A day and two nights ploughing the heath had as yet revealed nothing. Nearly every able bodied man had tread its length at least once, and every Barrow that anyone could remember (and quite a few that everyone had forgotten) had been searched twice. At the dawn of the second day of searching, popular opinion tended upon two theories: that either Black Abraham had ensconced himself in a Barrow yet unknown (or at least unremembered), or that Miss Bellingham was, after all, thoroughly batty as usual.

The Sheriff was of the former mind. He was convinced that while Miss Bellingham may have been of an eccentric and imaginative turn of mind, she was definitely not delusional. He had no doubt that she was telling the truth exactly as she had perceived it. It was in light of this conviction that he had requested that the young lady accompany the search parties that day, to see if she came across anything that could jog her recollection further.

Miss Bellingham was, of course, delighted to be of assistance, especially if it could convince people about all the vibrations. She cantered about the fields between search parties on a spritely white mare, herself adorned in an ill fitting riding dress and a top hat copiously bedecked with wild feathers.

Despite her enthusiastic and spirited intervention in every minute detail of their progress, by ten o’clock or so it was the general conclusion of the searchers that the effusive Miss Bellingham was rather more a meddlesome nuisance of wholly equivocal utility to their endeavours, a conclusion to which the Sheriff was eventually obliged to acquiesce. He advised Miss Bellingham to have a look about the heath on her own, while staying within sight of the search parties both for safety and to quickly deliver any intelligence which she may by some small chance come across. And as insurance, the Sheriff directed that she be accompanied at all times by a gentleman of steady temper.

There were times, many times in fact, that Mr. Stokes regretted the fact that he was a gentleman of such impeccable standing and considerate reputation. Mr. Stokes was not a romantic sort. He was a rationalist, and did not bemoan the petty histrionics of ages past. However, it was his feeling at the moment that if anyone were to epitomize the gallant self sacrifice and patient forbearance of ancient chivalric ideal, it was surely himself.

If an obligation to endure Miss Bellingham’s company were not sufficient onus in itself, being bound to follow in her wake as her attendant curator was simply a nightmare of the highest order for one of Mr. Stoke’s refined sensibilities.

In addition to her preposterously whimsical disposition, Miss Bellingham was also an appalling horsewoman, taking the most dreadful risks with the least possible refinement, and when she was not bolting off in some capricious direction or other she was entirely content to allow her mount to have it’s way in nearly everything.

“Why fancy that, my dear Mr. Stokes, Edwina has found another thistle to her liking!”

“How…...splendid. Yes, quite splendid I suppose, Miss Bellingham.”

“I’m so very glad you see it that way my dear Mr. Stokes. Tell me, have you ever seen a Brownie?”

“What on earth…..I mean, no, Miss Bellingham. I most definitely have never seen a Brownie.”

“A pity. I saw one once. It was away yonder near one of the barns at Wiggins Farm.”

“What in world would you be doing around barns…..oh nevermind.”

“He was such a wee little fellow, with a great brown cap over his white gown. Of course, he was disguised as a mushroom, but I saw through it alright. I recognized the Signs, you know. I do believe he left me with a Charm for not having disturbed him, the rest of the day was so splendid, you know.”

“Ah. Yes I suppose it was, they do say that the most blissful are those of the most, well, shall we say, the most straightforward turn of mind.”

“You are quite right, my dear Mr. Stokes. Happiness comes from a Proper Attunement, kindness to animals, and having sugar buns with breakfast, don’t you think so my dear Mr. Stokes?”

“Er, I say, aren’t we a bit far off from the others?”

“As I always say, sensitivity to the proper Energies will always….EEEEE!”

“What in heaven’s name! What one earth are you shouting about?”

“Would you look at that, my dear Mr. Stokes! A wee Cairn!”

“What?”

“Yes, yes it is! A Kobald Cairn!”

“Oh no…”

“See!”

Miss Bellingham rolled off her horse in a most unladylike fashion and began prodding a small pile of stones in the brush.

“See! See! It’s a sign! A Kobald signpost you know. It’s telling us we should go this way!”

“I really think we should not…..”

“Hurry, my dear Mr. Stokes! We must follow!”

Miss Bellingham rolled back up into her saddle with as blinding a speed as with which she had quit it a moment ago, and before Mr. Stokes had time to arrest her momentum or shout out to the roving searchers nearby, she was charging off in an apparently random direction towards the edge of the heath.

There was nothing for it. Mr. Stokes had to follow.

Every few minutes Miss Bellingham would come to a jerking halt and examine a stone or a bit of wood, then charge off in a new direction at top speed. It was with considerable difficulty that Mr. Stokes even managed to keep up. It appeared that Edwina was well accustomed to her mistress’s peculiar methods of equitation and took considerable relish in the reckless liberties with which she was permitted to navigate. There seemed to be no sense or reason in the trail Miss Bellingham followed, except that with each twist and about face they appeared to be brought steadily closer to the fringes of Crickwood.

It was some time before Miss Bellingham and her grudging consort were missed. The eventual discernment of their disappearance caused the Sheriff and the other leaders no small amount of consternation.

