“And some secrets… are best left undisturbed.” Mrs. Orban’s voice, usually a dry rustle of starch and linen, had taken on the unyielding quality of granite. The locket, a small, silver sphere, seemed to vanish into the folds of her apron with a magician’s swiftness. Livia’s mouth went dry, but the housekeeper’s iron stare pressed the words back down. “Perhaps you should refrain from further exploration, Mind-Mender,” Mrs. Orban continued, her tone now deceptively mild, “and focus on your duties. The Duke awaits his next therapeutic encounter.” Before Livia could recover her composure, Mrs. Orban was gone, melting into the shadows of the corridor as silently as she had appeared. The panel behind Istvan’s scarred oil painting had clicked shut, sealing its secrets once more. Livia stood alone, the air feeling suddenly thin and charged. The locket, the unknown woman, the lock of hair—tantalizing fragments, snatched away. The staff was guarding, not merely observing. Livia spent the rest of the morning in a flurry of activity, trying to outrun the unease Mrs. Orban had planted. She cataloged the Duke’s library, a sprawling maze of dusty tomes that smelled of old leather and forgotten thoughts. She drafted a new “therapeutic schedule,” a document so packed with seemingly mundane activities like “contemplative walks” and “guided reflections” that it looked more like a social calendar for a hermit than a medical prescription. Her mind, however, kept returning to the locket, to the housekeeper’s steely eyes, and to the unsettling sensation that she was a mouse in a very large, very secret-filled house. Just as she was considering a daring expedition to the kitchen for a proper cup of coffee – the tea at Ocskay Keep had a distinct medicinal flavour – a clatter from the grand foyer below echoed through the silent manor. Voices, boisterous and unfamiliar, followed. Livia peered over the balustrade, a nervous flutter in her stomach. A man in an extravagantly tailored travelling coat, his face a ruddy picture of self-satisfaction, was holding court amidst a flurry of servants. He looked like a peacock trying to blend in with a flock of ravens. “Alarik, old boy!” the man boomed, his voice carrying with an unpleasant resonance. “Still cloistered away in this mausoleum, I see! You really must try to remember what fresh air tastes like. And perhaps a conversation that doesn’t involve phantom weeping.” It was Count Szilard, a distant cousin of Alarik’s and a notorious gossip. Livia had heard of him from the whispered tales in the capital – a man whose wit was as sharp as his credit was poor. He was known for his theatrical entrances and his uncanny ability to make everyone in the room feel slightly smaller than himself. Alarik appeared at the bottom of the grand staircase, his presence a stark contrast to the visitor’s flamboyant display. The Duke was a silhouette of controlled fury, his shoulders rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. The air around him shimmered faintly, smelling faintly of ozone and crushed iron. “Szilard,” Alarik’s voice was a low growl, devoid of welcome. “Your visit is unexpected.” “Nonsense, my dear cousin! One must check on the unfortunate members of the family, mustn’t one?” The count strode forward, oblivious or uncaring of the gathering tension. “Especially after… well, after *it* all. Such a tragedy, wasn’t it? Katalin, Istvan… the whole wretched business. One does wonder how you manage to exist in this gloom, Alarik. It positively seeps into the walls.” The foyer air grew thick, pressing hard against Livia's eardrums as a low thrum vibrated through floor tiles. Below, the shadows stretched and twisted, deepening into ink-black pools. A delicate porcelain vase on a nearby pedestal wobbled, then shattered, spraying fragments across the polished marble floor. The servants, hitherto frozen in their places, gasped and scattered. “Enough!” Alarik’s voice cracked, and with it, something in the very atmosphere of the Keep seemed to fracture. From the deepening shadows, vague, formless shapes began to materialize. They were not solid, but they shimmered with virulent distortion, like heat haze given malicious intent. These were the phantom hands Livia had read about in Sorina’s journals – the physical manifestation of raw, untamed sorrow and rage. They stretched, long and grasping, towards Szilard. One of the grand arched windows directly above the count's head buckled with an audible groan, then exploded inward, showering the foyer with glittering shards of glass. A cold, damp wind swept through the hall, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and despair. The dandy shrieked, a sound utterly devoid of his earlier bravado. