<<set $DontSaveMe = "yes">>She shakes her head. 'I've never heard such wilfulness. If that's the case, don't get in the way of me getting on.'\n\nPointedly, she turns her attention back to the pulpit.\n\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

There is a panoply of hearts, stored in a variety of locked cases, extending from the Middle Ages until now. You can't imagine the state some of the earliest are in, and are profoundly thankful that thir containers are entirely opaque. \n\nSo many names here. A Khan. Several princesses and at least one queen. The Princes in the Tower. A score of Romantics and Pre-Raphaelites. \n\nRobin Goodfellow. You linger on this name. You feel a faint shiver of regret, but move on. All that is past now. \n\nYou feel each heart beating as you survey the ancient chamber, laid out like a pantry though once, of course, the dead lay here, interred in the gaps in the walls. The biers now keep the living. \n\nThe living? Yes, you realise, with a shudder of revelation. These hearts live. Some weaker - some stronger, but in each someone you know, though know not how, loves the long dead bearer of the entrapped heart. Memory, hope, desire, even love, keep these hearts beating. The living above keep their beloved dead enchained. \n\nYou stop in the centre of the chamber, listening to each heart beat, each to its own drumbeat, but all surging, swelling with nascent life. \n\nNo wonder they think you parasites. No wonder this path begins with surrender of that which made you human. \n\n[[Behind you, the door to the skullery is opening|Enter Charlotte]].|\n

The good Dr Farthing smiles from beneath his rounded spectacles as you descend the stair into the cosy, low-ceilinged chamber. \n\nA series of wooden chairs and several old pews have been dragged into a formation loosely resembling a lecture theatre. Some of the seats are even taken. A young woman, in a threadbare overcoat, with tattered gloves on her clasped hands gazes expectantly up at the lectern. Or rather, a [[pulpit|pulpit]] evidently commandeered from the monastery church. \n\nAn old man, blood-red coat, sits at the back, half-shadowed, dwarfed by the barrels amazingly still sitting stacked against the wall. \n\nAn arrangement of candles illuminates the pulpit, at which Dr Farthing stands. The smallness of his audience does not seem to perturb him. Indeed, he seems to almost twinkle as he begins his lecture. \n\n[[Talk to the girl in the front row|Jenny the acolyte]].|\n[[Talk to the old man in the shadows|Godfrey the soldier]].|\n[[Examine the barrels. They can't still contain wine|Wine barrels]].|\n[[Listen to the sermon. It's why you came. Isn't it|Dr Farthing's sermon]]?|\n[[Leave. You've heard enough|Explore the Cloister]].|

<<set $AdamantComes += 1>>'We are not alone in Edinburgh. There is another coven. A convent, and they are Adamant. They have not Fallen like we. They seek salvation at all cost.' \n\nLight gathers at the door.\n\n[[Watch|Third question]].

<<set $TanovaTrusts -= "1">>She sighs, and drops her arm.\n\n'Alright, I suppose you've earned a few answers. But do be quick.' She looks about her, warily, folding her cloak about herself. It is not the cold that makes her shiver so.\n\n[[How did she know where to find Drake|Tanova and Drake]]?|\n[[Ask her where she has been. She has neglected her charge|Tanova's Hiding]].|

A man of dishevlled black hair, that falls like soot about his thin, pointed face, glowers from above the empty hearth. \n\nThe material is oil. Expensive - though you do not recognise the style. His clothing is almost indecent, exposing entirely too much collarbone. His nape is visible. \n\nHis hand is pressed to his nape. The Hanged Man is visible there, his gallows his own clavicle. If it were not for that detail, he might almost seem alive. \n\n<<if $SymbolHangedMan is "yes">>Your own skin crawls. As though it remembers - seeing sympathy in the painted semblance of itself.<<endif>>\n\n[[Return to examining the hearth|Drake's Hearth]].|

The heart quickens, as though excited. It slaps about your fingers in a weird kind of jig. \n\n[[It is so animated and alive. How could you resist|Eat Mrs Heichmann]]?|\n\nThe sordid truth is this. Mrs Heichmann believed herself exceptional - unique. And she was in cruelty, spite, and low villainy. She rose to the top of the slum because she learned very young how little the lives of others mattered to her. \n\nWhen every other living thing is but a crawling insect, vermin, to be either trained or crushed, how could she help but be alone? \n\n[[This is the isolation of Mrs Heichmann|Mrs Heichmann]].|