But even this was little compared to the abashment that was shortly to follow, for nightfall had brought intelligence of the most confounding character.

The Sheriff and the other dignitaries were gathered as was now usual in the drawing room of Wingham Manor. That stoic apartment had over the last week turned into a topsy-turvy war room bedecked and piled with maps, charts, books, weapons, gear, half eaten breakfasts and many used glasses and tankards. In the midst of all of this the leading citizens would analyze, debate, argue and blather over the progress of each day and night.

At the moment there was a lively discussion in progress concerning the whereabouts of Miss Bellingham and Mr. Stokes, as well as the persistent absence of young Harlow Barnstabrake, and whether these sinister disappearances were a reflection on the questionable competence of somebody or other when all ceased abruptly upon the announcement that one of the groups of riders sent abroad on the first day of searching had returned.

A bedraggled young man was brought forth. He reported that he and his companions had ridden as far as Brackton on Moor when they encountered news of the most revolutionary impact on their mission. With hardly a stop, they turned back immediately to bring these tidings to Potham.

Two weeks ago, the naval docks at Edton were breached by an armed party of miscreants, who commandeered an important vessel currently interred there. Although ships were immediately dispatched in pursuit, there had yet to be any trace of the raiders. These facts had been kept confidential for one week, until it became apparent that the news could no longer be withheld, at which point an announcement was made and a bounty was put on the heads of the perpetrators.

And it was of the most profound significance that the identities of the perpetrators, or at least their leaders, were indeed known with confidence. It was with positive identification that the Admiralty at last announced that the notorious pirate Black Abraham had emerged from hiding and taken possession of his former ship, the Ardent Fancy. Although a general bounty had been posted as of Tuesday with a mandate that all salient news be brought to the Admiralty with all expediency, at last sighting it was confirmed that the Ardent Fancy was on a course southward out of Gandish waters. It was the opinion of the Admiralty that Black Abraham was headed to the distant islands of the Ostraneses to escape the Gandish Navy and renew his career in the remote tropics. But whatever the destination of the terrible pirate may be, one thing was appallingly clear to the men gathered in Wingham Manor: In total contradiction to all their conclusions hitherto, Black Abraham had in fact left Gandburgh before the May Day ball had even taken place.

It was a cold night for mid June. Fanny stood before her bedroom window gazing out onto the darkened lawns as the chill of the outdoors radiated through the glass. High in the sky, a half moon shown with glacial foreboding.

Sir Walter had returned home in an ill temper, full of the news of Black Abraham’s escape and the subsequent confused turmoil the revelation had thrown the neighborhood into. No one knew quite what to do next or where to begin again. Everything they had built their direction upon had now been cast into total disarray, and the entire enterprise was now locked in confounded immobility. There was talk of holding another Moot. Some thought that perhaps the Admiralty was mistaken or was still hiding something (after all, they did wait an entire week before announcing their embarrassment). Perhaps it had not been Black Abraham after all who had commandeered the Ardent Fancy, that the act was merely attributed to him as a leap of speculation. Others took the news at face value and concluded that their whole enterprise thus far had been a wild goose chase, and that nothing more could be done until a new theory could be postulated (this time with some actual proof to back it up).

Fanny idly combed her hair with her fingers as she gazed upon the bleak landscape of this still yet unquiet night. First Miss Watson, then young Mr. Barnstabrake, now Miss Bellingham (twice, presumably) and or course Mr. Stokes. The displacement of the latter perhaps was not so great a burden upon her mind, but Fanny was after all a woman of good breeding and such an attitude ought to be suppressed in favor of a charitable will.

Fanny shivered. The airiness of her summer nightgown notwithstanding, the chill of the night seemed to have a particularly penetrative power at the moment, empowered perhaps by the anxious chill that had settled within her. There was no use in fretting. Sir Walter was here for the night, and the domestic servants had been on close guard all week. And if nothing else, the news that Black Abraham was in all probability well on his way to the tropics was somewhat reassuring, given that individual’s established propensity (so to speak) of raiding country houses with an eye for abducting young women.

Fanny examined the window: Properly bolted. Wearily she closed the drapes and shut out the darkness, turning towards the light of the candle beside her bed. The candle could just be left to burn itself out, she supposed. There was no particular necessity to abandon the slight sense of security the light gave her. With a final glance about the room she mounted the bed and sank into the comforting volume of sheet and feather mattress.

She lay there curled up securely in the mass of cloth and cushion, peering intently at the soothing fire of the sleepily diminishing candle, her thoughts drifting from one anxious subject to another. No, there was no use worrying, but all the same she somehow couldn’t help it.

Still, she seemed to be falling asleep readily enough. She felt her thoughts shifting peculiarly as they began to blend together in an exotic whirl. Somehow, she couldn’t grasp any particular thought, each idea seemed to slip away and melt into an unquiet background of fuzzy confusion. She felt she ought to be breathing or something, yet her breast seemed heavy and motionless.

She felt a vacant notion that she was dozing off, but not properly somehow. Her mind continued to spiral into a strange sort of abyss from which there seemed to be no escape.

As she felt herself slipping helplessly into dark unconsciousness, Fanny thought she heard a sound. A muffled, nasty sounding laugh.