IV.

Placard across the wrought-iron gates were the words "Ullundale Grove." The brass letters were tarnished and rusting, with moss growing in the crooks. Beyond the gate wandered a cobblestone path that wound around oaks and dogwoods, mounds and sinkholes, tombstones and shrines.

Ullundale had served Mumbles as a graveyard for over four hundred years. Its roster grew like tree rings, swelling in seasons of fever and shriveling in years of prosperity. It was a library of souls, of which Jean had come to check out a passage authored by a man named Akar Shalhope.

"He died about a week before things started to happen," Charlotte said, pushing through the rusted gates. "If I remember correctly, he had an infection for years that nearly crippled him."

Akar had come down with a sickness known as rivvold's, named after the late prince Rivvold Walmsley, who first succumbed to the mysterious infection over a thousand years ago. A traveler's sickness, many believed rivvold's to be a crippling curse—nomad magic, of a peculiar sort, one would fall victim to when targeted by the Bvarei.

At present, however, there were hardly any Bvareian people to speak of; only legends of their beauty and wit remained, mostly through the tales of their empress and spiritual beacon, Bisera. But even she could not protect them forever. "Reason is ash in the mouth of a witch," were the supposed words that preceded her beheading in the court of Krumgrag. Jean couldn't remember the date, though it happened long ago.

"What kind of name is Shalhope?" He asked as they walked, his eyes scanning each marker and grave.

Charlotte tilted her head. "Yvandrel?"

Jean shook his head. "I was thinking Nishtook."

"Akar had gray eyes," Charlotte said. "Metallic—almost silver."

Jean nodded. "Interesting. Definitely not Nish, then."

Charlotte frowned. "Even if he was, finding one who believed in second century mortem rituals—much less know how to practice them—would be, well, impossible."

"Do you think it ever worked?"

"Mom didn't believe so, and she had thirty years of research invested in the idea."

Charlotte laughed. "It is strange, you know."

"What is?" Jean traced his fingers along a massive granite tomb. They were getting close to the newer residents.

She frowned. "How much like her you are."

Even now, he could see the disappointment on her face. Their mother had been more like an idea than a tangible reality. Field research carried her all over the globe, but hardly ever brought her home. Their father often joked that it was unfortunate she never took interest in the contemporary marital and maternal functions of the regular, every day.

No. Only the rituals of the past interested her.

Most of their memories of their mother came by post in long, adsorbent letters of adventure and success. On their birthdays, they'd get trinkets and wishful pleasantries. The last letter had been penned by her associate, a Dr. Nobu Okada, explaining that she had passed during an excavation accident. Jean could recall the L'Croux Anthropology Society insignia printed on that summer's letter better than his mother's actual face.

"Have more faith in me, Char," Jean said. "I know when to quit."

Charlotte tried to smile.

"He's over there," she said, pointing to the edifice of fresh, blue marble. Its etchings were lined with silver leaf, and the corners reached upward in triangular spires, while the middle sunk, an inverted dome like a drain, allowing for water to fill the inside. The entrance stood at the end of a brief set of stairs. It appeared as though the whole structure sat in a small, sharp dip in the ground.

"How eccentric," Jean said. He looked around the graveyard before climbing atop and peering through the hole. "Did you know him?"

"No, I didn't." Charlotte descended the stairs and opened the small doorway. "But when someone like that dies, especially somewhere like Mumbles, it's hard not to know—"

Jean leaned over the edge to peer inside the doorway. "Someone like what?"

"All I know is, before moving here, he used to be a professor. A very good one, so I was told. But his condition forced him into retirement."

Climbing down, Jean brushed himself off and then promptly squeezed through the little doorway. Inside, the tomb was tall enough to stand in spite of the inverted ceiling. The hole offered for effective lighting. Just beneath the opening sat a stone chalice, mounted to the vault that surely held Akar Shalhope's body. An unfamiliar script covered the sides of the vault.

"Maybe he was a linguist," Jean said. "The writing in here is archaic—and, I can't say for sure, but  perhaps inconsistent."

"How do you mean?" Charlotte had sat herself down outside, in the grass. Occasionally she would pull up small wildflowers and pick them to pieces.

"As in hodgepodge. Maybe it's a collection."

"Is it relevant?"

"I can't say."

Jean stepped back to fully observe the vault, its walls and its ceiling. He wondered what kind of person could afford such extravagance—more importantly, what kind of person would bother with it. The tomb, although odd, seemed to check out. There was no evidence of tampering, desecration, or escape. Whatever they were looking for, he couldn't find it.

"What exactly makes you think this guy is connected to the creature?"

"Not connected," Charlotte corrected. "I'm pretty sure he is the creature. And," she continued, brow creasing "it's because of the way his death was handled. The funeral was very rushed, very quiet. Not even a mention in the newspaper—which is a bit odd for us around here, you understand."

He didn't. At least, not from personal experience. The capital dealt with all kinds of losses at a rate far too alarming to ever be published without willfully frightening the entire nation. In both legislature and media, it became mutually understood that such statistics were best left with the morgue. Besides, people talked. Everyone who wanted to know already knew. Besides, rumors of much worse in other lands kept pressure on Fear, the weight of uncertainty contained it in a claustrophobic box akin to a fish bowl, where it circled round and round on silent display.

Here, in Mumbles, it seemed a breaking point had been reached. Yet no one dared bring attention to that fact—rather, Jean started to wonder if instead the town was spending all its efforts toward hiding it. But what exactly were they hiding? And who from? And for what benefit?

"This was all a bit of a dead end, Char," Jean said, crawling out of the tomb with a cheeky grin.

"Tomorrow," he stretched and let out a sigh. "We'll start again tomorrow."