representatives of her profession, which for me has often been a blessing in disguise. “He always adhered to all those different rules – every little thing had to be very proper and to his liking.”

“Well, maybe it's not such a bad thing?” I comment — mildly, so as not to frighten away the girl who is so eager to share information.

“Maybe,” she agrees readily, deftly wielding the comb. “If he had imposed it only on himself. But he did not — the whole house had to live according to his orders. I'm not talking about us servants — after all, that's our way of life, and besides, the Master was a generous and kind man, so I can't complain. But I felt sorry for the children. Imagine being young, when this isn't allowed, that is indecent, that way is inappropriate, these you shan't visit, those you shan't invite over, don't wear these dresses, don't play cards... We could stay here till morning, listing them.” She shrugs. “That's how we lived. He seemed like a good man and loved his children, but in some matters he was as stubborn as a mule. He had very few people over, as though he shied away from people. It's a good thing that at least he took in his grandson no questions asked, even though he was born in sin. But he wouldn’t let his daughter live her own life.”

“Why not?” I was surprised.

“Why I don't know, only he chased all her suitors away,” explains the maid. “One he thought wasn’t good enough, one was too poor, another’s family wasn’t proper enough. One was too much of a ladies' man, and one involved in something suspicious. Well, so on and so forth. Although there were quite worthy suitors, and from rich families and noble ones too — some nobler than ours,” she adds, lowering her voice. “And Lady Yolanda, she is a normal girl, she's wasting away in this neck of the woods, especially without company. Lord Alexander had a little more freedom, since he's a man.”

“What about the third son?” I fish for more information. “Norrey, I think his name was?”

“Oh, that one,” drawls the maid. Her expression becomes disapproving, even disgusted. He died five years ago. Fortunately, I hadn't started working here yet at the time, so I didn't get to meet him. It's for the best.”

“Why, was there something wrong with him?”

She finishes working on my hair and starts to mix ingredients in a bowl for the preparation of a special liquid which I use to wash my face. The smell of lavender and other herbs begins to fill the room.

“Wrong is a bit of an understatement,” she snorts. “He worshiped Orend. The Templers outlawed him and were going to have him arrested. It was then that he was killed while trying to escape.”

I do not have to pretend being shocked: I really did not expect to hear something like that about this family. Orend is one of the gods — a fallen god, who was overthrown and banished from heaven. He is considered to be the embodiment of evil, cruelty, and the dark side of the soul. Worshipping him is strictly prohibited, and punishable by death. It is believed that his supporters perform terrible and cruel rituals, which include animal and even human sacrifices. Whether this is true I don't know — I have never encountered anything like this. If people who worship Orend do exist, they are very few in number and certainly do not flaunt their beliefs.

“However, some believe that it was not his fault,” says the maid. “They say he was just slandered. From her tone it is clear that she herself doesn't think it to be true. To me it seemed, on the contrary, very likely. It is much easier to believe in a case of slander than in the terrible villain who plunges a knife into the heart of a ritual sacrifice while praying to a dark god. "But I do not believe it," states the girl. "I mean, obviously for the family members, it's hard to believe their son and brother was guilty. But frankly, if he were innocent, why would he try to escape?”

The last argument does not strike me as all that convincing, but I say nothing. Especially considering that the liquid for washing my face is finally ready. Soon the maid leaves and I am left to ponder what I have heard. Another half an hour later Estley enters the room.

His mood seems to be better than ever, which makes my own plummet at once.

“Lady Inessa,” the Count announces as he sits down on the bed. “I have thought about it and I have decided to meet you halfway. After all, you did not expect to be in such a delicate situation, and I as a man should exercise tact. So I'll let you choose. What do you prefer — to sleep on the left side or the right?”

“I prefer to sleep alone,” I respond sarcastically, studiously ignoring the irony of the question.”

“Which is fundamentally wrong of you,” says Estley.

“I know,” I reply. “You were kind enough to enlighten me on this subject during our dance together. But let me make my own decisions on this issue. Even if they are wrong.”

“In some ways you're right,” says Lord Cameron. “One should persist in one's erroneous ways. They tell far more about our nature than our virtues do.”

“Well, if you agreed that I am right,” I say softly. "Then maybe you'll do the gentlemanly thing and go to sleep on the couch?”

I look at the narrow sofa, which was fortunately put in the room in addition to a double bed.

“No way,” Estley snaps. “As we have already established, I do not claim to be a gentleman. Let me remind you, my dear lady, that I'm the one who was invited to this house. You are here on your own initiative and under false pretenses. Almost under a false name. Not only did I go along with your deception, now you want me to give you my lawful bed? If you want, join me. I am willing to offer you any side of the bed of your choice.”

