III.

Mrs. Difiloe declined to tell him more on her observations, leaving Saturday to come around without so much as an extra crumb's worth of insight. Charlotte couldn't be bothered with his rambling. Garrettt fed into whatever bizarre conspiracy Jean shot out of his mouth. (Which helped no one, and exhausted his nerves.)

Most people that Jean talked with didn't even know what was happening out by the ledge. Those who did, believed the sheep would stop on their own. After all, as one man pointed out, it wasn't as if those animals belonged to anyone in Mumbles—which, although bizarre, Jean later found to be true. The land they inhabited was attached to a condemned home a great deal out of anyone's way. The owner of this home, the land, and the sheep, lived as far away as Brundgumn: A wealthy woman by the name of Elise Geoppe Heike, who acquired the land through her late husband. The property possessed little more than historical, "sentimental" value.

That, and her allowances required she keep his family's old home.

Evidently, however, the late Mr. Heike forgot to necessitate a need for maintenance. Thus, the property—and the sheep—went entirely neglected. No one had seen the woman even step foot in Mumbles since her culling of the estate's choice pieces of furniture, well over a decade ago.

All of this proved to be of tremendous interest, but none in the least insightful. No one knew about the animals from months prior. There were no missing pet posters, either. What began to disturb him more was the glaringly obvious fact that no one in this town really cared. No curiosity, no concern—nothing.

Jean was looking out the window of the den, absorbed in the tumult of flurries, when Charlotte approached him.

"Look," she said. "I know you get off on these peculiar happenings. These oddities." She gave him a hard, worrying look. "But, Jean. You of all people should know. This isn't a game. Drop the routine. You didn't visit to enjoy the countryside. Nor to see me." She inhaled a storm; Jean braced himself for the thunder.  What he was about to hear, he had heard all before.

"Just a year ago I had to practically nail you to a chair just to—"

"Charlotte—"

"Not even a single night for Jaeneisti…" She continued on at an alarming pace, listing his indiscretions against the family—against her time and care and dedication to all manner of traditions and togetherness.

Ultimately, Jean knew she was right. He agreed with every word she threw at him; he behaved like an inconsiderate, terrible mongrel of a brother who spent all of his time chasing irregularities and scandal. It couldn't be helped—he lived for a good mystery. Something about that, Charlotte had always hated. When he told her about his job in L'Croux as a journalist, her face turned sour because she knew what it meant: travel, and lots of it.

"Wait," he said, interrupting her monologue. "Do you know what it is?" Jean raised his eyebrows. Of course! Charlotte was worse than a hobbit with a ring whenever she felt the need to "protect" anything. He found it strange, how easily love could turn rabid. Especially against the object of its own affections. Char had been the same way with their father, and later Garrett, too.

"...Three days. Everything arranged. Free food, even! And you couldn't be bothered..."

"Charlotte!" He yelled. "Do. You. Know. What. Is. Happening?"

She slapped him across the face.

"Okay! So I need to visit more for the holidays. Jeeze." He rubbed his face, excitement deflecting her scowl. "How did you figure it out?" For all her abhorrence of adventure, Charlotte shared the same blood in her veins—they both craved answers.

"Well," she said, exasperated. "I'm not an idiot."

"I know, I know. Is it a hafflock? Some sub-specie of droumdun?" Both were a stretch; both practically extinct, reduced to nothing more than faded ink on worn pages in some dust-covered tome.

Not many people wanted to believe it, but theirs was a dying world. Decay crept into even the most vibrant of places; gloom fed like fungus in the dark, damp hearts of all those who suspected—but never quite dared to confront—that consequence had begun to slough its glorious, golden exterior. Ever since that day man sought to triumph over gods.

"No," Charlotte said, her voice sharp and suddenly hollow.

Her breath began to show itself in wisps; the room grew cold, the air thick. All manner of lights seemed to dim. Jean felt numb. Every breath a bitter kick of menthol. He struggled to speak, instead letting out only a confused cough that should have shattered his lungs.

Charlotte no longer looked at him, but through the window. Jean noticed the change of light across her face. It filtered to tints of dark yellows and blues. In her eyes reflected something else—something strange: a negative void, black and violently white. Flickering. A blur. It moved in jolts like lightning, but slow. More deliberate.

Jean wanted so badly to turn and look, to see what had wandered into the yard, but he couldn't move. His legs were brittle and weak. His mind, slush. He couldn't move under the weight of this atmosphere. Neither of them could.

The window began to sing at a high pitch, crack as it vibrated, fractures forming symbols in a circle around the middle frame. The sound was an indescribable glass whisper—a throatless flute. Jean's ears felt dull, wet, invaded as if a tongue had gone in and wrapped around his spine. His mind constricted; Every thought formed like a glacier, until Jean found himself utterly still. Empty, yet inhabited.

The only thought which echoed through his soul was a question he could barely hear, a name his tongue couldn't grasp. A desperation. An anger. Pain.

Warmth then returned to the room. Charlotte leaned against the far wall and held her chest.

The paralytic numbness soon left, and immediately Jean approached the glass. He gaped in awe of the way it held together, fine cuts like spider's silk. It glistened. His reflection in the shards looked a pale blue, as if he'd drowned. Jean rubbed the life back into his face.

"I can't read it," Jean said. "What does it mean?"

"Don't you know," she whispered, "when to stop asking questions?"

"But—"

"Honestly."

Jean watched as she teetered out of the room, mumbling something about needing a hot cup of tea and something to help her sleep.

"I could go out and get us some drinks?" Jean offered, deciding against reason to trail behind.

Charlotte wasn't listening. She began to mutter and pace—now and again, it passes by, this creature. But never so close to the house, and never in the daylight. It seemed obvious that it knew. It knew about Jean, what he'd been up to, and didn't like it. She said it must have been a warning; that these things are best ignored. Jean had to ignore it. They all did.

"So," Jean said, "drinks or no?" He didn't want to keep arguing.

"Actually?" Charlotte hesitated. "Yes. Something strong Maybe a Byrbadoux."

"Okay." Jean grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

"And Jean?"

He turned.

She was looking at him as if he were out of reach. "It's not what, but who."

Jean swallowed the urge to hurl questions.

"I can't tell you what it is," she said. "But, I can tell you who I think it used to be."

"Char, I'll come to every Jaeneisti until I'm eighty—"

"Just…do not make me regret this."