((8pm, 26th September, The Havesborough Townhouse))

Whitney sat alone. Well, not alone. He sat at his youngest sister’s bedside, trying to coax her to eat. Almost a week, and still she’d not come out of the strange fevre that seemed to afflict her. Still she tossed and whimpered and cried out for water. Still her mind seemed taken by some other place, seemed to hear sounds and call out for things that were not there... Still there were bright red spots on her cheeks and yet her hands were cold.

The nobleman rose from his seat beside her. Slowly he took his tired body (for he hadn’t slept, how could he?) to the basin and poured water into a cup. Taking it back to Elsie, he tenderly took her into his arms. She was so intemperate, her voice so weak…

When he began to speak, into the dim twilight of the room, he hardly noticed.

“What must I do. I know there is something. Someone I must ask, someone who will help her. Someone I must pay or...” he swallowed. “Some deal that must be struck. It goes that way in all the stories. I don’t know where to look for it. Tell me how to make her well.” He wasn’t sure what or who he was asking, but if the answer was there… her little fingers clutched at his waistcoat. Her breath was shallow and her eyelids flickered, her lashes dark on her flushed cheeks. “…just tell me what I must do to make her well.”