20 comments/ 13989 views/ 1 favorites Legacy By: Recidiva + + + + + Weblink: Nestled in the Berkshires, "The Virgin and the Unicorn" Bed and Breakfast sports some of the most beautiful scenery of the Northeast. As featured in "Haunted America" tours, perhaps as you sip apple cider this Halloween, you will be visited by the couple reputed to haunt the grounds. Local folklore holds that this working farm and manor house was built by Ethan Verence to impress the woman he wanted to make his bride, Corrine Parsons. + + + + + Rowan Knapp was at her desk, surfing the web at work. The making of her Halloween holiday plans had spilled over into all hours because she couldn't pick a place. She didn't know what she wanted to do, but it was late October already. She needed to make her plans soon or she envisioned being stuck at home with a plastic pumpkin (the real ones having all been sold out) and crappy candy. Crappy candy was the worst. Leftovers lasted until Easter, when they were tossed in favor of Peeps. In keeping with the season, she was trying to figure out what to do with the vacation she'd scheduled on a whim. She was tired of being boring, of being bored. Skimming the paragraph describing the bed and breakfast piqued her interest. Thankfully this website was not pumping a version of MIDI theme from "Ghostbusters." The idea was growing on her and she decided this was her real pumpkin. The idea of spending Halloween in a real haunted house was too much to pass up. When she heard footsteps walking down the corridor, she shut down the browser in a habitual work ritual; pretending to efficiently care. Her manager came in to discuss an account and she shelved the wild romance of haunted lovers, and took on the professional disguise of being fascinated by the details of the ebb and tide of money on paper. It wasn't faked entirely, at least, she loved her job. She just wanted some fun. Visions of poison plums dancing in her head, she breezed through the rest of her day. Later, she went home and booked a room at the B&B for two weeks. Her imagination latched onto the idea of ghostly lovers. What would it be like to have a man build a manor for you? Was he handsome? Was she beautiful? She fell asleep with a smile on her face. She couldn't wait to see for herself. + + + + + Weblink: Country road charm and local beauty surround "The Virgin and the Unicorn" on the road to this classic property. (See map directions. We're conveniently located 2 hours from Logan Airport and 3 hours from New York City.) Historically contemporary to the era of witch hunters and witchcraft, the farm on the grounds features an herb garden, an apple orchard, vegetable gardens and fields of rye. Enjoy the immersion in Northeastern late 1600's culture with farmhands, apple pickers, and gardeners in historic costume. Relax and attend some of our exhibitions of colonial crafts, from demonstrations of candle dipping to blacksmithing. Don't worry that you'll be left in the past, though! The most modern of conveniences embrace the manor. Rustic charm gives way to your personal Jacuzzi in a luxury suite and a state-of-the-art gym on the grounds. + + + + + Rowan took her time driving to the B&B. She lived in Worcester, Massachusetts, so it was only a few hours. She loved the road, the scenery, singing along to her music. The view of the mountains slipped around the car in a comforting rhythm, the road and the landscape grounding her. As part of her vacation rules, she turned off her cellphone and took off her watch. In her spare time she hated to be scheduled and reminded of passing time. Not that she really expected anybody to call. She only knew a few people from work, and didn't interact with any of them socially, as that seemed like a bad idea. She was a Certified Public Accountant. She was in a good rhythm in her days, numbers and logic and order suited her. She had to take extension courses every year to renew her license, so she went all the way and supplemented those with other courses, filled up her nights with more learning. She hadn't gone to school so much to make money as she made money so she could afford to stay in school eternally. Getting the benefits of a job she was good at, all the knowledge she could drink and in this case, paid whimsical vacations, she was almost smug. She was a smart, qualified...virgin. She was 24 years old and she had yet to meet someone she wanted to sleep with. If it kept up like this, she'd be a spinster. Going to an antiquated place suited her sense of humor, along with her antiquated values. Calling her maintained virginity a value might be stretching it. She just hadn't found anyone, or been found by anyone. She couldn't consider virginity a valuable asset if it had been meaningless so far. She hadn't defended her virtue particularly. She just hadn't been tempted to spend it. Maybe she should get a bumper sticker "Spinsterhood Or Bust!" The thought brought a smile to her face and she was still smiling as she pulled up to the property and got out of the car, handing her keys to the valet. While she was waiting for her bags, she took in the scenery on the grounds and the manor. The main building was nestled into a copse of trees bare of leaves this late in the season. The trees had grown around the building, sheltering and sculptured, an effect only age could accomplish. Reminded of the passage of time, the cold air and gray branches made her feel a twinge of regret that she wouldn't see them in spring or painted with the garish and startling colors of fall. She wanted to come back later to see change wrought by the seasons. The potential joy of seeing this place riot with flowers and new leaves in spring unfurling on the stark branches made her feel like she'd chosen the right place. Beyond the trees, the land around the manor opened up into clearings and pathways, leading to fields and outbuildings. Practical and ornamental haystacks were heaped in the fields and placed as decoration along masonry and fencing. Fall passing into winter gave her the impression of spindly growth and spider web. The roots of the place were dormant but still very much alive. Corn cob bundles hung near gas-lit lamps. Artistically haphazard stacks of pumpkins decorated either side of the entrance. The doors were wide and welcoming, the aged wood carved with leaves and hung with wreaths of pine cones. Warm light seeped out through the glass. The building was two stories with an upper level balustrade, a delicate wrought-iron wreath around the second-floor porch. The majority of the outer walls was colonial clapboard painted white, with details in brick and iron. Outbuildings spread out along the panorama of the little valley revealing a glass-encased greenhouse, other buildings in brick and more clapboard. A flash of light lit up the right side of her field of vision. Turning to face the source, a smiling attendant in a white poet's shirt, leather breeches and riding boots walked toward her. He showed her a readout of the candid shot on his digital camera. He was handsome and she looked at his face a little too long before she sheepishly turned her attention to the camera. His voice was clear and deep, and he said "That's a beautiful arrival shot, ma'am. If I do say so myself." Curiosity sharpened her focus on the camera readout. Her thick black hair was suspended on her sunglasses, swept back in casual disarray. She looked delicate and that always unnerved her a little when she saw pictures of herself. She would rather look tough. Tough probably didn't come inherently to a 5' 5" petite. Her eyes were hazel, her lips tinted coral and lifted in a generous smile. Her body was draped in a white shirt and black silk pants. She turned to the attendant and said "Thank you. What's your name?" He smiled and said "Randy, ma'am. The picture is yours if you want it. I'm available on the grounds to photograph anything you wish to save. Just let me know if you need a keepsake. No charge, it's part of your amenities." She was delighted. "Lovely idea, thank you so much Randy. I'd love a copy." He smiled and gestured for her to follow him through the foyer furnished with antiques to the front desk. A deep-set fireplace provided a fire from hardwood logs that had wax-dipped pine cones burning in the flames, crackling and scenting the room. Light spilled in from the late afternoon sun through two floors of wide windows set with antique glass. The distinctive variations of thickness in the glass were reminiscent of underwater reflection. Once she was checked in she was escorted to her suite. She was impressed, as