Penny smiled, amused at Simon's simple question despite the anguish. 'Isn't every old manor house?'

Penny's revelations weren't exactly having the expected gasps of astonishment. She breathed out a sigh, deciding to explain. Though she'd wanted to keep these particulars of the case private, and had rather hoped they would never be an issue, she knew it could well be disastrous if her friends did not know something that might be vital. Secrets kept could hurt someone, as she'd seen in Lily's case. The truth was often the best and safest course of action. And, after all, Veracity was Penny's middle name. Well, actually, it was Verity, but she'd made a slight adjustment. Where else to tell this story but here, in this sacred cave buried in the past? 'Trust me, I meant no deception. Although I dreaded this possibility, I sincerely hoped otherwise. Home is the last place I wished to go. And it changes nothing. We are here to rescue Kate.'

'In that house, I expect we shall find Vortigern, the Right Honourable The Lord Darkmoor; Lord of the Manor; Baron of Dunmoreton, Coombe Tracey, and Hexbridge; Bearer of the Black Rock, et cetera, et cetera.' One could not miss the sarcasm on "Right Honourable", and the exaggerated list of formal titles showed how tiresome Penny found them. Hurriedly, quietly, unhappily, she added what seemed the least important part: 'And my father. We shall probably see myself as a baby, unless there are more secrets to my heritage than I expected.' That would be a very strange experience, Penny reflected, not certain how she would feel gazing upon her own infant self. As strange as laying the footsteps she would follow as a girl, she supposed. The shadows of time lay thickly about her.

She couldn't rightly recall the staff who had been around this long; most had eventually departed, citing better opportunities or disturbed feelings, and not mentioning problems with the Lord of the Manor. Penny went on, voice tightly restrained as she told the dreadful story. 'Emma Bently related to me a tale that once, long ago, perhaps before recorded history, the heads of two families pledged themselves to Belial, such that one who was mixed of both their bloodlines would form a living key to unlock his prison in Hell and thus release him fully into the world. One family was the Blaedens, the other the Darkmoors. Over the centuries both have produced more than their fair share of villains and scoundrels. And some few heroes.' she added quickly, recalling her dream. 'I, of course, am a Darkmoor. And Miss Kate Piper, it seems, is both.' She let that dreaded possibility sink in, that Kate was Belial's long sought-after key, whom he'd lured back in time so as to accelerate his escape. 'She may be my several-times' great granddaughter.'

Hotly, Penny insisted 'I swear to God I do not know what Belial intends at this place and time of my birth. Perhaps he means to preserve my current existence and so Kate's, or to steal me away far sooner. I expect my father will be involved in this wickedness; he has long wished to marry me off for a good match. I expect a King of Hell is good enough for him.' Penny stared at the rock floor, her eyes drilling down into Hell itself, quivering with held tension. She despised her father, that cold and hateful man who could never be pleased, who had no love for his own child, who cared only for how she could serve his interests. But she'd never thought he would stoop to this, selling her to a demon prince. She felt sick to her stomach, her skin crawling; her tainted bloodline felt like filth in her veins. These monstrous patriarchs would pervert her whole history, twist her to their own ends, interested only in what they could put in and take out of her. Only her anger and indignation sustained her. She would fight this with every inch of her being.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:55, Tue 06 Oct 2015.

Josephine, Ian is very grateful for your kindness, though he is a bit embarrassed to need it.

Ian and Lily listen intently, Lily commenting that she would very much like to see the Headless Horsemen, a look of excited curiosity on her face. Ian in particular looks sympathetic to Penny's plight and he looks like he wants to comfort her but is unable to do so with so many people about not to mention all the mud covering him. In the meantime as Penny uncovers the truth of matters you hear the wind outside start to howl and an eerie howl echos on the moors.

ooc: Go ahead and finish up conversation and decide how long you will stay. All night? A few hours? Then I'll move things along.