<<set $TanovaTrusts += "1">>You are answered with silence. Ominous. \n\nStill, you reason she can probably take care of herself better than you can. She's your master, after all. \n\n[[You turn your attention back to Isaac|Inside the Black Mausoleum]].|

<<set $IsaacTrust += 2>>He smiles, warmly, which seems out of character from the cool, superior youth who introduced himself. \n\n'Oh, yes. My studies have no use of sunlight, and I was loathe to sacrifice anything that might prove useful in the future. I suppose I am like an old woman, forever gathering string in her purse, in the hope that one day, she might have enough to make a stocking.' \n\nHe seems pleased with the metaphor. \n\n[[What studies prohibit sunlight|Isaac's Studies]]?|\n[[Make your apologies and leave. You have heard enough|All Souls]].|

The room is pitch dark. Your hand catches on a piece of cloth. It falls with a sigh, like the head of the Queen o' Scots on the English green. \n\nYou see nothing more, though you hear receding footsteps in the distance. \n\n<<if $LassalInTheMausoleum is "yes">>The moaning echoes about the vault. You will have to light a match to locate it. \n[[Strike a match|Lassal in the Sacristy]].<<endif>>\n\n[[Light a match|Isaac in the Sacristy]].\n[[Press on in the dark|Undercroft]].

Fog and the dark your sole companions as you step onto the grand new bridge that soars from the riverside down into Old Town, trapping so many slumbs beneath its slumbering architecture. \n\nLamp-posts stand like iron sentinels in the gloom, eerie green gas-lights flickering in the wreaths of fog. The sound of water from far behind. The call of night birds ahead. The stones beneath your feet. \n\nYou think, half-way across, the soaring spires and vast tenements of the city Above peeking through the murk below you, that you hear footsteps behind. After standing silent as the grave for minute on minute, you hear only silence.\n\n[[You walk on|Greyfriars Kirkyard]].|

'Of course, Missus Helena, and don't tell her I called her that or else I'll get a matching scar, would have it that the bell that can still be heard of a dreary night - which these days is also day - tolled for the bloody emperor and his hellion river.' \n\nHe drinks in your concentration, and grins. 'Now, Jack has it different. I say that's bollocks. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, tolls its lonesome knell, because my dear darling one, because it wasn't for the Frenchie. Nah, there was another with him, 'tis told, on a moonless sky, that fed on all that lay slaughtered in his wake and set the bells a ringing - ' \n\nThe rest of his speech is drowned out by a singular sound. A bell, clamorous and mournful, like you imagine were rang in 793 on a misty Northern island, sounds thrice. It is the tolling of terror. Not a warning to those who hear it. For those that come after. <<set $TheBellTolled += "3">>\n\nThe boy grins, apparently having heard nothing. 'Like old Jack's tale?'\n\n[[You have further questions for him|Singing Jack]].|\n[[Leave him for now|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<set $LassalTrusts to 1>>You wake, splayed upon the sunken slab of an old grave. \n\nThe words 'Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur' are displayed around your head. \n\nThe effect is disturbed when you belch, and spew hot, boiling, acid-tasting blood atop the grey-weathered stone. \n\nYour stomach roils, like a ship in a tempest. Like a rock has sunken inside you. [[You can concentrate on it, if you like|Telltale heart]].|\n\nBehind you, a cold, slow chuckle. Lassal, wan, and hungry-eyed is watching you. 'Forgive me, novitiate, it takes us all that way. Death is a horrid mistress. But it must be so - and your palate will develop. Think of it as port, or venison. So rich, it might break your heart.' \n\n'But - we tarry too long. The Countess awaits.' He helps you, strangely tenderly from the slab to stand, and wipes your crimson horror of a mouth with his own neckerchief. Tenderness vanishes, as he stalks off toward the catacomb you must now call your home. \n\n[[You follow|The Countess]].|