“In this case you will promise not to take advantage of the situation?” I ask, tilting my head to one side.

No, I am not going to sleep with Estley in any case. Gods forbid! Moreover, I cannot guarantee that I wouldn't take advantage of the situation myself... I am just curious how he will answer the question.

“Lady Inessa.” His lips curl into a shameless smile. ”I always take advantage of the situation.”

“Well,” I smile in response “In that case, I'll take the couch. And let you be ashamed of yourself.”

“Don't keep your hopes up,” Estley assures me.

I sit on the couch, every bit as demonstratively as he had sat on the bed a few minutes before. Estley again shrugs out of the coat and proceeds to the vest.

“At least give me a sheet: you have three of them!”

There really were three sets of sheets, as expected in decent homes. One to spread on the mattress, the second one for a person to cover themselves, the third buttoned to the top of the blanket and spread over the second.

Perhaps the Count is less than willing to share those linens, but I am faster: even before he realizes what is happening, I pull a sheet off the bed.

There are pillows on the couch, and as for a blanket, I had time to find an extra one in the room beforehand. I extinguish the candles without requesting the opinion of my roommate in this respect, and allegedly settle for the night. In actual fact, I wait.

Sometime later, Estley begins to breathe evenly. I wait a few minutes to be sure, slide off the couch, take my shoes in my hand, and walk out of the room barefoot.

Outside it is very dark: pitch dark. One could easily fall down a staircase without the help of any ghosts. However, a push in the back is a different matter — darkness is not going to do it. Although if we get to the bottom of it, the darkness in this case could be very helpful. The offender, if there really was one, could lurk behind the door, wait until the frightened girl runs out, push her in the right direction, and disappear back into the night before anyone would notice.

The question is: what does the ghost have to do with the whole incident? I am hoping to find out firsthand soon.

At first I just move slowly, relying on touch, taking tiny steps, my hand groping the wall. Then my eyes slowly begin to adjust to the darkness around me. Not that I can see well, but I can make out the vague outlines of the corridor and a row of doors along the left side of it; this helps me to navigate. Fortunately, I have found a room in advance, located on this floor and not used as a bedroom. Going down the stairs in this darkness would be risky, even without anyone trying to push me in the back.

I slip into the room, which serves, apparently, as a kind of a small living room designed for the owners of the house, and close the door behind me. It is a little lighter than the hallway, due to the moonlight coming through the large window. The thin white curtain doesn't prove to be a serious obstacle.

Nevertheless, I light a candle: this is necessary for the summoning ritual. I cannot anticipate the result of this ritual. It is possible that there are several ghosts inhabiting the house — Baron Grondezh, or his late son Norrey, or the cook who died recently, as well as anyone else about whom I do not know could come to my call. But it is pointless to guess, so I just start working. I run my hand over the candle flame several times. First away from me, then towards me.

I was right, thinking that the outcome could not be predicted in advance. Nobody answers my summons — no one at all.

After making sure that waiting any longer would be pointless, I extinguish the candle, and just quietly slip out of the room. Then I freeze, leaning against the wall, as I hear voices.

“We need to be more careful. Someone could see us together.”

It is a female voice. I think I know to whom it belongs.

“Do not worry. Everybody is asleep.”

A male voice this time. This one is more difficult to place, although I have one suspect in mind...

“Lord Cameron has a very keen eye, and he's very smart. He leads complex investigations in the palace. I feel as though he took one good look at us, and immediately understood everything. If he finds out everything, I would die of shame.”

“Don't worry, he didn't figure out anything. You just believably stated what you are afraid of. I kept a close eye on him. Nothing of the sort even crossed his mind. Come on. You'll catch cold here in the draft.”

The door closest to me opens. I flatten myself against the wall. The light from the candles burning in the room illuminates the hallway for a few seconds. This enables me to see the profile of the man entering the bedroom.

This is quite an unexpected turn of events. Lady Yolanda Grondezh and Ricardo. Are they lovers? It is very likely. But how does it help me understand the strange events occurring in this house? Well, as of right now, it doesn't seem to. It does explain why Ricardo was close enough to Yolanda’s quarters that he managed to prevent her fall. As for the rest, it is rather unlikely their relationship could shed any light on this story. As far as I could tell, Ricardo is not interested in the girl's death. Quite the contrary. Assuming that he pursued mercantile interests, as a lover, he would be able to get quite a lot out of his mistress: money, privileges, and valuable things. But if she were killed his sweet life would come to an end. He could not count on inheritance: the laws in this regard are strict and very clear. The title, the house and the main property would be transferred to the next of kin, in accordance with clearly established precedent.