Jo kept tending to Ian. She can be delicate, but with him, she isn't being particularly gentle, ribbing him when she feels it would be beneficial for his ego. She works, using all of her talents, to make him feel not only taken care of, but also respected. She doesn't hold it against him that bogs aren't in his wheelhouse, just as she would expect him to respect her despite her relative lack of combat ability.

Though if he gets any more arrogant, she'll have to arm-wrestle his butt to the floor!

Sorry, Husband home so ROMANCE.

Simon had been about to ask Penny if it was haunted by ghosts or memories, but she answered him before he could ask. Instead he sat thoughtfully and finally responded, "Heroes and villains, so it seems to me that your not bound by any curse. You are free to make your own choices. Thus far you have chosen to be the hero, and I suspect you will continue. We are here for you, Penny."

Penny looked up at the black dog's howl, not disturbed but reassured. It wasn't coming for her. The black dog was safe, provided one did not see it. Besides, it was the Darkmoor coat-of-arms: black dog rampant to sinister. 'Thank you, Father. I am glad that all my friends are here with me. I don't think I could face this alone.' she admitted, relieved. These good, solid companions – Ian, with his courage; Simon, with his faith; Lily, with her strength – gave her the same qualities, qualities she wasn't sure she could find on her own, qualities she would need to meet Father again. Family was always where one was most vulnerable.

'I have a few things I would like to do here first, then we must decide our course of action. We could go directly to the Manor, but we will have not a clue what we are walking into. It could well be a nest of demons now. Fortunately, I still know the layout of the house and its secrets...'

'Or we could go on to the village of Dunmoreton, rest and refresh ourselves at the inn – which I hope is still The Cloven Hoof – enjoy a cream tea and hot pasties, and learn what we may of events at "thikky big house".' she said in the broad country Devon dialect, or rather, the "Deb'm mouth spaitch". 'It shall take us longer and further out of our way, but we shall go forewarned and thus forearmed.'

Penny caught herself, knowing what she was doing. 'Of course, in my reluctance and fear, I am biased toward caution and procrastination. I cannot consider this clearly. I shall step aside and let the rest of you decide our approach. I must rely on your clear heads.'

'Our other options are to call upon Castiel, as he wished to accompany us, and to summon Juliet. Her nose will confirm Kate's location, and I'm sure she will enjoy a run upon the moor.'
This message was last edited by the player at 12:25, Wed 07 Oct 2015.

Cream tea and hot pasties...? Ian murmurs wistfully. What of dry clothes and a strong drink? Not that I have an opinion either way of course! he adds quickly. We can all enjoy a run on the moor if you like, I'm up for it.

'Oh, dry clothes, of course. It depends, do we wish to call upon the manor as well-dressed, respectable folk, or as bedraggled and muddy vagrants in the night? We shan't get a warm welcome as we are, I fear.' Feeling herself too close to the case, Penny was standing aside and letting the others choose their approach, only supplying advice and information she knew.

Simon was worried. This was far afield of Penny's normal character. He had never seen her use caution or even suggest it. This made him nervous in turn. "What if...what if we wait and loose our opportunity?"

Penny's detours into idyllic Devonshire country life were arrested by Simon's words. 'That... is a very real possibility.' she agreed, chilled. 'But we have already gone back in time. There was some degree of inaccuracy in Emma Bently's location spell, and in Victoria's time travel spell. Kate may have been here only a matter of days, or perhaps weeks or months.' Penny shuddered to consider how long Kate might have been in Belial's clutches, what she might have had to endure. 'We suspect that whatever Belial shall do, he shall try it on the summer solstice, 21st of June. This should be April now, according to Emma. Time may no longer be of the essence.'

Simon nodded, "If this is April, then I believe your idea of going into town to gather intelligence is a good one." Having made his thoughts known he sat quietly so the others could have a say.

It is almost humorous to watch Ian's face fall at the suggestion they go tonight and then break into a relieved grin at the idea town is an option after all. Lily laughs openly at her friend but then the pair have always been close.

ooc: So I assume town then?