He spits full in your face, as you kick him in the knee, hard. There is a satisfying crunch, as he howls and goes down on one knee before you. \n\nUnfortunately, this leaves you open to a vicious blow from his head that sends you reeling. There is however a pop, as his eye goes rolling from his socket. You take brief satisfaction in that, before Lassal is on you, his hand at your chest, his long fingers inches from your flesh. \n\n'Enough.' <<set $LassalTrusts -= "2">> 'I will not have quarrels between my friends. Mr Sycamore, forgive my novice. The folly of youth has always been ignorance. They know not that they can die.' \n\nHe dismisses you with a wave of his hand that was seconds ago inches from your breast. 'I shall speak to you later, child.'\n\n[[Lassal is done with you for now. Return to exploring the Bell's Toll|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<if $HareishanToDrake is "yes">>Hareishan stands at the door. And then she is gone. You hear nothing from the other side, but you see the light fade a little. \n\nDrake breathes a little easier.\n\n[[You have more questions|Drake at last]].\n<<else>>The door opens of it's own accord. Light, terrible and merciless, enters the room. Drake falls to his knees, full of trembling. Isaac stands over him.\n\n[[You are between light and dark|The Choice]].<<endif>>

The heart is small and mean, but as it bursts between your teeth, your tongue lappping the length of your mouth to catch every piece of gristle, every droplet of blood, there pours out a bitterness so exquisite it almost stops your heart.\n\nBut then your heart is joined by another, that sinks towards your stomach. You feel full. \n\nYou have never felt so full, so warm, so content. You want to sleep and couple and dance and scream all at once. \n\nYou feel her inside you. All of a moment - everything that was Mrs Heichmann is within. Every memory, every sensation. You know her in all her meanness and malignance. <<set $AteMrsHeichmann = "yes">>\n\nAnd then there is only meat and your stomach, and your mouth is ringed raw red. Blood drips like effluent from your chin. \n\n[[The door to the skullery is opening|Enter Charlotte]].|

Aha. There is a box.\n\nChrist in Hell. It's heavy. \n\nYou struggle to drag the coffin - chained, but chains broken - from its hiding place amidst the ashes. The bed collapses in its wake, bereft of its support. \n\nYou place both hands on the lid. It moves. You take a breath and immediately regret it. The air stinks of decay and you inhale dust. \n\n[[You could turn away. Leave the coffin unopened|Mr Wythe's room]].|\n[[Open the lid. The curiosity is gnawing at you|Open the coffin]].|

<<set $HelenaKnewDrake += "1">><<set $MrWytheCoffin = "yes">>The heart scrabbles about within your breast, as though squeezing, straining, scratching to burst out and stop you as you turn the first leaf. \n\nWell. Well! Mrs Heichmann was full of surprises. Careful notes on all her neigbours. \n\nThe barkeep, Helena, and her mysterious dark lover. \nA new sort, Dr Farthing, recently set up - seen having an almighty row with Helena. Apparently kept his distance since. \nA boy named William Gray - a blacksmith's apprentice. And another - a lad named Andrew. \nFancy sorts at the Forge - great ladies and soldiers descending for God knows what. \nAnd a man upstairs - a Mr Wythe. She saw him going Up the Stair, and coming down with a coffin. She seems to have suspected him of smuggling in another lodger, rent-free. She was very assiduous about Mr Wythe's rent, it seems. \n\nAh, and poetry. Doggerell, all. \n\n[[Keep the letters|Pocket the letters]].|\n[[Burn the poetry|Burning poems]].|\n[[Leave the letters|Mrs Heichmann's rooms]].|\n

Her eyes widen. You almost expect to see stars therein. \n\n'Suit yourself,' She says, 'God knows, we'd all be the worse for it if everyone listened to my advice.' \n\nShe presses the key into your palms. 'Now. There is, I am afraid work to be done. You'll show yourself out, yes? We may see each other again. Or maybe not. I really don't know how long this will take.' She frowns, before smiling again. She begins to hum. She seems, somehow, more corporeal than before. \n\n[[The door is behind you.|Explore the Cloister]].|

Her eyes flash, like lightning on a summer-dried river. \n\n'You chart dangerous waters. That symbol,' She rakes with her long nails at your collar, opening the wound to trickle a thin stream of blood onto your shirt, 'signifies knowledge without reason. That is not strength but folly.' \n\nShe strikes you, with the full weight of her arm, bearing a score of copper bands, her rings thick with scarabs and silver glancing across your cheek. The blood rises to your face like the ocean to Atlantis. There will almost certainly be a scar. \n\n'There. A price for knowledge without caution. As for the portrait - a likeness, of course, the new tradition for posed portraits not being native to my time or place - know only this. That once I did indeed rule a coven, as mighty as All Souls, though All Souls is so much newer. It glistens with that modernity, like a newborn still encased in its caul. And I was cast out. For pride - and like you, for learning pursued without thought for consequence.'\n\nShe moves in close, and you can smell the weight of millenia of dust and sand upon her linen sheets. 'Know that I am older than you will ever be, and have fallen further than you might ever dare.' \n\n[[Take your leave of her. You have pushed her as far as she is willing|Chapel]].|

