But they got just the thing to slow it all down.

As the doors swung open, Cal limply staggered through, propped up by the older negro's arm. The lively and bright setting of Harrington's hall seemed to evaporate, as Cal's heavy eyes took a moment to adjust to it all- the backroom seemed no less bustlous, with all manner of servants moving about doing things, but.. Cal just couldn't make it out. What was going on?

The negro said something then, and Cal felt another pair of hands grip his other arm, and start hauling him off again. Cal wondered where the doors were.

In a blink of his eyes, the room changed. It was alot darker now and noone was holding him up anymore- he realised he was sitting. In a start, he lurched forwards, and his face met wood with a thud, but he hardly felt it. Suddenly, his world lurched as he was ripped back up straight- strong hands steadied him. Dizzily, he glanced around the room he was in. It was dank and quiet, with little sound other than the faintest hint of the party outside. From that void, though, came in a voice.

"You know your letters, son?" It was the negro from before. It was all Cal could do to mumble out a yes before a piece of paper fluttered down from the heavens onto the desk. The next thing Cal knew, he felt himself gripping something- a pen. Why was there a pen?

"What's going on?" Cal tried to ask, but it came out sounding wrong. He tried to repeat himself, stumbling over his words. His eyes rolled over the script on the parchment, but he just couldn't seem to focus on any of it. Why couldn't he?

The man took ahold of his hand and moved it somewhere on the page. "Sign, boy." He called out.

"I don't wanna.." Cal replied lazily. What was all this about?

"It's Old Man Harrington's guest book. You wouldn't want to insult him, now would you?"

Cal groaned. His eyes felt so hard to keep open. He wanted to go home and sleep.

"But I'm tired." Cal said. The negro grumbled, almost frustrated, before speaking again. "We've got a room for you out back. You can go there after you sign."

"Okay.." Cal answered, meekly. This didn't seem proper but he didn't know what else to do. The man was real insistent and Cal just wanted to go. He scribbled a signature on the paper and heard a sigh from the man, before the paper was suddenly ripped away from the table and the man stomped off.

Cal rested his head on the table. It was cold but he liked how it felt- it made him a little less nauseous. Why was he so sick? Cal tried to think back. Everything seemed to be such a blur, and he got tired of it. He just wanted to sleep.

He closed his eyes.