Should you decide to go to town the way will be tricky but Penny knows it thankfully. Ian is just as clumsy as before and by the time you get there he's half drowned and mud soaked. It appears the hour is late for the streets are quiet but there is an inn, quaint and cozy, that seems to be open at this late hour. The proprietor, a stout hard faced woman looks surprised to see your messy group but thankfully she does have rooms available and even some left over supper and tea and whiskey for those that desire it.

ooc: Ok, so if someone suddenly changes their mind about town go ahead and ignore all that. I will let Penny describe the town if desired. Let me know your basic plans for the night and if you wish to gather intelligence please roll accordingly :)

...Feeling afraid, Penny Ann wants to leave this strange cave now, but there are two dark tunnels leading away. She'd gotten so turned about in the dark that she does not know which one she'd come through. So she picks one: 'Eeny meeny miny mo...' With a lit match, she ventures into the tunnel. But the ground begins to slope downward, taking her deeper into the earth. This does not seem right at all. A warm wind picks up, blowing against her, making the flame of the match stretch out and point the other way. Hurriedly, Penny Ann turns and walks out, taking the other tunnel to the surface and choosing to take her chances at home. Dimly, she wonders if wind should really blow out of the ground like that...

...But she will come back to her secret hiding place, and even bring her dollies and hold tea parties there in the ancient meeting spot. But she is wise for a child of her years, and will not go down the strange dark tunnel that always lays behind her, though it might yawn occasionally like a slumbering giant. She is not ready for that, yet...

*

Once they'd settled on the decision to go into town, Penny left her companions to relax in the cave for several more minutes, while she took care of more personal business. 'I have some things to take care of. You may accompany me if you wish.' she offered graciously, but would remain silent and some steps ahead. Taking one of the torches, but not lighting it, Penny ventured into the second tunnel, the one that led deeper into the earth, winding and twisting deeper into the ancient and massive granite pluton that brooded vastly beneath all of Dartmoor, causing the marshlands above by refusing to transport away water. Penny could almost feel the crushing weight of stone hanging above her head, so dense and hard and heavy, it gravity exerting a pull on her, pulling her deeper into it. How deep under the ground was she now? How far had she gone into the heart of the earth?

*

...Later, Penelope comes back to her secret place, but now with her books on geology and history, and tries to identify the different types of stones and trace the history of the place, but the old writers know it only vaguely. Old and dusty journals in the manor library have told her more, but still only teasingly. Penelope, a serious-minded girl, wants to verify these things for herself. So when she sees that familiar yawning tunnel, this time she is ready. All prepared, Penelope walks down...

*

Penny walked in darkness, fingers tracing the shapes of the stone, trusting to the earth around her to guide her path and already knowing the way. After the upper area, which had likely been used as a hideout in the Civil War and for concealing Catholic priests and heretics, Penny cane to sections that dated back still further, to before recorded history. With her fingers, she traced chisel marks in the stone, which she presumed to be signs of Celtic tin mining in classical times. As she walked further down, she recalled the history of this land, going ever backwards in time, from medieval Devonshire to Dark Ages Dumnonia. The ancient Britons here had resisted invasion by the Normans, the Saxons, and the Romans, making peace yet somehow avoiding wholesale colonisation and development, suffering few forts, villas, and Roman towns, preserving trace the Brittonic language and the old ways. In all of England, Cornwall and Devon seemed to be home to the last of the ancient Britons. Before them, they were an obscure tribe, the Dumnones or Dumnonii, as the Romans named them – the Dubnoueni – the People of the Deep Valleys, or of the Dark Earth. And among them, the People of the Dark Moor, the hunters and druids, knowers of secrets and magic. But what had been remembered, and what had been lost?

At last Penny came to the end, the tunnel widening into a cavern, the granite above an oppressive weight. She was in the very womb of mother earth now. At last, Penny lit her torch again, mounting it in a stone hollow, dark-adapted eyes recoiling at the sudden burning glare, making all she saw loom wildly before her eyes. The walls were bedecked with cave paintings left by Stone Age peoples, crude sketches depicting dogs and deer and even woolly mammoths, and stick figures hunting them with spears and praying before even stranger things. As Penny moved her torch around, the light of the flames flickered over the images and the stone, making them seem to dance and run and jump as if alive. And among them were ancient idols and skulls, stone knives and fetishes, which folk of the future could only guess at.