You draw out a pen-knife, newly sharpened, and rake it across the inside of your wrist. You will survive. You hope. \n\nThe delicate incision soon blossoms. Blood trickles from your wrist, from the blade, onto the ground where it mingles with the dust. You will need something of Drake's you feel, and you have a limited supply of blood and time. \n\n[[Choose the letters. They seem the most obvious connexion between you and he|Blood on Drake's letters]].|\n[[Choose the hearth - it was evidently often lit|Blood in the hearth]].|\n[[Choose the wall. He drew those with his own hand|Blood on the chalk]].|

You poke about the ashes. There is a poker, brass, hanging above the mantle. \n\nThere is a [[portrait|Drake's portrait]] above the mantlepiece, which aside from a stopp'd clock, bears no other ornament. \n\nWait. Amidst the embers - you unearth a piece of paper, singed but not consumed by the flame. \n\n[[Read the remains|Drake's fire]].|\n[[Leave the fireplace|44a Wayside Court]].|

<<set $survivor = "yes">>Her smile is like a slit throat. \n\nThe orange is in your mouth, its juice pouring like a wound down your chin. \n\nThe moon is red. The sky is red. She is not. Her now empty hand grasps yours, and leads you from the tumbled graves, to the gloom of the city below the hill. \n\n[[You will survive|The Catacomb]].|\n

'Oh, they still toll.' Is all she will say. \n\nYou think you hear a chime, somewhere above.\n\n[[You have other questions|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Leave her for the moment|The Bell's Toll]].|\n\n\n

<<set $CharlotteTrusts += 3>> \nHer expression doesn't change, but the Countess places her hand in yours. You feel something pressed, cold, against the flesh of your palm. As she closes your fingers around her gift, she speaks.\n\n'Yes. You cannot hide. Why pretend otherwise?' <<set $CharlottesRuby = $CharlottesRuby + 1>>\n\nShe suddenly flies from her throne, and the full weight of her is upon you. With one sapphire-strung hand she holds your throat, with the other she tears open your collar. On the nape of your neck, she carves a symbol of your flesh, as you spasm beneath her. There is little blood. This does not lessen the pain.\n\nIn a moment, she is done, and situated once more upon the white seat of her majesty. She beckons for a mirror to be brought to you. \n\nYou see in the dark glass what she has made of you. An opened door that seems to expose the very inner workings of your flesh rests on your collar. <<set $SymbolOpenDoor = "yes">>\n\n[[She claps her hands. You are taken away, into the dark|Your chamber]].|\n

Helena brushes her ragged, ash-blonde hair from her face, and rubs her brow with a dishcloth. Behind her wax drips, like water from the faucet. Tallow is expensive. \n\n'I'm listening. I might even answer, if you ask questions pleasing to this ear of mine.' \n\n[[Ask her about Drake. Maybe she knew him|Helena evades]].|\n[[Ask her about the Bell's Toll. It is her establishment after all|Helena and the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Ask her about the Cloister. She must know something of recent events|Helena and the Cloister]].|\n<<if $HelenaKnewDrake gte 2>>[[She knew Drake. You are sure of it. Press the matter|Helena's Confession]].|<<endif>>\n[[Leave her unharried for the moment|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<set $StraightToBusiness = "yes">>There was once a fountain here. Now, only a dismal empty piece of statuary, birthing forth manticore and mandrake in tortured white stone stands in the courtyard, around which the tall slaums of Wayside Court gather. \n\nThis must once have been the novice's dormitories, arrayed above the long cloister. Below the rib-vaulted cellars. Above the rookery. \n\nThe address from your [[letter|Countess' Instructions]] looms before you out of the long dark that pervades this dim and lonesome place. Up a long flight of stairs, of wooden make, the number No.44a emblazoned in red paint, that lingers on the old door like spilt blood, lies your destination. \n\n[[Investigate 44a Wayside Court. It is, after all what you were sent to do|44a Wayside Court]].|\n[[Return to the Cloister. There are other diversions|Cloister]].|