the rooms were more beautiful than the photographs on the website had conveyed. An open space with four-poster bed in tones of mahogany, rust and cream. A color-dense quilt made her fingers long to explore its texture, and when she did, her senses met rich, soft cotton and down. A vaulted ceiling rose to a sharp apex, and the plaster work along the walls was exquisite. The focal point of the suite was a window of jewel-toned stained glass above her balcony door. A tree of carnelian apples and emerald leaves dominated the field. A woman in a white dress was asleep, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, a forgotten apple falling from her open palm. A unicorn approached in the background, in tones of gray and black, silver threading his horn in a spiral. It was so beautiful that on impulse she asked Randy, who had accompanied her to her suite with her bags, to take a picture of her under the stained glass. He took several shots of her, prompting her to smile, and then jokingly prompting her to frown until she waved her hands in denial with a laugh, and he snapped that too. She pointed up and asked "Why is the unicorn so dark? I've never seen a black unicorn. It's strangely beautiful." Randy nodded and looked at the piece. "It is unique. It's rumored that Ethan had that commissioned himself. Nobody's quite sure why the Unicorn is black, but I happen to think that it's more accurate than a white Unicorn." She thought for a moment and then asked "Why would that be?" Randy answered "Because Unicorns are always supposed to be virtuous. I've always imagined that any animal with a horn that big, that puts their head in a virgin's lap, isn't anywhere near as pure as the purity he's attracted to. Perhaps Ethan was of the same mind. If his bride was the virgin, and he knew he was represented by the Unicorn, maybe he was just being more honest than most." He came around to stand by her and scroll through the pictures he had taken. He stood close so they could share the small screen. Her shoulder brushed his and she put her hand on his forearm when he pointed out her expressions. She drew her hand back and grew sober for a moment, reining herself in from overstepping intimacy bounds because she felt so at home. She shook her head "I'm sorry, that's a bit more forward than I should be. Forgive me. I can't think of much worse than a woman flirting with a handsome man she owes a tip." Randy's brown eyes sparkled and his mouth grinned easily. "You don't owe me a tip, ma'am. They cover everything by entirely overcharging you." Rowan stifled a short laugh. "Did they overcharge me? I'm about to completely overstep my boundaries here and wonder what else is included that I don't know about yet. Oh, and please call me Rowan. Ma'am gives me the creeps." He snapped the camera closed and smiled at her again. "Consider me at your service, Rowan. Day or night. My card is in the portfolio on the desk. If I'm available, I'll be here. In fact, I'm here now. Anything I can help you with?" "Do you have any specialties?" He considered for a moment and then said "Massages. I'm very good at massages. Would you care for one?" "This full service thing is intriguing. As you're an insider, how do you suggest I spend my first evening here?" He took her hand and drew her out onto the balcony, which had a view of the seasonally manicured grounds. He ticked off the highlights and indicated them to her. "There is the orchard." He pointed again "And over here is the greenhouse. It's getting late, so it's not the best time to visit, you're probably tired and should rest up before dinner. Let me draw you a bath, give you a massage, and I'll bring your dinner up to you after you rest. Let me pick what is best on the menu, as I get to preview it in the kitchen. How does that sound?" "It sounds perfect. I officially feel like I'm on vacation." "Good, Rowan, let's do that. I'll give you a moment of privacy. Let me get you something to drink. The spiced cider this time of year is really good, would you like some?" "I'd love some, yes." "Let me get the water running for you. Get settled in and I'll come back in and set up the massage table. Come on out in a towel when you're all set." She unpacked and undressed, and slipped into the bath. Bubbles and candlelight soaked the tenseness out of her muscles and mood. She had no idea what the room was scented with. It smelled amazing. Tip of her hat to the aromatherapy choice. If they had a gift shop, she was going to raid it. All the bottles were unlabeled except for the generic identifiers like "Shampoo" and "Conditioner." Whatever was in the soap, she wanted to buy a life's supply. After a long soak she heard Randy set up the table in the other room. She got out of the bath and wrapped herself in one of the distinct texture of a bathrobe made from organically-grown, undyed cotton. Bliss. She talked herself out of momentary shyness. Getting a massage from a handsome man was something normal people did, right? People other than her? She convinced herself his flirting was just good business practice and stepped out into the cooler suite, smiling in greeting to Randy and taking the mug of cider he offered her. Thanking him, she took a sip. "That's amazing. That's the best cider I've ever had. What's in this?" He was arranging a towel on the table and unpacking some oils. "Honestly, I have no idea. The alchemists here are very jealous of their concoctions. From the chefs to the herbalists, they like ingredients that are listed as 'herbs and spices' and are very fond of the phrase 'proprietary blend.' I guess that's what keeps online sales booming and people coming back." She sipped slowly as the cider was hot, and asked him "Have you ever seen the ghosts? Are there ghosts?" He tilted his head and responded "I'm not sure. Sometimes, when I'm out walking at night, I see little lights. In the trees. Most often around the well." "What well?" "There's a wishing well. I can show it to you if you'd like. I'm not sure I've seen the ghosts, but I've seen something." She took a long sip and then put down her mug. She stepped over to the massage table and after a moment said "Okay, what do I do? I've never had a massage before." He indicated the hole for her face and said "Face down, thataway. Except for one thing." She tilted her head. "What's that?" "You're not wearing a towel." She looked down at the robe. "That's right. Oops. Can't you massage through the robe?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't want to try, fingers are better than cloth. A towel you can slide down, but with this robe, and the hood, I'd be massaging terrycloth. Not what I'm after." "Want me to change? I can, give me just a second." He shrugged. "It's entirely up to you, Rowan, however you're most comfortable. But if you want a full body massage, and you want my best work, I suggest naked." She stood and thought for a moment. "Randy, to be frank, I'm terrified. And you're very attractive. I'm afraid I'll make an improper advance." His smile was gentle. "Cross my heart, Rowan, I'll only pick up on proper advances. Deal?" Her laugh was genuine and she felt the specter of inexperience dissipate. "It's a deal, Randy. Turn around for a moment?" He turned and she slipped out of her robe, folding it carefully and placing it on a marble tabletop so she wouldn't water stain any of the wood. She eased herself onto the table and into position, and then said softly "Okay." He warmed a divinely-scented oil with his hands and started to massage, his hands driving warmth into her wet, chilled skin. A deep relaxation stole through her body. He spoke conversationally about the history of the manor, and outlined highlights for tomorrow's tour. Her answers grew less and less animated, then monosyllabic, and ultimately she fell asleep. He eased off on the massage and spoke her name softly. When she didn't respond, he pulled the quilt from the bed to cover her. He wrote her a note and left quietly. + + + + + Weblink: White Lady (ghost) A White Lady is female, who died tragically or suffered trauma, reincarnated as a ghost found in other legends of different stories and appearances in other countries. + + + + + Rowan sat up from the massage table. Her attention drifted to the stained glass, but her focus was wavering and blurry. The room seemed to recede in all directions and what was left was only the stained glass. It appeared more sinister than in daylight, the colors roiling, the apples starting to drip what looked like blood. The woman at the base of the tree stirred and then a ghostly shape took form, stepping