*

...Penelope trembles in fear as she enters this deep place, seeing skulls and monsters and strange altars, all of it leaping out of childhood nightmares, moors ghost stories, and disturbing books in the library. She knows in her head she should leave. Yet her feet stay, in spite of herself. She is drawn to one idol in particular, one that radiates a calm and compassion. But why does she look so sad?...

*

Penny knelt before one, a large weirdly shaped figure, recognisable as a woman by its pregnant belly, wide hips, and bountiful breasts, like an ancient fertility goddess. Her face was matronly, firm, yet caring. This was Domnu, the spirit of the deep earth, the dark valleys, and the moor, the mother of the tribe. Solemnly muttering prayers in a tongue older than English or Latin, Penny drew one of her spare knives and pricked her thumb, squeezing drops of fresh red blood upon the granite altar. And though granite was impermeable, the blood was nevertheless swallowed up. The torch flickered in a breeze that should not be there, casting shadows and an approving aspect on the idol's face. Even through the shadows of time, the goddess knew her daughter. Penny left the knife on the altar, her sacrifice, her deposit for the future.

*

...The girl turns sharply, hearing a deathly moan behind her. A man stands there at the exit, short, skeletal, caked with mud, sopping wet, and stinking of the bog. His limbs are twisted and bent, his gait shambling, his head and jaw are half crushed. His skin is brown and leathery, his eyes black and hollow, yet his hair is strangely still red and fresh. A bog body! A dead thing walking. It had caught her scent out on the moor and crawled out of its bog, following the girl and the promise of pink tasty flesh.

Squealing in horror, Penelope steps back, trying to get away, but trips over a skull, landing near the altar. Her bottom lands heavily on hard stone, her elbow bangs on the corner, sending pins-and-needles shooting up her arm. Yet her hand falls on a knife, not a sharpened flint but modern steel. She has no time to wonder at this, for the bog body is upon her, looming terribly over her, twisted leathery arms and gnarled claws reaching for her throat. Yet, without intending it, her hand has closed around the hilt, and her arm moves up for the bog body, her aim fast and true. The flashing steel blade pierces the leathered skin with a hideous sound, and sinks into the shrivelled heart. Moaning in rage, fetid breath blasting the girl, it rears back, stealing the knife from her hands. It is dead, yet still it walks, and still comes for her.

She ducks under its blind swings and scrambles away again; knowing a small girl can easily get under a man's grasp. But Penelope can see no way around it to the exit. Her heart is pounding almost out of her chest, her breath is coming short and sharp, chills shoot up her back. Yet, despite her terror, a sudden courage comes upon her. She feels like Gwendolen, the ancient warrior queen, whom she'd been reading about. Scooping up a long bone – an animal's, she hopes – she hops onto the altar before the ancient mother goddess, knowing she has gained height on the bog body. She raises the bone club high, and when it approaches, she strikes, small arms lent great strength by her desperate fear and by the primal forces around her. The bone crushes the dead man's face, cracks the ancient skull beneath the leathered skin, before shattering into a thousand shards that explode about her.

Dropping the stub of bone, Penelope dives sideways, leaping off the altar as the living corpse trips over it, slamming heavily into the ancient granite surface. As it flails and moans and tries to find its feet, Penelope finds her dropped torch, and touches the fire to the corpse. It is full of methane. The corpse bursts into wild flames, struggling feebly, but very quickly dying once more, lying and burning steadily.

Stabbed, bludgeoned, burned. The ancient Celtic three-fold death. Because one had to kill them three times to be sure.

The light of the fire illuminates the whole cave, and bathes the stone idol in a warm golden glow. Lit from below, the aspect of its face turns to a smile, one of satisfaction, of love. It is not for the sacrifice, but the courage and wits of the girl before her.