The silence of the dead of night is disrupted by my loud scream. Estley jumps out of bed and, not without surprise, finds me on the floor near the foot of the bed. However, waking him up does not bother me at all. On the contrary, I continue to scream even more loudly, with periodic high-pitched shrieks. Covering my face with my hands, I yell at the risk of losing my voice, while completely ignoring all of the Count's attempts to bring me to my senses.

The room quickly fills with people. They run in, wearing practically the same clothes in which they have been sleeping, throwing on top the first thing that came to hand. Yolanda, Ricardo, Alexander, the aunt – who rushes, by the way, just as fast as all the others — two maids; even the nanny runs into the room.

“What happened?”

This question is directed either at me or at Estley, but the latter fails to provide an answer. Swallowing convulsively, I finally lower my hands from my face and take a glass of water from Ricardo.

“It... it was awful!” I take a few sips, holding the glass with both hands, as if hugging it to myself, and cling onto it as if it were a lifeline. “I've seen a ghost!”

“A ghost?”

This word is repeated by several voices, one after the other.

I nod and hold out my hand with the glass, looking around disoriented, as if I could not understand what to do with it now. Estley takes the glass from me and puts it on the floor near me.

“It was a ghost.” I say again, pressing my hand to my solar plexus.

“What did it look like?” the aunt asks me almost in a businesslike manner.

“It was a man. Sixty years old, maybe a little more,” I begin to describe, while stuttering periodically. “He was gray-haired. Of medium height. And with a... a dimple in his chin.”

“Cousin!” Exclaims the aunt, and the rest begin whispering among themselves in agreement.

My description corresponds exactly to the appearance of the late Baron.

“What happened then? Did he say anything? ” Yolanda asks excitedly.

I curl into a small ball, fragile, ready to cry.

“He was completely naked,” I say plaintively. “Had absolutely no clothes on. And went straight at me. And he said...” I sobbed. “He said, 'Give yourself to me, maiden! I have not had a woman in such a long time!'" I shrank into the wall, and he went straight at me, and he had such a big...” I press my hand to my mouth, and then bury my face in my hands. “It was terrifying,” I finish. “Then I screamed and he disappeared.”

I stop and pick the glass back up. I squeeze it so hard that it seems that a little more and the glass will break. I stare at the floor, my lips trembling pitifully.

Everyone is silent. No one knows how to react to my words. Estley is the first to act.

“Gentlemen, I apologize. As you can see, my fiancée is very upset. I think she has had a bad dream. Please leave us. She needs rest.”

These words, though polite, are uttered in a tone that would not bear objections. Everybody leaves the room quickly.

“Well, now,” says Estley after the last visitor closed the door “If you please, Lady Inessa, explain to me what this whole scene was about.”

The Count rises to his feet — until this point he has been sitting on his haunches beside me — and stares at me with a demanding look.

“Why do you think this was just a scene?” I ask, setting the glass aside.

“Are you trying to convince me that you have experienced such a vision?” he asks sarcastically. “Of course, I have mentioned that you should not neglect close contact with men, but I had no idea that your situation in this respect was so dire.”

He probably is still saying something, but I stop paying attention to him. Because an unfamiliar man enters the room, right through the wall. About sixty years old, gray-haired, and with a dimple on his chin. And he is very, very angry.

“Who are you?” he exclaims angrily. “How dare you say such nasty things about me? Such nonsense, defaming my good name!”

“I knew that this little performance would make you appear,” I respond with satisfaction, rising to my feet.

“What?" He stares at me. The ghost is, by the way, perfectly well dressed: shirt, vest, trousers, jacket — all as expected. “Shameless girl! It's outrageous! How do you even know what I look like?”

“Family portraits.” I smile. “They hang on the first floor. I have carefully studied your appearance.”

“You are an arrogant and cunning schemer.” The ghost accusatorily stretches out his hand. “What will my descendants think of me?”

“It's your own fault,” I shrug. “You could have come when I called you nicely. But for some reason you ignored my call. Don't you think that's inhospitable? You are, after all, the head of the household. Meanwhile, I have come from far away, and for the sole purpose of talking to you.”

“To me?” The ghost becomes interested to the point of briefly forgetting that he is still angry with me. “Why is that?”

“A friend of yours asked me to,” I reply. Then, seeing the look of surprise on his face, I explain: “She resides in the Duke's palace in the same way you do in this mansion. She was worried by the news of what is happening in your home. Lord Grondezh, why do you frighten your children and their household? Don't you think that this is not the way to treat your relatives, even if you are a ghost?”

