heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

They aren't exactly a stealthy duo, the soles of boots and the various clink and clack of tools either in hand or swaying from belts rather like a series of chimes announcing their presence. But it's hardly as if it would make such a different to the spirits or demons or whatever is most likely to be lurking in the great old place. They might be as quiet as two Chantry mice and still draw attention from that lot.

As promised, the right hand door comes open under her hand with little more than a just judicious shoves to clear past the detritus of growing things on the other side. Beyond it lies the great entrance of the older castle: a broad space with two matching staircases, the upper levels of the room flanked by gallery balconies. Sunlight dapples the hall, burnishing the overgrowth in yellows and golds through the empty sockets of windows from which glass or shutters have long been absent.

Wysteria promptly sets down the bulkiest items of her kit and from the satchel at her hip produces a little booklet.

"Let us set the majority of our things here. We should aim to cover as much ground as possible while we still have light to map the castle by. We can make a second sweep to take up any samples or retrieve any notable objects, but I think it silly to trundle about with the whole world in our pockets to begin with. Agreed?"

She has already produced her pen and from the booklet has unfolded an illogically large piece of paper onto which to begin jotting down notes regarding the castle's layout.

By all accounts (and seven pages of the letter Tony had grumbled over) this had once been a magnificent castle. After having deposited his cargo in order of sturdiest to most fragile beneath a row of empty windows, Ellis gives himself a moment to take in the room itself.

And after that, a moment to eye the nooks and crannies, the ivy-draped corners that could hide trouble from view.

But there's nothing immediately visible that needs attention, so he's free to cross back to Wysteria.

"Aye, the holes in the ceiling are a benefit," he points out, mostly because it seems that they aren't in danger of the roof collapsing in on them. "We'd best start at the upper levels and work down."

In the course of the proposition, Ellis had freed his mace from where it had been secured at his belt. Taking care not to disturb her note-taking, he sets his free hand at the small of her back as he asks, "Left or right side?"

The stairs bend and meet at the top landing, stonework mirroring the curving ascent. Ellis asks Wysteria this the way he'd have asked her which table she'd like at a tavern or which type of flower she'd like for the garden, just to hear her opinion rather than out of concern for the choice itself.

Standing there in the center of that great entry hall, Wysteria seems to give the question real consideration. It is as if there is some sort of right answer, and if she studies the lay of the staircases and the balconies about them and the various empty doorways which lead off from them that the correct answer will reasonably come along.

Though she pauses only for a few seconds, and is perfectly decisive when she declares, "The left, I think."

She jots a note down, then folds then paper back into the booklet. The booklet is pocketed; the pen is...put wherever the pen usually goes; and with a brief touch of her hand to his elbow, she and her remaining collection of gear is moving for the left hand staircase.

"We're just as likely to find birds," Ellis says, following along after. "Or some other type of animal as we are to find spirits."

Maybe this is wishful thinking. It would be pleasant to have an outing where the only thing they were dealing with were some overly rowdy squirrels. Or maybe he is just apprehensive about the use of her shard, still wary of it in spite of all his reassurances otherwise.

But still, they make it to the top landing without incident. Even overgrown with moss and greenery, the finery of the building is still apparent. Ellis scans the open hallways running along the balcony rails, and then what's left of the doors and the rooms beyond them.

"Light's better this way," he suggests, tipping his head to the right. He is refraining from the sense that if there's trouble, it's probably waiting for them in the lower levels. A trio of mice scurry aside as Ellis' boot disturbs a spider-webbed crate, vanishing into the thicket of ivy. "Watch your step here."

"So it is better," she chirps back, something light and affirming and quite habitual. There is a rhythm to this. They explore dangerous places and Ellis points out little hazards and Wysteria making humming noises or assent or whatever little indication that Yes, of course she is listening is both appropriate and seems to soothe him, and they generally go about their business.

This is, technically speaking, not even the first allegedly haunted house into which they've explored.

With that in mind, Wysteria makes her way along as directly as he will allow, saying, "I suspect you're right that we're unlikely to find anything remarkable up here. I don't sense anything particularly interesting, in any case."

"Do you sense anything uninteresting?" Ellis asks from a few paces ahead of her, nudging open doors as they go.

The rooms are abandoned, as predicted. Even a glance tells Ellis that looters have come through already; dust and overgrowth have come in thick, but furniture has been overturned and jewelry boxes broken across the floor. The noise of their passing disturbs birds, as predicted, and a cranky scatter of crows flap from one of the rooms, while something unseen scratches away from the pair of them.

"Here," is an undertone, Ellis reaching back for her hand so as not to interrupt her answer.

Drawing her along with him as they reach the set of once-ornate, heavy doors at the far end of the hall opposite the landing. Pushed open, it reveals what might once have been an opulent drawing room. The stained glass of the windows is in pieces, some intact, some shattered, a few instruments, shelves lining the walls broken in places with books fallen across the floor. A few bottles are left, perhaps recently, several empty but several more intact. Ellis' hand remains in hers as he looks back to her, taking in her expression.

Ha ha, very funny Mister Ellis.