Shocked, exhausted, covered in ash and mud, Penelope simply sits at the mother's feet, hugging her knees. She sobs out her horror, waits until the trembling stops, and eventually falls asleep, there amidst the bones and stones, warmed by a burning bog body, deep in the womb of mother earth. Her dreams are wracked by strange images, ancient rites, painted warrior women slaying monsters upon the moor under the moon. When she wakes, she will have no more fear. When she wakes, she will be reborn. When she wakes, she will be guardian of the moor.

*

The circle was complete, Penny reflected, placing the whole bone by the altar. She'd left for herself what she would need to survive, and to become something more. She had a short chuckle; she was indeed a self-made woman. But not made alone, she knew, considering the stone idol of Mother Domnu, and the dancing shadows cast on the cave wall, which seemed to her eyes to be generations of mothers and daughters and sisters, watching on. Queen Gwendolen she knew, who would guide a girl's hand in ten years' time, and a young woman's against the Ripper. Being back here, at the beginning of her, had renewed Penny's courage and strength, her love for her land and her faith in her heritage. This was older than Belial, and it would endure his corruption, would survive his assault. Penny was guardian of the moor, and Belial had made the foolish error of hiding on her land, on Domnu's own back.

The rain seemed to have let up somewhat as they set out back across the moor, skirting the manor estates. The wild, rugged moorland soon turned to green, wet fields and farmland. Penny was able to point some local landmarks, sadly noting for Simon the distant stony ruins of a church that had been a little too Catholic for Henry the Eighth during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Here and there were ancient, abandoned stone-walled cottages, and scattered about were stone circles, and menhirs bearing curious markings. Some were genuine, others Victorian-age follies. The family estates resembled a theme park at times, Penny reflected ruefully.

They could hardly see the village in the dark, though it seemed quintessentially, idyllic, rustic, and other such words. Nevertheless, returning was like a dream to Penny. Everything was similar but different, some buildings gone by her times, others changed, some the same. The small chapel of Saint Petroc's was reassuringly the same as it had been for centuries, a sturdy grey church, partially fortified and seemingly able to withstand an army, but of what? She pointed it out to Father Simon, privately eager to reassert her Christianity. She'd spent a lot of time in its peaceful sanctuary too, praying or simply reading, balancing the two halves of her faith, old and new. The chapel seemed a beacon of goodness in a dark land.

Entering the inn, Penny apologised to the innkeeper and explained that their coach had overturned on a rough road some distance away, and their horses had run off, forcing them to set off on foot across the moor. Penny's Devon accent thickened when speaking with the locals, showing herself to be a local girl, though she was hardly one of the farming folk. But for now she avoided any explanation of where they were from and where they were headed.

Happily settling back into country life, Penny explained the unique foods on offer, such as pasties and Groat's pudding, the scrumpy cider, and most importantly the Devonshire cream tea. This last was tea with milk, and scones with cream and strawberry jam in "the Devon method", though one could have butter if they were a barbarian. Of course, with the food all being cold, reheated, or no longer fresh, there was something missing.


OOC:
http://www.devonhistoricchurch...pford-spiney-st-mary
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Petroc
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuisine_of_Devon
This message was last edited by the player at 04:14, Sat 10 Oct 2015.

ooc: Roll a bluff and also gather information should you wish to glean any info, otherwise just enjoy your repast! Funny thing is I have a tiny tiny tiny little jar of devonshire cream left over from a tea party I went to a few months ago. It's enough for maybe one scone so I haven't used it. I'll have to bust it out one of these days. Ha! I should keep it in my purse for scone emergencies!

Dry clothes are scrounged up for all who desire them though they are plain, poor fitting and musty smelling. You should be able to at least rinse and dry your previous attire though it won't necessarily be spotless in the morning. For a price the inkeep will do this for you. Ian looks eternally grateful for a roof over his head and a pint of beer and he keeps going on about how, 'isn't this nice? We're all dry now. Not that I couldn't have made it of course!' and other such justifications. If anyone is interested he will play a few games of cards with them. It seems to be about 12:30 a.m. so the inn is very quiet other then you lot safe for a couple of late drinkers and the proprietor. Fortunately she has rooms enough and Victoria was generous with the coin she gave you.

ooc: Sum up what you do that night and I'll move on to the next day when ready. Penny, feel free to let me know the best method for getting to your home whether it be on the moors again or if there is a better route.