“I do not,” the Baron snapped. “It does not concern you, my dear. Not in the least. You are a stranger in my house, and I do not owe you any information.”

“I am a stranger,” I agree. “But as it happens, none of the members of your family have the ability to communicate with ghosts. So I am here to serve as an intermediary between you. An interpreter, if you will.”

“Why would you be willing to do that?” he asks suspiciously.

“I'm telling you: your friend asked me to.”

“It does not matter,” the ghost cuts me off. “I'm not going to tell you anything. It's my house, and I'm going to do what I want.”

“But you understand that this cannot go on.” I try to appeal to his common sense. If you do not care about your daughter's feelings, think about her life. She has twice nearly fallen down the stairs because of your tricks.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth!” the Baron exclaims emotionally. “I would not cause harm to my daughter.”

“But you frightened her right when she stood on the edge of the stairs,” I insist.

“No!” snaps the ghost. “I tell you, I did nothing of the sort. And that's it. Kindly refrain from spreading false rumors about me, as you did today. But if you want to pass a message on to my relatives... Tell my daughter to leave this house. It would be best if Alexander and my grandson left too, but it is most important that Yolanda does so. This house is very old, and in many respects not suitable for living. She has enough money to build herself a new, modern and comfortable home. And even better: she could travel and go to the Mirror Valley, or abroad. She can rest, unwind. She has no reason to stay here. That's all I'm going to tell you.”

He flashes me a final angry look and disappears.

I purse my lips and turn my back to the place where the ghost was recently present. I shall consider his words carefully. But then I meet Estley's gaze. Damn! I'd forgotten that all this time he was here!

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask in exasperation. “Yeah, sometimes I talk to myself. So what?”

“God damn it!” Estley suddenly explodes. “You are ready to make an idiot out of yourself rather than talk to me like a normal human being?”

He even shakes me by the shoulders, but then almost immediately returns to being his calm and composed self.

“What did the ghost of the Baron say to you?” asks the Count matter-of-factly.

My eyes widen in surprise.

“You believe in ghosts?”

“Stop trying to confuse me,” winces Estley. “Even though I am not able to communicate with ghosts, I am perfectly aware of their existence. I told you that I'm well aware of what is going on in the palace. Do you think I don't know that it is inhabited by otherworldly beings? So let's not beat around the bush. Sit down!”

By the tone it sounds like an order, and I hasten to obey it, for fear of provoking a resurgence of anger. Estley contentedly nods and sits down on a chair, having put it down in front of my couch.

“Now tell me why you came here. The real reason. My patience is beginning to run out.”

Like a good girl, I put my hands on my knees and begin to tell the story. After all, I have no reason to hide the truth anymore.

“A friend of mine asked me to do it. She is a ghost,” I clarify, glancing suspiciously at Estley, still expecting him to snort in disbelief at any moment. But he does not even bat an eye. “She lives in the palace. Her friend, with whom I spoke, personally knew the Baron during her life. Recently she has heard rumors of events in this house, and she was very surprised and concerned because, according to her, such behavior is not like the Baron at all. After what I have learned about him in the last few hours, I am inclined to agree with her. So here I am.”

“I already understood how you made the Baron meet with you.” Estley's face is unreadable, and I cannot fathom what he thinks of my methods to guarantee the meeting. “What did he say to you? Did he shed any light on the events that have taken place here?”

“Unfortunately: no, he didn't,” I reply, thinking back to the conversation with the ghost. “He indirectly admitted that he is actually the one frightening the household at night. But why he is doing it he refused to explain. In general, he spoke to me very reluctantly, and then only because I gave him no choice” I wonder whether I am trying to justify my behavior in some way... I hasten to banish the thought. “Still, he said two interesting things. First, he categorically stated that he did not try to make Yolanda fall down the stairs. He underscored that he had nothing to do with these cases. Second, he told me to convey to his children that they should leave the house as soon as they can. And as I understand: forever.”

“His children?” asks Estley.

“Mainly Yolanda,” I clarify. “His son and grandson too, but somehow it is less urgent. But Yolanda, judging by his words, should leave the house as soon as possible and the further she goes the better.”

Estley taps his fingers on his knee.

“We have two options,” I start to say, gauging my companion's reaction. No negative reaction to my words follows, so I continue. “Either the Baron is trying to warn his children about something, which is why he started the whole nocturnal intimidation thing. He wants them to feel that staying here would be unbearable, or at the very least they should just leave the house because of the constant stress, without questioning it any further. Another possibility is that their presence in the house simply interferes with his own plans, or with the plans of those he's helping. However, the first option seems much more likely to me.”

