It was nearing the end of November. There had yet to be any proper snow, but frost was indeed everywhere, and there was a chilly sort excitement in the air as the merry inhabitants of Potham on Heath prepared for the Christmastide holidays, which as one might expect were done with quite a lot of thoroughness in Gandburgh. There were costumes to be made, gowns to be sewn, fireworks to be ordered, parties to be planned, toys to be made, and countless other activities of joyful anticipation.

Neither Fanny nor Harlow had heard any word of Zacharia Gates. He had listened attentively to Fanny’s account of the events she saw in Larch’s mirror, and then taken the mirror himself for examination. He said that he suspected Larch had kept it there to keep watch whenever he was absent, and although such an object tended to forget what it had seen after revealing its memories to someone there may yet be something that could be withdrawn from it, but he would have to travel far to find trustworthy individuals with sufficient art to discover if this were possible. Fanny and Harlow returned to Potham satisfied at least that Larch had passed on to his eternal commitment.

A month or so ago, Agatha Watson had departed on a journey to the tropics. This struck many as peculiar, but it was the assertion of the Watson family that on the advice of certain reliable experts in Hemhold that their daughter should take her recovery in the warmth of the southern climate for the remainder of the winter at least. The departure of Miss Watson was not especially noticed however, for there was much excitement in the neighborhood over the recent knighthood of the daring and eligible Mr. Stokes.

Sir Albert Stokes had gradually become accustomed to finding a delightful entourage of amiable persons gather about him wherever he went (young ladies in particular). He had come to appreciate that there was much indeed to the peaceful and rich atmosphere of the Gandish countryside, far away from the stuffiness and self important rubbish of the self styled intellectuals of the city. Sir Albert was keenly aware of how he’d always longed for the majestic serenity of the country where a man could truly make his own place and name in the very heart and soul of the nation. Those dreary bookworms of the city could never appreciate the splendour of the country and the humble glory of the ancient regimen, probably because they were really such jealous, bourgeois fellows at heart.

Mr. Barnstabrake Sr. had been in a foul mood for ages. Not only had he received a polite notice from the College of Arms informing him that his suit was yet again being returned, but his eldest son Harlow had become thoroughly infatuated with that dreadful girl of Sir Walter Howard, and there was positively no reasoning with him. He could not even be prevailed upon to hold off on the engagement for a bit, and the wedding was to be just after the New Year.

Abigayle Bellingham was becoming frustrated in her failure so far to convince anyone in the village that there really were Kobalds about. This was perhaps due in no small part to the efforts of the Barbarians Howard, who after their adventurous summer had decided that they should always be prepared to deal with the creatures should ever they come upon one. Being children and therefore observant of many things that adults tend to overlook, it could soon be said with assurance that not a phrygian cap nor brown nose would ever dare show itself about the Howard estate for fear it should be cheerfully met with a rain of small stones and a prolonged chase.

Far away elsewhere in Ursiland, in a respectable apartment in a quiet neighborhood of a great city, a small, inoffensive old gentleman was at his desk writing letters. His was a curious hand, flowing in a unpleasant sort of spidery script, and his communication was a jumble of banal details about the weather, crops, noisy street children, odd folk tales about clever foxes and foolish hens, silly jokes and worthless gossip.

Yet the old gentleman had a peculiarly intent look upon his face, as a craftsman working on some particularly delicate piece. When he was finished, he took up some curious looking herbs and set them aflame with a candle as he scattered them across the newly dried ink. The ink turned deep red and twisted through the fibers of the paper as it formed itself into a strange, evil looking script containing a message entirely different from the innocuous ramble it was hitherto. The old man smiled to himself as he shook away the smouldering leaves, stamping them out carefully on the floor.

The old man arose. Taking up the candle in one hand and the letter in the other, he stood and held both high over his head as he set the letter itself alight.

In a burst of noxious flame, the letter disintegrated as a black raven shot forth from the smoke and flew circles about the room shrieking madly with an unnatural voice. Then without warning it darted out through the open window and disappeared into the blackness of night, a shrill infernal wail fading away in its wake.

The small, inoffensive looking old man smiled an evil smile to himself, and sat down to begin another letter.

The End