Simon doesn't lie. He will not divulge any information, he will simply change subjects if necessary. He will try to get information about what might be happening in the Mannor House.

 09:10, Today: Father Simon Cole rolled 14 using 1d20+7.  Gather Info.

OOC: Months-old cream? Are you sure? :o

There ought to be a good road straight from the village to the manor, with tracks and trails around the farm and moorland for a more circuitous/hidden approach should we wish it.

'Oh, of course you could have.' Penny agreed with Ian, since men tended to need reassurance. 'Not even the Great Grimpen Mire would swallow a Scotsman.'

Penny paid well for the spare dry clothes, laundry services, meals, and rooms, eating deep into the supply of what 1860s currency they could scrounge in 1890. Penny found herself cast into Kate's role now, as a woman out of time (but she had always been thus). Fortunately, the difference in culture over three decades in the 1800s was not so great and life in the country had always moved much slower than in the towns and cities.

Forced to explain how an American, a Scotsman, an Indian, a reverend, and herself had come to walk into an inn like a badly mismatched joke, Penny fell back on an old cover story, explaining that she was a philanthropist who'd invited Father Simon over from "the colonies" to speak on missionary and charity work in the Americas, and so raise donations from the wealthy. She introduced herself as Penelope Creighton-Ward of the nearby city of Plymouth, and intimated that Ian Shaw was her manservant and Jo and Lily were Simon's native assistants. Simon seemed uncomfortable with the lie, of course, but he could still say he was doing God's work.

This led easily into making enquiries about Darkmoor Manor, who the current Lord of the Manor was, and discreetly what kind of reception they might get. Penny had long found the philanthropic busybody act was a good excuse for knocking on doors and sticking her nose into things. Although Penny was reluctant and fearful, and her body longed to rest after a hard, soggy, slog across the moor, she couldn't resist asking about the old family home.


OOC:
15:20, Today: Penny Dreadful rolled 22 using 1d20+9. gather information.
15:19, Today: Penny Dreadful rolled 21 using 1d20+5. bluff.

ooc: Lol! Supposedly it's ok. It's jarred and preserved? If you ever hear of a mysterious death on my part it could be cream related...

Ian seems pleased with Penny's reassurances and looks infinitely happier with dry clothes and a stiff drink.

As for Penny's story, the innkeep thankfully buys it easily and doesn't ask too many questions save for what America is like and such. She looks particularly fascinated by Lily who squirms a bit under her attentions but then she is something of an exotic figure in these parts. In response to the manor the innkeep makes a face. Oh I wouldn't be expecting too big of a welcome there good miss. Lord Vortigern Darkmoor may seem pleasant enough to most but I've heard tales from his house keeper, my friend, and apparently the man is about as cantankerous as you would expect someone that rich to be. He may put on a generous face for you though so perhaps you can skim a few coins off him. Be warned, he's had an awful lot of folk up at his manor of late. Lots of comings and goings, no idea what he's on about. Lots of rumors though I can tell you that. Perhaps he's havin wild parties with wild women, I wouldn't be surprised. Can't be natural to live in such a place without a woman. she shakes her head. Though that same housekeeper I told you about has been speakin on a wee babe these last couple months! An he claims its his! Says he has a wife somewheres who died in childbirth but then why has no one saw her? Mary, his housekeep, never did lay eyes on the woman. But then she knows better than to stick her nose where it don't belong. She minds her business my friend. she adds with a wagging finger.

Simon listened to the explanations and was intrigued by the tales of the man being without women and still having a wife and daughter (Penny). This begged many questions. Still warming himself by the fire he was trying to get an idea of how to approach her father. He might have to pretend to be in charge in order to get co-operation. Penny wouldn't like it, but it seemed like the best option to him.