The old lady turns at your approach. Her dirt-rimed face widens, all dimples and huge eyes, magnified by her grubby spectacles. \n\n'Why! A stranger!' She says, delighted. 'Now, you can answer a conundrum for me. Can you hear the bells?' She sips her gin, and gazes eagerly at you. 'Oh, forgive my manners. My names is Mrs Lamprey.' \n\n[[Inquire after the bells|Mrs Lamprey and the bells, the bells]].|\n[[She seems to be celebrating. What is there to celebrate here|Mrs Lamprey celebration]].|\n[[Leave Mrs Lamprey to her bells and her gin|The Bell's Toll]].|\n

The ancient heart collapses as you place it on your tongue, too fragile to survive your saliva, and oh, so much rich, old blood swamps your mouth, gushing down your chin, your clothing. \n\nIt is exquisite, as piece by little piece he disappears down your throat and into you. \n\nYou have never felt so full, so warm, so content. You want to sleep and couple and dance and scream all at once. \n\nYou feel him inside you. All of a moment - everything that was Joseph Block is within. Every memory, every sensation. You know him in all his vainglorious self-exultation. <<set $AteJosephBlock = "yes">>\n\nAnd then there is only meat and your stomach, and your mouth is ringed raw red. Blood drips like effluent from your chin. \n\n[[The door to the skullery is opening|Enter Charlotte]].|

<<set $Lights += 1>>Hareishan stands before you, eyes ringed with blue-night, like Homer's sea. Her heavy arms reach out to take yours. \n\n'I have searched for you. The boy and the traitor are ahead of us. Walk with me in these dark places, and I shall see you come to no harm not of your own making.'\n\nHareishan walks on into the dark. <<set $HareishanToDrake = "yes">>\n\n[[Follow|Long dark]].

Amazingly, you find a spigot at the nearest barrel. It is old, and dust-covered. You brush fastidiously at the grime with your handkerchief, before straining to turn the spigot. After some labour, it drips out a few drops of crimson liquid, which quickly becomes a torrent. \n\nYour hand is soaked with it, sticky and damp. You withdraw your hand to [[taste|taste the wine]]. \n

The light fades as you duck below the southern arch. Footsteps ahead of you. In the fast vanishing light you think you are in the transept of some great underground church. \n\n<<if $TanovaMausoleum is "yes">>You hear a muffled shriek behind the processional. You feel about for your matches. Five. You will have to use up one if you are to find anything in this gloom. \n[[Investigate|Tanova in trouble]].<<endif>>\n\nYou think you hear footsteps, and something clatter in the dark. \n\n[[Head to the source of the noise|Isaac in the chapel]].

You smear your arm onto the wall, pressing the blood to the lips of the chalk figures, giving them little mouths, like rose-buds dripping with dew. It is important you choose this particular analogy, as opposed to one of the many sinister alternates suddenly clawing at your thoughts. \n\nYou step back, and see the cluster of figures you've blessed have begun to bleed. Their pale forms fill full with blood, like a drop of wine mixed in with water, that spreads to fill the glass. \n\nThe blood bursts from the chalk figures, exsanguinating them entirely. Blood runs from the livid drawings, mixed with white dust, to form letters scored on the wall. \n\nGREYFRIAR. FOLLOWED. FRIEND AND ENEMY BOTH. WHICH ARE YOU? IF YOU ARE adamant IN THIS SPEND A FARTHING TO FIND. \n\nThe writing dribbles out, like spent wax. Your blood, spilt. \n\n[[You know where Drake has gone, if not quite why. Travel to Greyfriars Kirk|Greyfriars]].|\n[[There is more to be learnt here in the Cloister. Continue your investigation here|Explore the Cloister]].|

The old man nods as he feels your approach. \n\nHe turns to you and you see that his eyes have been hollowed out. \n\n'Never you mind that,' he says, 'I've had a fancy to put little tea-lights in 'em, really give 'em something to gawp at, but Dr F says it'd be dangerous. Might set myself alight. Now that'd really give 'em something to talk about, eh?' He laughs, a hearty chuckle, red-blooded like his coat. \n\n[[Who is this 'them'? Or indeed 'em|Who are they?]].|\n[[Ask him about himself. You don't have a name yet. How rude|Godfrey's name]].|\n[[Ask about Doctor Farthing|Godfrey and Dr F]].|\n[[Leave him for now. He is unsettling|The Undercroft]].|

