A visit to Swallow Manor

Swallow Manor, forever undeserving of its airy name, is a grim house. The former owner rests close to his prized possession, mouldering in the grave earth of Ancleisle’s Central Cemetery, only a short walk across Main Bauble Bridge away from the mansion’s grounds.

You follow the gravel trail past yellow grass and thorn bushes up to the house. Narrow stained glass windows rise, tower-like, to lift the gable and black-grey roof. The branches of a skeletal tree darken the entrance and the knocker on the weathered door rattles like prisoners’ chains.

It took you some time to get here.

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

"You!"

The Affected Heretrix did not kill her husband, but you did help her marry a corpse. She gained the house, deed and title, but now curses you for her betrayal. There is no family to contest the will, and Society’s greats – or so rumour has it – have accepted her with open arms. But she does look paler. Her face is as white as virgin snow and her lips are painted red as blood.

"This house is a prison." She has ignored your bow, your overly formal greeting and your half-mocking compliments, ushering you inside without pausing her rant. "I cannot keep staff," she says, answering a question you did not manage to ask. "I lay awake at night, listening to the floors groan and the wind whine by the windows, and hoping that I am alone." She clears her throat to speak with mock solemnity: "Welcome, First Officer, to Swallow Manor and all its awesome glory. Follow if you would."

Candles encased in amber bathe the corridor ahead in a soft light. The ebony panels and gilded frames are ancient, but she has changed the art. Ladies in various states of undress, rendered in Feyish, Greenish and Decadent styles. The largest shows her, wearing an outrageous evening gown and more beautiful even than you remember. {if Connected: The Murky Sisters > 0} Another bears the brush strokes of both Murky Sisters, showing an island in twilight with wispy shapes drifting along the spray. {endif}

"In here." She wears a simpler black dress, dark as her hair, enticing but still formal. Her jewellery, however, is rippling silver, thin wires that shift and dance into dizzying forms.

The kitchen is bright. Crystal lanterns cast stark light and deep shadows over grey stone and blackened iron. "I hope you’re not hungry." The Affected Heretrix bows low and produces a bottle of sparkling wine, chilled on ice. She finds two brilliant glasses and fills them both. "To your health."

You answer the toast and taste spring, tart and fresh. The kiss of unsullied sunlight married to mild winds, the promise of vineyards rising above the fog, and the salt-spray grey of the Sea. She smiles at you between sips and gazes deep into your eyes. Her dress is thinner and tighter than it first appeared, but you will not fall into the same trap twice.

"You can have it all, you know," she claims, "the whole house and the grounds too."

You raise an eyebrow and drink in silence.

"I understand the apprehension, believe me, I do. And I have failed you, failed your trust, and all this is my punishment. It is well deserved. I was young and stupid, and I never sought to hurt you. There is one last, little thing I need to do and you can have it all."

You do not ask, but you think. The smallest things are rarely little with her, and she betrayed you on what was supposed the last job – for the both of you.

"It is more trouble than it is worth, of course. Have I mentioned how I just cannot keep staff? And the upkeep, the taxes alone, let me tell you..."

You clear your throat.

"Right. Right. You haven’t shot me," she pauses. "Yet. And I am sorry. I really am. But I will not beg, not even for you. I am not sure I even deserve your forgiveness, and so I will make you an offer instead. One last job – or just one last little favour. You are travelling to Northbeachisswamp, are you not?"

You nod, wondering how she knows.

"And I will pay you well for simply delivering a single letter. You’d be doing a favour for an old friend, ferrying love letters for two lonely souls. Nothing illegal, nothing suspicious, about that." She lowers her voice. "Or you could talk to my acquaintance there. I will mention you, my oldest, truest friend." She beams at you. "It is your choice – one small favour or so much more. I will pay you 50, for your expenditures and such, and I expect my special friend will be very interested in having her answer delivered back to me as fast as possible. What do you think?"