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet, his face pale with terror. “Merciful stars, Alarik! Control yourself, you brute! You’re losing it!” “He’s not losing it, Count, he’s *manifesting*,” Livia muttered, already halfway down the stairs, adrenaline surging. This was no gentle gravity field; this was a storm. She knew, from her previous exploration, that the picture gallery was an anomaly, a pocket of calm. It was her only chance. She reached the bottom of the stairs, dodging a shimmering tendril that whipped from the psychic haze, and grabbed Alarik’s arm. His skin was cold to the touch, rigid with an internal struggle. His eyes were wide, unfocused, fixed on some unseen horror. “Duke, we need to move!” Livia’s voice was sharp, cutting through the psychic din. “Now!” She tugged, hard. Alarik, for all his imposing size, was momentarily pliant, lost in the psychic thrall. She pulled him towards the east wing, towards the only space she knew offered any respite. The ghostly claws slashed at the air behind them, their passage leaving trails of frost. More windows shattered along the corridor as they ran, the wind howling through the new gaps, whipping Livia’s hair into her face. Szilard, scrambling across the floor tiles, watched them go with a face contorted in terror and rage. “You madwoman! You’ll be the death of him!” he shrieked, but his words were lost beneath the psychic gale. Livia dragged Alarik into the long hall of ancestors, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind them. The difference was immediate. The oppressive weight lifted, the icy wind died down, and the terrible hum receded to a faint, distant thrum. The vapor, though still present, was attenuated, a thin haze instead of a suffocating shroud. Alarik stumbled, leaning heavily against the wall, his chest heaving. “Look at them, Duke,” Livia commanded, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. She grabbed his face, forcing his gaze towards the array of painted faces on the walls. “Look at your family. Your father, your mother. Your sister, your brother. They are here. You are here. You are in control. They are just paintings. Their sorrow is an echo, not a prison.” Alarik’s eyes, still glazed with the miasma’s influence, slowly began to focus. He stared at the portraits, his breathing gradually evening out. The turbulent haze around him began to settle, retracting into his immediate vicinity until it was only a faint ring of unease. The phantom hands dissolved. The Keep ceased its groaning. Livia stepped back, relief making her knees weak. She had done it. She had pulled him back from the brink, using the very thing she was forbidden to touch – his family’s past. Alarik slowly pushed himself off the wall, his eyes now clear, though still shadowed with a profound weariness. He looked at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “You… brought me here,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Why?” Before Livia could answer, a furious roar echoed from the foyer. “Alarik! You’ll pay for this! Both of you!” The count’s distant screech carried a bitter promise of retribution. He was gone a moment later, the sound of a carriage speeding away confirming his hasty departure. Alarik merely closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, fixing Livia with a piercing stare. “My gratitude, Mind-Mender. Though I confess, your methods remain… unconventional.” Days passed in a blur of strained quiet. Alarik kept his distance, his gratitude seemingly outweighed by a renewed suspicion. He tolerated Livia’s presence, but his eyes followed her with an unnerving intensity. Livia, for her part, focused on her official duties, all the while wondering about Szilard's threat and the mysterious calm of the ancestor hall. One evening, a small, grimy urchin slipped a folded note into Livia’s hand as she walked through the market square during a ‘therapeutic outing.’ She dismissed the boy with a copper, her heart thumping. It was Gabor’s distinctive, sprawling script. She unfolded it quickly, her eyes scanning the hurried lines. *Livia – Urgent. Heard about Ferenc Szilard’s little visit. He’s been seen frequenting the Silver Hearth gambling dens. Deeply in debt to a man named Volkov. The same Volkov Sorina was investigating. Be careful. He’s unpredictable, and now, likely desperate for any leverage.* Livia read the note twice, the words sinking in with stark clarity. Volkov. The name that had appeared in Sorina’s coded letter, the one that had sent her twin sister into hiding, or worse. Szilard, deep in debt to him. A cousin who had arrived unannounced, needling Alarik about the past, then fleeing in fury. The count hadn't come to visit. He came to see if Sorina was here.

A Storm of Sorrows