out of the frame and leaving the glass behind her, drifting closer to Rowan. The figure was beautiful as she rose from the still life, but as she came slowly closer, her features distorted. Rowan could see that her mouth was sewn shut, the stitching writhing and tearing at her lips. Rowan whispered softly "Corrine?" The ghost's head dipped in a suggestion of a nod, hovering. Fascinated, Rowan reached out a hand to touch Corrine's lips, and the stitching disappeared as her finger passed over the outline of the writhing binding. Rowan's senses registering nothing in the air but cold. The back of Rowan's neck prickled as the fine hairs there rose, and her eyes started to produce tears. Corrine smiled at Rowan. Rowan smiled back. Rowan asked "Can I do anything for you? I'm new at this whole ghost thing. I'd like to thank you for visiting." Corrine reached out a fingertip and passed it through one of Rowan's tears, cold again brushing Rowan's skin and the prickling intensifying. Corrine leaned forward to kiss at the tear, and then she was gone. Rowan's smile deepened. "Now that. Was cool." + + + + + Weblink: Meals at "The Virgin and the Unicorn" are a fusion of local produce and international technique. Dine in privacy in your suite or in our lavish dining room. Our chefs create daily menus from what is available seasonally, drawing on the freshest vegetables and greens from our own gardens (certified organic) and local organic growers and ranchers. (See sample menu) + + + + + Rowan scanned the note from Randy and called the number at the bottom of the paper. Ideas of ghosts completely pushed any ideas about any romance with Randy out of her head. Right now he was her fastest way to food. She was starving. She requested dinner politely and hung up. Adrenaline coursed through her, producing a new feeling with which she had no experience. She felt clear, transparent, very much like the stained glass she was still staring at when a knock at her door broke her reverie. Randy wheeled in a cart and produced pumpkin soup with rosemary-garlic focaccia. She kissed his cheek, declared him her savior, and started to eat. He watched her for a few moments and then said "I'll be back. Let me get more." She waved him out the door and said "If you're hungry, get some for yourself, please, I want to pick your brain." He waved over his shoulder "You got it, Rowan. Be back soon." She was ravenous, finishing the bowl of soup quickly and tearing up the bread to soak up the last drops. By the time he made it back, she was still reverberating like a hollow and recently-rung bell, but the jangling was fading from its original insistence. Legacy Dinner this time was a little more substantial. Roast beef au gratin, salad, mashed potatoes and red wine. When he sat down to eat she pointed her fork at him. "Talk" she commanded. He swallowed his current mouthful. "About what?" She shrugged. "Know anything about ghosts?" He answered her shrug with his own. "Not much. Supposed to be a few here, so I hear." "Exactly! And you do. I saw her." "You saw....her?" "I think it was Corrine." His eyes narrowed. "You saw Corrine." "I did." He put down his fork. "You should talk to Sean." "Sean who?" "The guy that owns the place." "Okay." + + + + + Weblink: Ownership of "The Virgin and the Unicorn" has passed from generation to generation. A true family legacy. Ownership of the property currently resides with Sean Verence. Dedicated to continuing the family's traditions and heritage, he's helped usher in modern conveniences including the online sales and online room booking service. Staying here has never been easier or more convenient. + + + + + Randy made an appointment for the next morning and Rowan was ushered politely into Mr. Sean Verence's office. Sitting in a heavy wing-back leather chair, he offered her tea. She accepted and watched him pour. Her impression of Sean was one of severity. He conjured up images of witch hunters and strict clergy. He looked to be in his early 30's, black hair and deep green eyes. He was tall, with wide shoulders, wearing a uniquely tailored suit that was a cross between the period portrayed at the B&B and modern dress. Conservatively cut, black, with a unique string tie. The black silk ribbon of material was tied into a bow and secured at the knot with a silver pin set with polished stone that looked like hematite, all contrasted against a white shirt. Adorned with nothing but a silver band on his left hand ring finger. She couldn't imagine him married. Probably married to his job. She took a sip of tea. She hadn't asked for sugar, it hadn't been offered. It wasn't the tea she had been expecting. It was herbal, she assumed, and bitter. She decided it was perfect, coming from him. Oh well. "Mr. Verence, thank you for your time. Randy told me that I should speak to you about seeing Corrine." Sean sat in his own wing-back chair and faced Rowan, speaking at a slow, deliberate pace. "Please, Miss Knapp, indulge me by telling me what happened." She felt he was choosing his words very carefully. She made an effort to try to do the same. She recounted the events. He sat in thought for a moment, and then stared at her until she became acutely uncomfortable until she decided "fuck it" and stared back. He smiled and she reassessed "severe" to "dangerous." His businesslike manner was being slowly replaced by something unnervingly personal. He spoke slowly again. "Miss Knapp. Things happen here a certain way. I do things here a certain way. I will give you one warning. I want to be assured you hear me. You should leave now. I would be happy to refund the amount for your stay here, immediately, and escort you to your car and off the property." She continued to stare, waiting for further explanation. He waited. She waited. More of an explanation was not forthcoming. She spoke. "You can't be serious." "I am." "Why?" "Because if I told you, you wouldn't believe me anyway. And I might not be right. You could have a lovely time and I'd be dead wrong. I don't like being dead wrong. Perhaps if I warn you, though, you'll step carefully while you're visiting us. I'll feel relieved of responsibility. Corrine doesn't consult with me. But I do have some historical background that might give me an inside track." Her eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. Proprietary information?" He nodded. "Something like that, yes. Let's call it that." She took a deep breath and made a choice. "Corrine appeared to me. I want to know why. Aren't people here to see ghosts? Or am I in a room where the ghost generator is on the fritz?" His lips quirked to the side. "Ghost generator" clearly amused him. "What do you think Corrine has to say to you? Will she lead you to buried treasure?" She sighed, deflated. "When you put it that way, it sounds very melodramatic." "Excellent, Ms. Knapp. Let's dispense with the melodrama and I will escort you off the property. Although if Corrine has appeared to take an interest in you, that might not be possible even now." Feeling manipulated and laughed at, she replied "I really don't want to go, it's a lovely place. And I just can't take this all very seriously. If she'd wanted to hurt me, she would have. If the ghost generator is on the fritz, you can fix it. I won't tell." "You're sure?" He asked with a raised brow in challenge. She paused. "No." Her eyes closed. So close to something unique. So close to a mystery. So close to something interesting. Another "fuck it" moment. She opened her eyes and stared again. "Yes." His smile transformed and his new expression was slow in arriving on his lips, but once it did, the hair on the back of her neck prickled up again as it had when Corrine was close. Far from his initial impression of severity, relieving himself of the preliminaries of warning her softened him with humor and if she wasn't mistaken, sympathy. Several other elements that were undefined. She had no words for this mood and had only an impression of being far out of her depth, in several directions. Walking toward her he said "Shake on it, Rowan?" So. No longer Miss Knapp. She was nervous and shaken, but she acknowledged she was enjoying those two feelings together. This was what she was after, surely, coming to a haunted house? She swallowed and reached a trembling hand out to his, which he took in his grip and held, his other hand resting on top of the grasp, speaking as if reciting an oath. "Rowan. I will respect your choice to stay. You are welcome here as family. If you need anything from me, just ask." He withdrew his hands and began to walk back to his