'No?' Penny began, sounding surprised but not surprised at all, knowing her father's temper all too well. At least she could put paid to the rumours; wild parties would be too much like enjoying himself for him, and not enough like hard work. But the mysteries and lack of information about her mother concerned her deeply. How could it be such a secret? 'Oh, that's too bad. That poor cheeld. I'd feel sorry for the young maid'n, growing up without a mother.' Penny fretted, speaking quite from truth, slipping into a slightly most rustic accent so as not to seem too highborn around these parts. She'd been scanning the few late barflies for potential spies. 'Still, we must try all the more to bring God's word there, mustn't we, Father?'


OOC: General looking out for spies and reading the mood, Spot 19, Sense Motive 22.
21:52, Today: Penny Dreadful rolled 19 using 1d20+9.  spot.
21:51, Today: Penny Dreadful rolled 22 using 1d20+8.  sense motive.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:59, Tue 13 Oct 2015.

Simon nodded solemnly, "Indeed my good guide."

'And a lot of house guests should make for excellent attendance at your lectures and sermons.' Penny went on optimistically.

As if remembering something, she asked again, her querying more intent than before 'Ah, do you happen to know of anyone named Ann at the house? I was given to understand she was a member of the family – Ann Darkmoor? By all accounts a good woman; she was recommended to me in Plymouth.' Penny was desperate to know about her lost mother.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:08, Wed 14 Oct 2015.

The woman frowns. Ann, Ann....hm. Actually come to think that sounds like it could be the man's wife. I think Mary mentioned an Annabelle or some such thing? Well if you've heard of her I suppose she does exist after all! Not that the child isn't proof enough of that I suppose, but then I always thought it was some lover he didn't want to wed and that's why nobody's met her. she shrugs. A pity she died if she was a good woman. Wonder how she ended up with the likes of him? Heh, that reminds me. Mary said there were several strange folk hangin about at the manor these days. Most of them seem normal enough but there is one whose been there longer than the rest. Poor thing just sits there, practically catatonic! Well, the few times she's seen her. Was stark afraid that Lord Darkmoor would strike her for peepin like she did for he keeps her in the tower and only attends to her himself! My guess is the girl init right in the head. Maybe she was dropped as a babe or somethin. He told Mary it was his sister, which I suppose I would have to believe. Probably doesn't want her in an asylum, nasty places those are.

As she heard the sad rumours of her mother, Penny's face was as still and as stiff as a statue's, though her teeth were clamped tight, her jaw set. She was still no closer to knowing. It was no surprise to her that even folk in the village didn't know their lord's family and doings, though it was normally a topic of much gossip. Father would rarely speak of family matters to others, only of business. He'd never even told her about her mother; not because of painful memories, Penny suspected, but simply disinterested in speaking to her about unproductive things. And Penny, to her shame, had never dared ask.

She was concerned to hear about the sick, catatonic woman. In this time, families of all classes with feeble-minded kin didn't – indeed, couldn't – hide them away. They still needed to go to church and other matters, and there was a duty and honour in bearing that burden. But Father would maunder darkly that such people were useless and happen to mention how ancient Romans, Greeks, or Norse would expose unwanted children to the elements. So, what did this revelation mean? A family secret, a forgotten aunt? He wouldn't pay for an asylum, most likely. Or was she one of these house guests? Penny dreaded that this was Kate herself, and was ever more desperate to find and free her.

'Well, thank you, goodwoman, and thank you for your kind hospitality at this late hour. We'll be away to bed soon.' she sent off the innkeeper, vaguely wondering if she knew her or a child in the future. She hadn't caught a name, nor could she place her face.

But her thoughts turned back to more personal remembrances. Penny poured herself a drink – hard cider, in fact – and downed it in a shot. After a long reflection, she asked her friends 'What do you think?'

Simon leaned in and whispered, "Your father sounds dark. I think the woman they speak of is likely Kate. We need to be about this in the morning."