The boy is handsome beneath the layers of sweat and dirt, lean from the forge. His nose is oddly crooked, as though broken several times, never properly mended. \n\n<<if $AteWilliamGrey is "yes">>Your new heart pumps against the wall of your stomach. Ardour like never before bursts through your body. Ardour, and sorrow, deeper than the grave. Andrew, the only boy you ever loved.\n\n[[Reach out, and stroke his lovely dark hair|Touch Andrew]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $KilledMrWithmass is "yes">>His eyes, blue as lightning on a storm-wracked evening, widen in horror. 'You done it! You bleedin' murdered him!' He backs away from you, dropping his hammer. \n\n[[Tell him you have freed him. He might even take the Forge if he wishes|Andrew's Forge]].|\n[[Reach out, and stroke his lovely dark hair to assuage him|Touch Andrew]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $AndrewKnows is "yes">>[[Ask about the bell. The singular bell|Andrew and the bell]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $CompletedAndrewsDeal is "yes">>[[Your work here is done. As is Master Withmass|Andrew and the Bell]].|<<endif>>\n[[Ask him about himself|Andrew]].|\n[[Ask him about his work|Andrew's work]].|\n[[Leave the boy be|The Forge]].|

<<set $rubydisplayed eq "yes">>The ruby ring gleams satisfactorily on the mantlepiece. A fine addition, and the first stamp of your own on your new quarters. \n\nYour time is, at least for now, your own. \n\n[[Explore this, your room|Explore chamber]].|\n[[Leave to explore the catacomb|All Souls]].|\n

Mrs Lamprey blanches with terror as you lean in close and whisper her shame. \n\n'Most of them survived! I only gave a few to Mr Drake. Him that was Madame Helena's conquest - you should ask her! In fact - just the two of them - Arabella and Isaac, the twins. They was old and clever. They'd be fine, I knows. The rest survived, I swear.'<<set $HelenaKnewDrake += "2">>\n\nShe begins to weep. 'I kept conditions good - hygienic like, and when I was shut down I made sure they was all sent on. Better than the smokes.'\n\nShe weeps into her gin. \n\n[[Leave her to her wailing|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[You have more questions. She will just have to pull herself together|Mrs Lamprey]].|

<<if $LoverMale is "yes">>Robin Goodfellow stands in the doorframe. Your heart skips a beat. He looks as surprised to see you as you are to see him. His powerful frame is enclosed in a greycoat of ashen hew. His blonde hair is longer, almost to his nape, shaggy and uneven. He looks pale, as though from poor sleep. He sighs - the sound brings back memories bittersweet.\n\n'I should have known you would find your way here. Especially so altered.' He doesn't bother to hide the revulsion in his voice. 'I should have stayed at sea, if I'd known you'd become thus. I came back for you. I want you to know that and I want to see you as you hear me say it.' He smiles grimly. 'You can still feel heartbreak, I see. Or perhaps it is a stolen heart that breaks. Like this bell.' He looks at you. 'The bell can be restored. There is a forge nearby. I have studied my phantasms. I'd tell you why, but I don't have any reason to. Fetch a new bell and place it here, so we may see it toll as well as hear it, and I shall tell you of what my life has become.' He shakes his head. 'You need not tell me of yours. I see what you have become.'\n\n<<else>>Robyn Goodfellow stands in the doorframe. Your heart skips a beat. She looks as surprised to see you as you are to see her. Her angular figure is enclosed in a greycoat of ashen hew. Her blonde hair is shorter, severely cut and pulled back from her face, which is thinner than you remember. She looks pale, as though from poor sleep. She sighs - the sound brings back memories bittersweet.\n\n'I should have known you would find your way here. Especially so altered.' She doesn't bother to hide the revulsion in her voice. 'I should have given myself to the church, if I'd known you'd become thus. I stayed in this world for you. I want you to know that and I want to see you as you hear me say it.' She smiles grimly. 'You can still feel heartbreak, I see. Or perhaps it is a stolen heart that breaks. Like this bell.' She looks at you. 'The bell can be restored. There is a forge nearby. I have studied my phantasms. I'd tell you why, but I don't have any reason to. Fetch a new bell and place it here, so we may see it toll as well as hear it, and I shall tell you of what my life has become.' She shakes her head. 'You need not tell me of yours. I see what you have become.'<<endif>>\n\n[[Your lover holds open the door for you. Their expression forbids further conversation. A new bell may tell you more, or you may leave this chapter of your life closed like a sepulchre door. You leave your lover beneath the phantom of a tolling bell|The Bell's Toll]].|\n