desk. "Your room is complimentary due to the insult the owner has unforgivably issued." His tone was light and teasing and the sudden shift in gears was an emotional lurch she was still trying to process. She sighed. "Thank you. That's...that's very polite. And creepy." He shrugged. "Get used to it. Many people have seen Corrine, but very rarely...does Corrine see someone else." "What does that mean?" "It means...for me at least, heads up." "Do you speak anything other than cryptic? I hear English is a nice language." "I'm truly sorry that I can't explain it to you, for many reasons. The first of which being that you'd consider me to be entirely insane. I prefer that to not be the case if at all possible." She smiled. "Can I have a hint?" He tipped her chin up with a warm finger and smiled genuinely. "It's not a ghost generator. Nothing's on the fritz. Unless someone is staying here by the name of Fritz and he's having a good time." It took her a moment to work through that, and although she didn't smile, she was reassured and a little disarmed. After a moment she said "That wasn't cryptic, but it was entirely inappropriate. I did, however, ask for it. I'm sorry. You have a lovely place here, and I just want to stay. I really like it here. Even if the management is...okay, it is my turn to insult you, but I'm not going to. A free room makes me well mannered. I'm better than that, see?" She sighed, turned to leave and headed for the door, her hand pausing on the knob. "Her lips were sewn shut." He considered that. "Corrine has suffered. For three hundred years now." "Do you think I have a chance of helping her?" "It might be that she will show you." Her head turned back to look at him in an appeal. "So what do I do?" "You...and I...wait." "You're no help at all." "I know. It's one of my more endearing attributes." He turned back to his desk, effectively dismissing her. She snorted a brief appreciative laugh and then left, finding her way to her room. + + + + + Weblink: Ghost enthusiasts have flocked to "The Virgin and the Unicorn" for decades. Although you may not always see the otherworldy denizens, the service and family atmosphere ensure nobody goes home disappointed. + + + + + Once back in her room, Rowan sat on the carpet facing the stained glass to meditate. Order to her thoughts was required; her mind was jangling. Calming her breathing and her heart rate was a challenge, but over time habit took over and she became calm. Events still offered no course for her to take. Her sense of swimming in deep, dark waters made her consider Ethan's advice to wait as sound. She decided to dismiss any impulse to dive deep while holding her breath. A 300-year-old ghost could find her, surely. She didn't need to go looking. Patience would guide her course. Unnerving cryptic hosts aside, she really didn't want to leave. The now-familiar prickling sense on the back of her neck caused her to open her eyes. Sitting across from her in a matching meditation pose was a dark figure. She couldn't make out features in a blur of black smoke and silver strands. Rowan smiled in tentative welcome. "Ethan?" A sense of calm settled on her like a mantle of serene bliss. It wasn't anything she'd produced. This presence had wrapped her in it completely. Everything was okay. Better than okay. Better than she'd ever felt. She spoke with a pleasure-slurred voice as if to the closest of confidantes. "Ethan. That's not fair." His words formed and she seemed to absorb them straight through her skin. His voice was familiar because it echoed the current owner whose company she'd just left. Rich, sensual, warm where Corrine had been cold. "Hello Rowan." The voice made her name sound like an endearment. His voice continued with the patient, steady rhythm of a river that had been there forever and will always be there. "There's a story here, Rowan. An old story, but one that is still writing new chapters. It's a story of faith and passion and sacrifice. A common story that's repeated in small or large ways among the living. Now we carry it forward in our deaths. These things for us are never ending. You will stay here, so the new chapter will be written with your hand." He continued after a moment. "Corrine, my wife, is not well. She was not well while she lived, she is not well now. She will never be well. But she has chosen you, and for that you will need faith, passion and sacrifice. Whether you give these things or they're wrested from you is your choice. You choose whether you write this chapter or it's drawn in your blood." She sat still, absorbing the information without reaction. The sense of well being soaked through her like honey in the sun. Everything seemed perfectly normal, natural, and slightly amusing. But while Ethan spoke in quiet eerie tones, Rowan's body started responding in ways her emotions weren't. Her eyes started to produce tears again, the back of her neck prickling as his voice seemed to grow closer, warmer. Ethan continued. "Rowan, my wife wants a child. Once every generation she chooses the mother of the next generation. I believe she has chosen you. And you have chosen to stay. This is good because the first choice should always be yours. What Sean does not think you will believe is that Corrine would not let you go once chosen. He cannot be sure. He would have risked himself to try, though, had you chosen to attempt to leave. He is a good man doing what he can to serve a legacy that is beyond his control. I am here to present the second choice. My wife is dead and insane. You are alive and sane. Do you wish it to stay that way or do you wish to become like her? Choose carefully again, as faith, passion and sacrifice dictate what happens here." His presence withdrew from her, the calm and warmth receded and sharp clarity settled in, cold and stabbing like icicles. She spoke softly. "Ethan, you can't expect me to make that decision." "I do." "It's hardly informed consent." "You're speaking to a ghost, Rowan, not a circuit court judge. Would you prefer to learn the rules the very hard way? Corrine can teach you that. She is very much the law here. Sean and I, and now you, I believe, can only interpret her intentions to the best of our ability." "What can you teach me?" "Corrine knows things about the nature of people. She does not speak, so she cannot say what these things are. She had this talent in life, and she carries it with her. If someone means harm to this place, she knows. If she thinks you belong here, she knows. She can't tell us why. But we honor her choices. I can help you, but my wife will always come first. If you set out to harm her in any way, I will stop you." "Begging your pardon, Ethan, but you're a ghost. Will you rattle some chains and scare me?" "Begging your pardon, Rowan, but you're uninformed and I have 300 years of experience upon which to base my conclusions." "Which means you could have an amazing bluff worked up by now." "True. But inaccurate in this case. Would you like a demonstration, at a price, of course?" "Do I get to know the price first?" "Hardly ever. Just like dealing with live humans." "So, this is the faith, then? I simply believe you can do what you say, or...?" "Or you learn faith the hard way." "Can you find it in your cold, dead heart to make it the semi-hard way? I would like a demonstration, if you please." "I could do that. In fact I believe you've convinced me. We'll make this a demonstration of a price that's already a foregone conclusion. Consider this writing in your hand, only tracing over what I believe is already written there." Ethan's shadow stepped into her. Seamlessly Rowan reached for her cellphone and dialed the number of human resources where she worked. She cordially tendered her resignation, as her vacation was already two weeks in duration, they could do without her for that amount of time. She'd been offered a position at the B&B where she was vacationing and decided the package benefits were more to her liking. She offered them a forwarding address for all her correspondence. She repeated this cycle, calling in notice at her apartment, arranging for utilities to be canceled, arranging for her items to be moved to a storage facility here on the property. When the calls severing her contacts with her previous life were finished, she watched her hand power down the phone. Then the phone fell out of her hand. She had control over herself again. With a cold sense of betrayal she realized her hand was nerveless and no longer obeyed her commands to stay calm. Trembling began in her fingertips, weakness stripping her muscles. She