“I agree: I am also leaning towards the first option,” confirms Estley.

I simply nod.

“Especially since a ghost is really unable to push a person in the back.”

“Are you sure?” he asks with interest.

“Absolutely.”

“So, let's consider as a working hypothesis that someone absolutely material has been trying to kill the young woman. Twice, so far as it seems; while the ghost of the Baron is striving to warn her of the danger.” Estley rises from his chair and slowly walks around the room, his hands behind his back. “But if so, why didn't he just tell you everything? After all, that would be the easiest way to save his daughter.”

“Yes, it really would have been the more logical course of action.” I agree. “Unless he has a good reason to shield the killer.”

“You do have a theory.” This is a statement, not a question. “Do you know who tried to kill Yolanda?”

“I think I do.” I correct.

“Do tell.”

He sits back again, crossing his legs and prepared to listen. Well, I see no reason to hide my conclusions from him.

“The principle of "Cui bono[1]" never goes out of fashion,” I shrug. “There is only one person who would benefit if Yolanda were to die. After the father's death the bulk of the estate goes to the eldest child. Therefore, Alexander received only a small amount of money. But in case of Yolanda's death he, as her younger brother, would inherit everything. The title, the house, the land and the income they generate. It is, after all, one of the most common causes for murder.”

“Do you believe that the assassinations were attempted for money?” Estley cocks his head.

“In most cases, material gain is the motive,” I state my point of view. “It could be, of course, that some woman was jealous of Yolanda, and wanted to get rid of the competition. We could also assume that Yolanda was blackmailing someone, and that person is trying to remove the threat in a radical way. But all of that is nothing more than speculation. Besides the fact that all I have learned about Yolanda makes both these options seem extremely unlikely. Whereas in the case of the brother the motive lies on the surface. It's so convenient to blame it all on a ghost. The girl was frightened, ran out of the room, fell down the stairs. Otherworldly forces plus an unfortunate coincidence. There is another thing. You know that the Baron’s middle son was accused in his time of worshiping Orend? What am I saying? Of course you know.” Estley nods, raising an eyebrow in surprise at how quickly I managed to find out such details about the family.

“Frankly speaking, I have never met any of those people. However, I heard that it is not their religious beliefs that lead them down this path. Rather, we are talking about people with a perverse predilection to violence. The cult of Orend simply gives them the opportunity to express this tendency, giving it a kind of legitimacy.”

“I, too, am familiar with such a theory,” confirms Estley, "and I think it is not far from the truth. But what does the middle son of the Baron have to do with anything?"

“Given that the abnormal inclination for cruelty is often an inherited quality,” I explain, “and, therefore, if it is passed on to one brother, it could have easily have been passed on to the second one. But the second one may simply have been smarter than the first, and would not expose himself to the danger of indulging in the forbidden cult. He would allow himself to act only when he had a real goal. Finally, if Alexander is the offender, it explains the Baron's reluctance to talk. Yes, he wants to save his daughter, but he still cares for his son, in spite of everything.”

“You are right in the fact that all this does sound logical,” Estley agrees. “I would applaud you, but in your theory there is one problem, although you could not have known about it.”

“What is it?” I ask curiously.

“The thing is that it was Alexander Grondezh who invited me here and asked me to find out who made the attempts on his sister's life and why,” says Estley. “You have to agree that to do so just for appearance's sake, or to deflect suspicion, would be, to put it mildly, quite presumptuous on his part.”

There I have to agree. For appearance's sake it would make sense to refer to any low ranking officer of the royal guard, who is no one special, and if possible is terribly afraid of ghosts. Inviting to his house the second person in the duchy, well known for his keen intelligence, meticulousness and — in certain cases — ruthlessness, would at least have been stupid. While Alexander certainly does not come across as a fool.

“I agree,” I admit. “In this case, his involvement is unlikely. What are the other options? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Estley really seems in no hurry to respond, and instead gives me either an appraising, or just a curious look.

“You do not dig in your heels, insisting on your own version after it has been proven to be invalid,” he says. “It's a very good quality.”

“In my opinion, it's just simple logic,” I say, pretending not to be flattered by the compliment.

“It is,” Estley agrees. “But if you knew how much effort and time I have to waste because of people who do not wish to follow this logic.... So,” he stretches, throwing a glance at his watch, and then looking at me intently. “Let's think what other possibilities there are.”

[1] "to whose benefit" (Latin)

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