'You musn't tell.' \n\nHe looks at you, fear dawning like a red-gold sun behind his rheumy eyes. 'Promise.'\n\n[[Make the promise|Promised Mr Withmass]].|\n[[Make the promise. You can always break it to your advantage later|Promised Mr Withmass]].|\n[[No - he won't tell, but you won't be bound to this wretch|Why do you weep Mr Withmass]].|

The tongue the Christ-child spoke. \n\nBut there are more languages here, Greek, Latin, Coptic, Arabic, Egyptian Hierogyphic, Cuneiform of some sort, Norse runic - and for each a dozen variations of letter form, grammar, dialect, and syntax. \n\n'We do not wait in the dark. There is only the dark. The three days last forever, never to return. Upon the tree a lifetime. A lifetime eternity. There is no-one to account to or for. There is only us, always.' \n\nIn every language the same. \n\nYou wonder how many times this ritual has been repeated before now. Before you.\n\n<<display 'Ask Hareishan'>>\n

She extends her hands. They are marked with hieroglyphs. You recognise the binding of Osiris on them.\n\n'This is what I am. How might I teach a callow boy, who dreamed of the return of the priest-kings of old - of our time on the Steppe - of the Indies, Greater and Lesser - how might I teach him what he is when he had already decided?'\n\nShe takes your hand. You have the uncomfortable sensation that she is sizing it up for how it might accomodate her own hieroglyphs. 'He wished to know - not to learn. I gave him to our latest fledgling. A test for them both, I thought. But their hearts longed to beat together within separate breasts - not the first time, nor in itself anathema. But for his own purposes, Drake fled the boy. The child. I had renounced him and I will not restore what I have renounced. So he was granted to blind Milton, in the hopes that he might see.'\n\nShe pauses for breath. After a time, stood facing each other in the silent long forgotten monastic hall, it becomes apparent she has said all she will.\n\n[[You have further questions for Hareishan|Hareishan in Drake's rooms]].|\n[[Leave Hareishan for now|Drake's boudoir]].|

The pulpit would not look out of place in a Florentine baptistry. A narrow set of stone stairs winds their way around the octagonal structure. It rises from the cellar floor as though always here. Reliefs in stone are carved into the eight windows of the pulpit - each depicting a separate scene from Revelation. \n\nThe opening of the Seventh Seal, naturally.\nThe oncoming of Babylon, here a reverse Madonna. \nThe deaths of two thirds of the world's Jews, in ghoulish detail. \nThe opening of the Gate of Alisaunder. Was that Revelation, come to think of it? \nThe Antichrist, a shadow crossing the seventh frame. \nThe dragon rising from the pit, three heads grotesquely carved. \nThe coming of the thousand year kingdom at Jerusalem. \nThe coming of the other thousand year kingdom. The other kingdom? Oh dear. \n\n[[You turn your gaze from the pulpit|The Undercroft]].|

<<set $SolvingArgentMurder += "1">>The door creaks like an opened coffin. Beyond, a comfortable sitting room. \n\nTea, set for two. \n\nThe table reveals a map of Edinburgh, centred on the Tron Kirk Above - and the Catacomb of All Souls Below.\n\nWorrying. \n\n[[There is nothing else to see here|The hidden room]].|

'Oh. Yes. That.'\n\nHe offers you a drink. Claret, you think, though of a peculiar boquet. The bottle is drained, and Isaac fills it with one of his black tallow candles, which immediately dribbles to form a seal on the opening. \n\n'I studied under Hareishan for a while, but we differed on many things. It was felt another tutor was required, and one was found. He felt that my gifts were better suited to arts outside of blood and hearts.'\n\nIsaac is evasive on what these arts entail, but alchemy comes up - though he has no patience for Dee or the estimable gentleman of Belgrade - as does necromancy. Isaac expresses frustration that that science tells us nothing of what goes on beyond the veil, only shackles life to one side of the curtain, brushing up against the cobwebs. \n\nAt last, his thin voice tires, and he expresses exhaustion.\n\n[[You sense your audience is at an end, for the moment|All Souls]].