slumped to the floor and curled into a ball. Ethan's presence stepped away from her body "The more I do that, the weaker you will become, Rowan. That's something to keep in mind. If you choose not to do as you are instructed or as is expected of you, you will do it anyway. It only makes me stronger and it costs you so much. Put your faith in us. Do not attempt to undo what becomes done. For there our forgiveness and indulgence end. If you do not wish to end this trial entirely broken in body and mind, conserve your strength, listen carefully, grant us your faith, passion and sacrifice. You can maintain your will and sanity and life. Congratulations on your new job, Rowan. And welcome to the family." Absorbing it all was impossible and her body was throwing off waves of nausea and a severe headache that she assumed was the result of Ethan's manipulation of her body and mind. Throbbing pain kept the time to her universe as tears leaked out the corners of her eyes. Pain flowed by like an endless river to the rhythm of her breath and blood. Ethan settled in beside her and spoke quietly. "I don't want you to hurt, Rowan. I take no pleasure in it. I'd love to see you happy here, thriving. We can make you do anything we want. I could make the pain go away, but it's real, and it's your demonstration. This is the real response you have to having your will overridden. The results of your choice." Rowan gritted her teeth and spit out her response. "I'll take the pain." She could feel his approval and she was irrationally proud and simultaneously disgusted with herself for caring. "Ethan?" "Yes?" "If you're of no damned use to me as a ghost, go find someone alive that can get me some aspirin or something." Warm humor greeted her in waves. "Yes, ma'am." "Don't call me ma'am." "Yes, Rowan." "Ow. Your demonstrations suck." She rolled over and winced. "I'm sorry." "No you're not." "Yes, I am. Not sorry you're here, sorry you're in pain. I'll go find someone." He seemed to move away, but then appeared to pause. "Fast. Fast would be good." "Well, someone recently reminded me I'm 300 years old and a ghost. Don't expect too much." "Ethan?" "Yes?" "Shut up and go." + + + + + Weblink: Fate. Free will. God. Three frames of reference that have sustained cultures for centuries. Three frames of reference that can never be proved or disproved. Three frames of reference that have to be believed. + + + + + Rowan focused on breathing. Surfing the pain was better than drowning in it. Help came gratifyingly fast in the form of Sean. She heard the key turn the lock, the door open, and his footsteps on the way to finding her. He lifted her easily into his arms and dragged the quilt from the bed, sitting down with her into an overstuffed wing back chair. She spoke in a quavery voice. "Sean?" "Yes?" "I hate your family." He nodded in agreement. "We're an acquired taste, and so is this. Drink." He pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and held it for her to sip. "Slowly." She took a sip and nearly spit it out. "That's vile. That's beyond vile." He smiled. "The alcohol hardly masks the vomit-inducing bitterness, but you don't want this stuff in a tea. Take at least five sips." She struggled through the medicine that she barely considered any better than the ailment, hoping it would work. "What's in there? Do NOT say 'proprietary blend' or I swear I'll drown you in the stuff." "It's a little flask, Rowan, and you'd have a tough time carrying out that threat in your state. You'd probably have a tough time sitting up. But I'll indulge you. Corrine was a witch in her time. A very effective one. She had all the knowledge of herbalism from the old world, and then when she got here, to this new place, she started to develop herbal remedies from the plants that grew here. This is applejack, which gives an alcohol base to hold tincture of white willow bark and lady slipper root. It works. The alcohol will warm you back up. The white willow bark has salicylic acid, the therapeutic component in synthetic aspirin. Dried lady slipper root is a headache treatment that isn't available to many because lady slipper are an endangered botanical species. There are benefits to having your own greenhouse. Tastes like hell, but it works great on certain conditions." Her head was clearing, the pain receding. "I still hate your family. Why couldn't they discover chocolate helped this. It helps Harry Potter with Dementor attacks." "Would you like me to get you some chocolate?" "My life has just fallen apart. Chocolate is required in a civilized world." "There are also benefits to having our own chef. Keep in mind you'd still be lying here in pain if room service in the form of Ethan hadn't alerted me." He lifted her again and put her in the bed, tucking the quilt around her after she'd stretched out to ease muscle cramps. He called down to room service and ordered chocolate mousse. Assured she was not going to fall off the bed or die suddenly if he left, he went to the kitchens himself to pick it up rather than wait. Legacy Left to think for a moment, a suspicion started to pour through in a jumble as her head cleared. When he returned and offered her the first spoonful, she spoke it aloud. "The chocolate's drugged, isn't it? Just like the flask?" Sean shrugged "Drugged is such a loaded word. Let's say supplemented, shall we?" Rowan snorted. "Three hundred years of creative apothecary. That's a bit of an edge, isn't it?" Sean offered her a spoonful. "Trust me. It's good for you. You've undergone a dementor attack, remember?" "There's probably a clause about accepting chocolate from a dementor." "Probably, but you still need it, don't you? My kitchen. My supplementation. How many options do you think you have here?" She considered that solemnly. Then asked "What's in the chocolate?" He took a taste. "A little bit of vanilla bean and Kirsch." "Nothing else?" "Some chocolate, I think." His smile was teasing and he offered the spoon again. "I am so screwed." She reached for the spoon but her hand was shaking. He dragged up a chair to feed her himself. "Tell me about supplementation, please, Sean." He continued to feed her until he was scraping the last bits from the bowl. "Three hundred years of herbalism, scientific development, discovery. My ancestors are well versed in behavior modification through food, scent, sound, touch. So much of it is for the comfort of guests. The vanilla bean and Kirsch type. There are subliminal soundtracks playing in each room, setting a mood. There are therapeutic botanical grace notes and aromatherapy in every dish of food and every cosmetic concoction. It's all part of hospitality and comfort. However, it also makes people very suggestible. It's easier for my forebears to take advantage." She coughed. "Advantage? Hijacking someone's life entirely is taking advantage?" He shrugged. "I've always lived here, I don't know any other way to be. My family comes first. Come walk with me." + + + + + Weblink: Wasp Invades a Spider and Puts It to Work Here lives an orb-weaving spider, so called because of the perfect roundness of the web it industriously rebuilds every day. A serious hazard of the spider's busy life is that it is hunted by an ichneumon, or parasitic wasp. If the wasp's attack is successful, it temporarily paralyzes the spider and lays an egg on the tip of its abdomen, where it is out of reach. For two weeks the spider spins its web and catches insects every day as if nothing were amiss, except for the growing larva that clings to its belly and sucks the juices that drip through small punctures it makes in the spider's body wall. So far this is just the usual grim script of parasitism. But then comes a strange twist. The night before the wasp larva kills its host, it somehow induces the spider to build a most unusual web. Instead of a delicate orb, the zombified spider constructs two stout silk cables with thick cross-braces in between. This durable platform stands up to wind and rain better than the spider's ephemeral web. The wasp larva then kills the spider, and spins its cocoon on the platform constructed for it, safe from the ants that patrol the ground below. + + + + + Dressed warmly enough for the weather, they walked out toward the greenhouse. He gave her a tour of the lush aisles of green. He pointed out local plants. A sample of ergot gathered from rye crops. Ergot was used to stop bleeding of childbirth and pain, but misused caused convulsions, death, hallucinations. Aconite was used as a pain reliever. Another fatal drug if prepared incorrectly. Belladonna, an herbal