When it comes to the room at the end of the corridor however, her expression—wrinkles. There is the faintest trace of disappointment lurking at the corner of her mouth and in the set of her brow. Her hand, evidently comfortable in is domesticated state, makes no immediate move to withdraw.

She does however scoff with evidence disappointment at the contents of the room.

"If this is all some nonsense like a few local children being naughty in the middle of the night, I will be very cross."

"I'll let you have at them, if we come across a few naughty children."

Because is there anything more fearsome than Wysteria when annoyed?

But he does lift her hand to his mouth, kisses her knuckles before releasing his grip on her to inspect the room and leaving Wysteria to her own devices. He crouches to look at the books and scattered pages, most ruined by wet or gnawed on by animals, before crossing to the window and turning to put his fingers on the mossy pianoforte. The keys of the pianoforte alternately stick, then plunk hollowly, then—

Not sticking keys, but keys pinned down. Ellis frowns, glancing up and over to Wysteria as he taps the keys with more force.

For her part, Wysteria had begun to take an inventory of the much battered and overgrown shelves lining the wall. What books have yet to be scattered across the floor have been weathered to obscurity, all by rotted by the passage of time into the very shelves upon which they sit. With her hands safely gloved, she begins to pull a few down from the shelves when—

Plunk. A depressed key on the pianoforte sticks.

And Wysteria, with a mangy book in each hand, pauses in her assessment of the wall of shelves.

"That's odd."

The key sticks. The one beside it sticks. Ellis glances up at her, tips his head.

"I'm going to try to get it open. Will you come here, try to counterbalance it?"

Time and damp and moss have all warped the wood. It might have been faster to just take his mace to the thing, but with Wysteria in the room and unlikely to leave it, caution wins out.

When she's set her hands on the frame, Ellis makes his first attempt to wrench the top free. The entire instrument shudders at the impact, and a discordant clang of impacted strings echoes from deep inside.

Naturally she agrees, and having set both the rotted books aside she naturally braces against the jerk of the thing as he gives it a solid tug.

"I suppose it's possible the inside is simply rotted away," she remarks, heels all dug in to the mossy carpet underfoot. "Although come to think of it, I'm not sure I really know how a pianoforte's hammers are set. I suppose the key must strike it upward onto the string so—perhaps the hammers are simply stuck in the upward position, and so there is nothing to press the key back down again. Oh!" This last bit she cries out.

"I felt something give. I believe you nearly have it, Mister Ellis."

Between them, Ellis manages to give one last determined push upward and with a splintering squeal of wood and nail, the top of the pianoforte snaps in two. It's a start, enough to see down into the instrument, so Ellis leaves off the effort rather than round the pianoforte to attack the otherside.

"It might be nothing," he agrees, turning his palms up briefly to examine the stinging scrape left behind before shaking both hands out and crossing to stand beside her. "But it might be something hidden."

Considering the bottles, the lack of obvious threat, maybe this is all nothing more than a place unsavory travelers had been using as a base and safehouse.

"Bring the glow light up, a little," Ellis directs, and rather than let Wysteria put her hand down into the bowels of the instrument, Ellis reaches in himself. It might be an irritated creature, something prone to bite, or—

His efforts bring his hand into contact with soft, worn leather wrapped tight around something. It's wedged low enough that Ellis has to strain to get hold of it, leaning further into the mouth of the pianoforte.

Another sort of person might, upon witnessing Ellis jam his entire arm and shoulder into the dark depths of a mysterious instrument in an allegedly haunted castle, hiss something about caution. Wysteria however merely steps a little closer and obediently holds the glowlight as directed. And she does, it must be noted, lean a little over the cracked edge of the pianofortes exterior as if she is considering following the reach of his arm with that of her own—

"Anything?"

"Something," he answers, abandoning efforts to squint down in the direction of his hand to shift position slightly in hopes of getting a better grasp on the edge of the item. "It'll come loose if I can—"

Was the answer: pull too hard and overbalance in the opposite direction when the item abruptly comes free of the strings with a discordant clang?

Because that's what happens almost immediately after the second, grasping yank on the edge of the leather pouch.

It's punctuated by Wysteria's automatic squawk of alarm and an ineffectual flap of elbow and glowlight in his general direction. It must be her discombobulated attempt to rescue him. Suffice to say, there has been more effectual attempts in human history.

The dual thump of Ellis on the mossy, flexing floorboards and the leather pouch alongside is somewhat definitive. After a moment, Wysteria—standing still alongside the cracked pianoforte case—helpfully declares,

"Would you like to place a wager over what is inside?"

It should be mortifying. Maybe it would be if Wysteria commented in any way to Ellis' undignified sprawl, but her attention is so reliably focused on what they've unearthed that he can sit up with a low grunt and brush some grit and leaves from his hair before considering the pouch.

Which had not felt like very much, but exposed fully to the glowlight has revealed itself to be lumpy. It made a louder thump than it had a right to. (Or was that just an echo of Ellis' landing?) Resting both forearms on his knees, Ellis directs a skeptical look over to the pouch.

"What are we wagering?" is clearly the most important question. Wysteria is far more ruthless than she appears, after all.