form of atropine. Most of them had been replaced by modern methods. But many of the herbs grown here were still part of everyday culinary and housekeeping practice on site. Certain concoctions, like the in his flask, weren't widely in use and he explained it was difficult to order something for possession sickness. In Corrine's time, knowledge and use of these components and their usage were life savers and highly specialized. Unfortunately now all part of witch hunter history. Possession and use of herbs surrounding childbirth issues, particularly relieving pain, was enough to convict and condemn. The Bible was clear. Sean quoted the passage that condemned Corrine to death. Unto the woman He said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee." Genesis 3:16. Toward the back of the greenhouse there was a separate building. Inside it were insect cages. He walked her through, pointing out certain species. "Corrine was fascinated with the plants and insects here. She was a midwife and began to use some of the insects she found to ease childbirth, to heal. Some were crushed for vapor, or eaten. Now we know they had neuroleptic and neurotoxic effects. She is good at knowing what plant, what insect, what animal, were good for certain situations. She's still good at it. It's why she chose you." He paused a moment to look at Rowan before continuing. He resumed his story. "There was a woman on the grounds who worked in the fields. Her birth went wrong when Corrine was in attendance. The mother and the baby, a little boy, died. From what I gather it sounds from accounts like the mother had Rh- blood factor and that was fatal to both. It's a blood type conflict that makes a mother's immune system attack the child through the umbilical cord at birth. That's treated now with blood tests and RhoGAM. There was nothing she could have done, but Corrine was crushed and blamed it on herself. She refused to speak. She refused to act. When Ethan tried to talk to her about the incident she sewed her own lips shut in protest and penance, refusing to be forgiven. Horrified, he removed the bindings, but she sewed them shut again. She refused to eat, refused to sleep. He had her restrained and tried to help her heal, forgive or understand, but she wouldn't respond to anything he tried. She wouldn't cooperate. He watched over her helplessly as exhaustion combined with lack of food, transforming the serene healer he'd married into a woman he no longer recognized, an embodiment of sickness and condemnation. They had an 18-year-old son named Eli. They'd spent a lifetime of building this place together, caring for the people on the land, caring for the land itself. Even after that, nobody believed a woman would harm herself, and Ethan was blamed for torturing her. Their own son didn't understand, and tried to rescue her from the restraints. Think of this moment from her point of view. She believed her own son and her husband to hate her as she hated herself. She went with Eli willingly. It was what she thought she deserved for being evil, for being a murderess. She took her son's hand silently and willingly as he led her out of the manor, into the stable. He thought to take her away to safety. She knew something else awaited her." He stared out a window and tapped his foot to the ground, saying "This greenhouse is over the foundations of the old stable. In that stable, instead of escape, he found a mob. They'd been betrayed by the stable lad who had been proud of knowing he was to prepare a horse for the mistress in secret. The lad had told his parents, who gathered those on the grounds who held a grudge. Ethan was in the manor and when he saw the flames, he came to the stable to discover his wife writhing in agony in the fire. Lips still sewn shut, silent. He threw himself into the blaze to save her, but it was too late, and they both died together. Fused together, in fact." Rowan stood with tears running down her face, pale and trembling. Ethan continued quietly. "It wasn't over. As you might have noticed, they didn't stay dead.. Corrine and Ethan returned moments after their bodies died. Ethan discovered Eli had been hit over the head and was bleeding into the straw in a locked stall. Eli had tried to save Corrine, but that's what he got for his attempt. In that moment Ethan discovered he could possess the living. He possessed his son and managed to get Eli back to the manor through sheer will. Blood loss and possession sickness nearly killed Eli anyway, but Corrine and Ethan wouldn't allow anyone near him to do him further harm. Ethan possessed the mob one by one and used them to nurse his son back to health. Corrine would find the herbs and Ethan would deliver them. Body after body of the previous inhabitants of this place would fall dead in place from exhaustion and Ethan would move on to the next available live victim. He went through every person he recalled at that gathering, and used them until he was finished with them. He ultimately killed everyone here, even those who had no part in it, he blamed them for not saving her." Sean took her hand and led her out into the sun. Rowan stepped out in a daze, beyond the edges of the greenhouse building out into a clearing. Cold autumn sunlight spilled into a landscaped clearing, the center of which held a wishing well. The brick was dark, the color of ash, as was the mortar. "Eli was the only person who survived that night. Everyone else was used to dig and build this well. This was the spot where the stake and pyre had burned Ethan and Corrine beyond this life. All the bodies were gathered to this spot, and then used, along with the ash from the fire, the earth from the hole, the rye from the fields, to mix into brick and mortar. Blood and bone and ash. A memorial to that grisly night." + + + + + Weblink: Mudang can be classified into two general types, god-descended and hereditary shaman, depending on how they received their abilities and training. God-descended, like many of their Siberian counterparts, become inflicted with "possession sickness," which has been likened to acute schizophrenia. These otherwise normal people suddenly become physically weakened, meditative and dreamy, have prophetic dreams, seek solitude, and sometimes suffer seizures that render them unconscious. And the shamanic call is not volitional, being followed by spiritual encounters within their dreams that display or demand the transformation. Unless the ill person drops any previous occupation and seeks to become a shaman, the mysterious sickness will continue indefinitely, often increasing with time and occasionally resulting in death. Moreover, if the new mudang chooses at anytime throughout the course of their lives to abandon the profession, the illness immediately returns. + + + + + When Sean stopped speaking, Rowan reached out a hand to touch the wishing well. Tentatively at first, as if it would shock or burn her, and then she curled both hands around the top edge until her knuckles whitened. She spoke quickly, her words like the surge at the top of a waterfall. Through panic and what she thought was revelation her words became weightless, suspended, breaking apart, falling fast. "Sean, that's what we need to do then. This is where their remains are, you need to tear this well down. Then they'd be free. That's what she wants me to do, set her free. That's got to be it." She started to dig her fingernails into the mortar, making no impact other than breaking her nails. Sean spoke her name in a sharp warning and grabbed her hands off the well. He held her while she thrashed, ultimately twisting her until her spine was pressed against his chest. He held her arms crossed over her breasts with his hands while she struggled. He was busy trying to warn her, restrain her safely, but she was panicked and beyond reason. With this new idea in her head, wanting to tear the well down brick by brick, a mission so clear to her, he was nothing but an obstacle. She stomped her heel down hard and heard one or more of the bones in his foot crunch. He swore and dropped to his knees to avoid another incident and simultaneously protect his broken toes, balance and leverage. This was timely as she also swung back with her head in attempt to break his nose. His shift in weight wrenched her arms down and at the angle they were held, off balance from the swing of her head, she gave with gravity and his weight rather than have her arms broken or her shoulders dislocated. With her knees under her and her arms trapped, she still tried to struggle, but without much effect. Ethan was trying to hold her still and call her name, get her attention, warn her, but she wasn't listening, still trying to reach the well. She wrenched one of her arms free and touched the well. The hair on the back of her neck pricked up and with the advent of cold, the presence of Corrine was announced by a piercing shriek. Rowan was face to ethereal face with an enraged Corrine. Corrine's expression was twisted, feral, with her beauty beginning to melt with the flickering of orange flame making ash of the blue-white wisps of her image. Terrified, Rowan tried to scramble back, and Sean attempted to crawl forward, trying to shield Rowan from Corrine. Corrine was distracted for a moment by Sean, her visage cooling again and reforming, inspecting his foot, assessing the damage. Quick as a thrown dart, Corrine was hovering over Rowan's terrified form, and meeting her eyes. Unable to look further, Rowan closed her eyes. Her eyelids were peeled back as if moved by chilled fingers and were held painfully open, tears coursing down her cheeks. With Corrine staring her down, Rowan's foot began to echo the crunch of Sean's, the feeling of bones shattering and sharp pain making her scream. This pain blotted out all other sensations or input, and was endless. Time ceased to exist and the pain saturated every thought, every impulse, until she was doing nothing but sitting still, cowering, forced to stare and feel the pain blossom, screams fading to whimpers because any effort, including screaming, even breathing or thinking, made it all hurt more. A new strain of pain started to twine through her nervous system, one of burning, added to the broken. She felt as if her toes were sizzling, skin splitting and fat and flesh popping into gouts of fuel for spitting flames. Only a few real seconds had passed, though the pain subjectively had wiped Rowan's mind of any thoughts, leaving only despair, panic and pain. The mood broke and Corrine wavered when Sean managed to reach Rowan's side. Ethan was shouting "Stop! She was trying to help. Stop, please. She thought you wanted to be free. She thought you wanted her to release you. Please." His voice softened as he drew more of Corrine's attention away from Rowan. The ghost of Ethan appeared in coils of silver bonds and black smoke, speaking to Corrine softly and distracting her while Rowan's pain receded. Ethan's voice and Sean's voice both tried to reason with Corrine while they ranged themselves between Rowan's body and Corrine's vengeful form, asking her to understand. Sean stood on his hurt foot, lifting Rowan into his arms. "Please don't hurt her." Sean said clearly. "It's my fault I got hurt. She doesn't understand." Corrine's expression reformed into a beautiful, ethereal face, childlike and confused. Corrine looked to Ethan, whose appearance had transformed into a handsome man, love the most solid feature of his transparent form. He spoke softly "Corrine, love, it's all right. Everything is all right, I promise." Ethan stepped to Sean and Rowan, shaking his head and throwing off silver sparks and black smoke with each motion. "Miss Knapp. I do believe I told you not to undo what had been done. That includes this well, any other part of the Manor grounds or Sean's body parts. Am I clearer?" Rowan indicated it was clear through her exhaustion by a weak nod. Satisfied, Ethan returned to Corrine, and drew her away. Sean carefully slid down the side of the well, with his back braced against his good foot, favoring the one hurt. Rowan was still in his arms and he tried to keep her protected from being jarred. "Ow. Rowan, find that flask, will you? My arms are occupied." Rowan searched with trembling fingers and found the flask, trying to unscrew it, but failing with her hands shaking so badly. He sighed and took it from her, resettling her against his chest so he could use his hands to unscrew the top. He held it for her as she gratefully took a few sips, then slumped against his chest while he took his own sips. Rowan was too frightened to look at her own foot, afraid what she might see. But the pain receded completely over time, and she reached down to pull off her boot and sock. Nothing. Her foot was fine. Sean however was unimpressed. "That's nice. I'm going to have to cut my own boot off. It's not going to be that easy." Rowan stammered "But it was broken, Corrine broke it and then set it on fire...I swear." Sean shook his head. "She didn't. She only made you feel what I was feeling. And then she lost her temper, and things get very hot then." Rowan was horrified. "If that's what your toes feel like, I'm so sorry." Sean looked around "And room service is gone. We're going to have to walk back." Rowan started to cry and apologize for the injuring him, until Sean put a finger to her lips and stopped her babbling. "It's not your fault. You did what you thought you were supposed to do. I know you're overwhelmed and this is too much to take in and there's very little I can do to help. But let me do what I know how to do. I understand. Let it go." Rowan calmed down and tried to concentrate on breathing. She leaned back against his chest and listened to his racing heart beat slow down, willing hers to slow down with it. Sean started to laugh. "You were, what? Going to remove the entire well brick by brick? What the hell?" She sighed. "I had a very bad day. I don't think I'm entirely sane. I'm very sorry." Sean snorted "You think? What was that? You sounded like a Scooby Doo episode." She started to laugh herself, embarrassed, "I was trying for "Supernatural" They always burn the remains of the ghost and then the ghost is gone." Sean started to laugh harder. "That's a TV show. Fiction, you know?" Her voice rose in her own defense "I didn't know that! This is my first ghost story!" His laughter died down, not soon, but eventually. Then he said "That's a charming notion, I'm sure, but these people were burned to death. There really wasn't much left but ash. None of that "center of power" or "remains" bullshit has any bearing here. My family is here by choice. By will. They're not tied here by anything, they're here because they want something. They don't want to be free. They want to be relevant." Rowan asked softly "And what do you want?" Sean thought a moment. "Now there's a question rarely asked. When I was a kid I wanted to be an astronaut." Rowan smiled against his chest. :"You would have made a great astronaut. But what do you want now?" His head tilted back against the well rim and he thought again. "There are so many things I can't have. Childhood things, like being an astronaut, are easier to put aside. Some things are more complicated. The most obvious answer would be to want to have free will, be able to walk off the grounds here. But that's not exactly what I want either. I'm part of the land, part of the life here. It's a good life, an excellent life, even. I get to see many people with the free will to step on and off the property. Often when they make it here after growing up out there, they're already broken. People come here to fix their lives, fix their relationships, and some of them are incapable of ever doing so. I'm grateful for my destiny in a way. I'm healthy, I'm reasonably happy, and you will not believe the benefits of vigilant undead guardians. When Corrine notices someone, sometimes it's because they mean this place harm. Theft or vandalism, harming another guest or staff. When I first met you I didn't know for sure. Scaring people early is a good way to get them to leave before Corrine does it. You don't plan to knock over the joint, do you?" Legacy Rowan shook her head "No plans as such. I even gave up my chance at breaking out, didn't I?" Sean said "Yes" softly and in a tone of finality that was reminiscent of a door clicking shut. "If you didn't mean harm when Corrine saw you first, then it's simply you. And she wants you." Rowan spoke in a quiet voice. "She wants me for you?" Sean considered. "It's possible." Rowan replied "Ethan said that might be it." Sean conceded. "Then it's probable. See how the question about what I want is often irrelevant?" Rowan let out a deep sigh. "I'm sorry. You couldn't possibly want a woman whose entire knowledge of your family's ancestry comes from Scooby Doo." Sean started to laugh again. "What I want and what you want, are now equally irrelevant. Now we try to survive matchmaking attempts. Hopefully with fewer broken bones." Rowan melted into a flurry of apology again until he tipped up her chin and kissed her to make her stop. + + + + + Weblink: Like everybody who is not in love, he thought one