Surely they have all done more mortifying things in the field. Why, if asked she herself might mention that instance in which the three of them—Ellis, herself, and Tony—had incidentally backed themselves to the edge of a rather muddy ravine, and how when that edge had collapsed someone (she will not name names or point fingers; it would be undignified and besides, Wysteria suspects it may have been her) had dragged the other two down with them into the muck at the bottom of the gully.

Sitting very hard on the floor of some moldy old library floor is hardly so bad. Besides, cracking open the pianoforte's stuck case with sheer brute strength had been quite charming.

"Well money of course," she insists.

Obviously.

Money is easily parted with, as far as Ellis is concerned. He'd expected something more exacting, and momentary, faint relief passes across his face before his expression returns solely to solemn contemplation of terms.

"I'll wager the contents of my purse that it's rubbish," Ellis tells her, very gamely.

This might be more of a hopeful guess than an educated one. Maybe it's nothing but a bit of junk. But considering what's brought them here, it's more likely that whatever's in that pouch is an inconvenience waiting to happen.

"Nonsense," she scoffs, at last peeling herself from the edge of the broken instrument case. "What would rubbish be doing hidden inside a pianoforte?"

With the glowlight in one hand, Wysteria moves to retrieve the lumpy parcel from where it has fallen. She isn't strictly ginger amount how she fetches it up, but she is mindful not to spill its contents from out of the wrapping as she shifts it back to Ellis.

"I think it is will be something very dreadful. A cursed and calcified heart, perhaps."

(She has been reading a series of rather lavishly morbid mystery novels, having recently dashed through the last of her favorite cheap romances.)

"If it is, that would explain the haunting."

If an object were to be cursed and lodged within a pianoforte, it might as well be a calcified heart. Ellis takes the parcel from her, handling the leather wrappings carefully as he shifts position on the floor, one leg sent out in front of him, one boot slanting to wedge in against his knee as he lays the bag over his thigh.

"Step back, but hold the glowlight up, please."

Ellis' steadfast commitment to keeping Wysteria out of the blast zone is unwavering, even if it seems unlikely the parcel contains something explosive.

"Oh really, Mister Ellis," she tuts and tsks, taking all of a half step back. But up comes the glowlight despite her protest.

In that shadowed room, smelling densely of dust and molded things, with heavy ivy and lichen blotting out so much of the light from the waning day beyond the hollow window frames, that light casts him and the parcel and this corner in a wan, pale circle of illumination.

The protest is acknowledged with a brief lift of his eyebrows in return, but his attention returns to the parcel almost immediately when it's clear Wysteria is heeding the request.

If he could have told her to wait in the hallway, he might have. But she's edged back a few steps, enough so that Ellis can devote his time to picking the leather binding loose. The binds have gone brittle, enough to come apart with only a small bit of coaxing. The contents of the bag clink and rattle: not one item, but several. Not coin.

The impulse to simply turn the bag upside down is set aside in favor of very carefully, with one hand supporting the contents, ease them from the bag.

"Jewelry, of a sort," he says, tone still apprehensive. In his palm is something gleaming gold, the inset stone swirling dark, flecks of blood on the chain, accompanied by a clatter of rings. "I wouldn't put any of it on here."

The barely-there distance she has established obviously winnows shut again as the gold spills into his upturned hand. Which is only fair. It's not as if he'd been struck dead instantly upon touching the pieces, now had he? There can't be so much to fear, and if there is a murmuration of the arcane in the air it feels—withdrawn, distant. There is indeed something faintly off, but whether it has to do with the contents of the parcel down living in Ellis' hand or some other hidey hole in the sprawling castle, she cannot say.

What she can, when she bends close with the glowlight, is—

"Oh how fantastically dreadful. Do you think those spots are blood? Here. Allow me to take the rings. If there is some enchantment on them, I may be able to discern it."

She moves to trade them for the light.

Ellis' fingers twitch briefly closed over the cluster of jewelry in his palm. All these bits of metal are unsettlingly warm, just a shade or two off genuine discomfort where they touch the skin.

"Promise you won't put them on," is only good sense, even if Ellis is thinking less about any particular arcane item he's encountered and more about a particular passage in one of his mother's storybooks. "We don't know what they are."

Admittedly, he's more troubled by the amulet than the rings. But Ellis has learned through long experience at Tony and Wysteria's side that a word of caution is never wasted, even if it only culminates in Ellis reminding them of his initial apprehensions as they mopped up the results of a minor chemical fires.

"Of course I shall not put them on. What do you take me for, Mister Ellis? Honestly, this is hardly my very first haunted mansion, much less my first ruin or adventure into unknown mystery."

This mild scolding is doled out even as she trades the glowlight into his palm and takes up the rings, juggling them gently about her palm as she is initially surprised by the murmuring heat held in the metal. In honor of his caution, she is very mindful not to accidentally slip her finger through either ring as she prods them about.

Her focus narrows. Have you ever blurred your vision while looking at a portrait and seen it colors and shapes in slightly different dimensions? It is rather like that, and most easily done when she has a point (or two points, as is the case with the matching rings) upon which to concentrate.

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squeaks this tag in before bed

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