chose the person to be loved after endless deliberations and on the basis of particular qualities or advantages. -- Marcel Proust + + + + + Rowan and Sean were caught in the moment together, the kiss an exploration of pleasure that skated along some thin line of trust and shared experience that could support it. It began with surprise on both sides. His impulse to kiss her had been sudden, unplanned. She was boiling with emotion and the kiss surprised and calmed her, relieved that he'd want to kiss her at all. Sensation started to lick at the kiss, setting sparks that landed in emotional tinder, burning bright and fast for both of them. Drawing back before the moment snapped or burned through, questions and emotions sparked but were banked by curiosity of each other's motives and feelings. Rowan spoke first, teasing, "I think I'm drunk and possessed. What did you put in that flask?" Sean smiled. "Whatever was in it, I drank it too. I'm afraid we're equally drugged." They sat in peace for a moment, just breathing. Sean did break the silence ultimately and say "My foot hurts like hell. Help me inside please? Apologize again and I'll kiss you again." She lifted herself from his arms and offered her hand, helping him to his feet and offering support for him to lean on as he began to limp inside slowly. She said lightly "That might not be a very good threat." He winced once as he stubbed his toe and then replied "Good. Win-win situations are best." + + + + + Weblink: Those who don't love themselves as they are rarely love life as it is either. Most people have come to prefer certain of life's experiences and deny and reject others, unaware of the value of the hidden things that may come wrapped in plain or even ugly paper. In avoiding all pain and seeking comfort at all cost, we may be left without intimacy or compassion; in rejecting change and risk we often cheat ourselves of the quest; in denying our suffering we may never know our strength or our greatness. Or even that the love we have been given can be trusted. -- Rachel Naomi Remen + + + + + They made their way slowly back inside, through the greenhouse, addressing and waving off concern and assistance. Randy insisted on helping them through the last hallway and holding the door open, making sure they got inside safely and without incident. Randy also brought up some scissors, gauze, medical tape and a salve, offering to help further, but Rowan said she'd take care of it. Sean helped himself to a shot of brandy from a cut-glass carafe and Rowan started to cut away at his boot. Rowan spoke "Randy's a very nice guy." Sean tilted his head back against the headboard. "I know. I really hate him." Her hands stilled as she tried not to laugh and jar his foot any more than necessary. "Why would you hate him?" As she started to ease the boot off, his eyes closed "I think he's a spare." She nodded as if that made perfect sense, a light touch on his foot making the job easier, it wasn't as bad as she'd thought it might be after she'd cut off his sock. Smaller toes affected, discolored, but no laceration through the skin. She could probably just tape them. "I have no idea what you're talking about. A spare what?" Sean was sweating and a little pale from the pain, but he played along. "I think if I don't do what they want, I'll end up another course of bricks on the well and he will end up owning and running the place. Perhaps obedience and niceness are of higher value than blood." She was appalled. "That's horrible. How could you think that." "Lady, what part of a well made out of people didn't get through to you? Some of those people didn't even really die all the way. You try growing up here and not thinking thoughts like that." She nodded. "Fair enough. I suppose I haven't thought it all through. What's in this?" She held up the tin of salve. He put his hand over hers, brought the tin to his nose and breathed in the scent, then released her hand. "That one's beeswax, olive oil, calendula, chamomile, vitamin E and some menthol. Good for skin and circulation. Probably other stuff I don't want to know about. Not right now." She dabbed some onto his toes carefully, wrapped them with gauze and tape, and propped his foot up on a pillow. She stared at his foot long enough to become self conscious, imagining his eyes burning holes into the back of her head. Wondering where to go from here. If she could go anywhere. What to say, what to do? She turned to look at him and his arms were crossed over his chest. He spoke lightly "Coward." She shrugged. "I'm new at this. I don't know my lines." He conceded. "It is a little difficult to know your lines. Especially since there aren't many do-overs or rehearsals. Get it wrong once and you don't get to say them. Someone else says them and then you're sick as hell." "What happens now?" "Damned if I know. You and Randy live happily ever after and I limp along until I have an unfortunate stroke?" She smiles. "He is pretty cute." "I swear, I will kill you both and build an outhouse with the bones and make soap from the rendered human fat." "So you're not quite helpless?" He rubbed his eyes. "Enraged, yes. In pain, yes. Helpless, yes. So supplemented helplessness." She sighed. "I think we're supposed to have sex, right? Procreate? Or am I supposed to work on the books?" He laughed until he coughed and then swore from the pain in his foot. "Are you up for it? Feeling like a sacrificial lamb today? There's a special, two for one." She stepped around the bed and lay down on the other side of him. "I haven't the slightest idea of what I feel or should feel or will feel." She raised a finger in revelation. "BUT! I know I don't want to become an outhouse or a salve." His voice was appreciative. "Now you're catching on. Keep thinking like that and you just might make it." She whispered softly "If I kissed you, would your family consider it an assault?" He whispered back "I'm more afraid that if one of us doesn't kiss the other, my family will possess us and make us have sex anyway and that won't be near as much fun as doing it ourselves." "That's horrible." "And yet." "I see your point. Is this the passion part or the sacrifice part?" He trailed a fingertip along her cheek. "I'd say all three. Faith, passion, and sacrifice. You in?" She leaned in to kiss him lightly and pulled back again to confirm. "All three. I'm in. You can be my unicorn." His laughter was light. "You can be my unicorn too. How many chances do you think I've had with women in this place?" "Two virgins? What are the odds?" "Think we'll manage?" She leaned in to kiss him again. "If we can't figure it out, I'm sure we'll get pointers. Let's try, shall we?" + + + + + Weblink: Hope is a belief in a positive outcome related to events and circumstances in one's life. Hope implies a certain amount of perseverance — i.e., believing that a positive outcome is possible even when there is some evidence to the contrary. + + + + + A new generation was ushered in, taking the form of a 7 pound, 3 ounce baby girl. Her parents named her Hope. Normal childhood woes and worries were amplified by the presence of two overprotective guardian spirits who nearly killed anyone who looked at her funny, so Hope grew up around strange occurrences where she never detected anyone ever looked at her funny. Smoke and cloud were her constant companions. From the moment she could toddle she'd disappear into the forest with her ethereal family, her parents trailing behind, fascinated. Hope had a knack for herbalism, it appeared. She and Corrine more often than not were found out in the woods at all hours. Three in the morning wasn't unusual because apparently only certain stuff bloomed at that time, or that's when the bugs came out. Her parents stopped asking or worrying at a certain point. Prosperity seemed to settle over the property as an enchantment. Hope's parents hoped she would cure cancer some day, although her father might be heard to acerbically claim she would cause it. The prospect of her growing up and wanting to leave never seemed to arrive. She showed no interest in anything else. Sean watched the guests as Hope grew older, waiting for catastrophe to strike. Hope was in a world of her own, one of her creation, one she loved. She rarely looked up at anyone other than to smile in a way that tended to stupefy people and clasp them in a tight hug before she was off to solve some mystery, find some new friend. Her father would joke about the poor bastard who'd be love struck and helpless to her whims. Her mother would just smile and say he should only be so lucky.