My dearest wyrm, \n\nMy fondest regards. We pass another dreary winter here at All Souls. The good Countess is reluctant to let us stalk the above as we used to, now that the Chapter for Public Works has us in its eyes once more. There is little in the way of charming company here - Tanova is busy with a new foundling, and Lassal is worse than useless. I would almost say I miss Arabella, but you and I both know that that would be a lie.\n\nAnd all I have learnt of the wickedness of deception comes from you. \n\nToo harsh? I miss you. I could tell you of my studies. I am not so fond of this new master you have set on me. I assume you think him challenging. I find him tedious. He is pedantic where he might be vague, obscure when good sense is required, zealous when laxity is in order, and blaise in the face of the most hallowed - \n\nThe letter trails off here, impossible to read under a mess of scoring and spilt ink. You sense it was never finished. \n<<set ReadIsaacLetter = "yes">>\n\n[[Return to surveying the desk|Desks]].|

<<set $AdamantComes += 1>>Drake dabs blood from Isaac's face. 'Because there is a vicious hatred here, that allows no man to enter. You will have felt it above. As above, so below. \n\nIt follows all who walk this cursed place. It is prisoner and gaoler both. The Convenant was made here, and they starved for it. The one who ordered such lies buried here, in the place of his crime. The inevitable followed.\n\nI thought myself safe - but I have placed us all in grave danger.' \n\nLight gathers at the door.\n\n[[Watch|Fourth question]].

You step and trip up a small flight of dark stairs. You fumble blindly in the bleak gloaming, until you feel your foot connect with hard rock. You feel about, but find the way further up impassable.\n\n[[Strike a match|Blocked stairwell]]\n[[Go back|Undercroft]].

A shadow falls across the sun.\n\nYou turn. The shadow has always been there. It has walked with you always.\n\n[[The heart is stilling. Devour it before it stops|Eat Joseph Block]].|\n\nIt has come at last for you and you are not afraid. \n\nBut as it reaches for you, its eyes are full of pity and malice. \n\n'This was not for you. You may serve us better as other.' The broken hand reaches into your thin chest and snaps it like a wren's neck, like china shattering, as your breast breaks and all is agony.\n\nThe heart beats on. All the rest is gone. \n\n[[This was the death of Joseph Block|Joseph Block]].|

The Cloister - so named due to its existence within the ruins of an 11th century Carthusian double monastery - is quiet tonight. The air is cloying and close, the corridoors too close and too filthy for human consumption, though there is plenty of that to be found here. \n\nWayside Court you know, dimly, and it is not far from here, built into the undercroft of the original monastery. \n\nYou smell the air, as you adjust to the quarters of the living. Spiced wine, poor quality meat, the effluvia of lust, sorrow, joy mingles and forms a heady scent in the starless night. You are at a crossroads within the Cloisters - on the main throughfare, as much as such a place can be said to have traffic. There is an inn - more a tavern, immediately opposite, shadowing the ruined walls of the old Chapter House. \n\nA sign on the door proclaims it to be the Bell's Toll. A crack'd iron bell hangs forlornly from the soot-choked wooden sign. Embers sly in the shrouded glass windows, laughter heard clearly. The door, garretted, is inviting. \n\n[[Head to Wayside Court immediately|Wayside Court First Time]].|\n[[There is time to enjoy human company. How long has it been|The Bell's Toll First Time]]?|\n\n

The heart beats red as you guide it to thoughts of dalliances past. \n\nThere are several, in fact. A tavern wench at a local sloophouse - the World's End, sunk deep into Riverside, though its upper windows look out on the valley. Her hair is like amber, all snared with insects. Her name is Annie Gable, and when he is with her, his heart beats fast and steady. \n\nThe fastness is mesmerising, the rythmic stirring as it recalls memories past. \n[[You could end this now and feast|Eat William Grey]].|\n\nThere are several riverside whores he visits, two women, often together. They are from the Republic, and their ancestry stretches futher east. They fled here, and he does not pay them. You suspect he protects them. Around them his heart beats cool but quick. \n\nThere is an apprentice, at the forge. Brown hair and blue eyes, watchful and timid. His name is Andrew. A mixture of shame, desire, and protection. They met amidst the burning coals where the swords are put in water barrels to cool. It continues there. The heart glows and beats quick. \n\nFinally there is a courtesan in the New Town. He takes a carriage there once a month, as soon as his wages come in. They barely cover the coach. You wonder how he affords her. Her name is Mhari West. The heart beats like a drum, like a gallows march, but burns like the mouth of Hell. \n\n[[These are the loves of William Gray|William Grey]].|

You untie the string. This feels illicit - which is ridiculous given everything else that's happened. \n\nA pile of yellowing letters tumbles out. You cough fron the assembled dust, that flies out to greet you. \n\nYou open the first - it is addressed, in plain, good English, to an Arabella Wilton. The letter is a tedious accounting of country walks, lakeside ventures, and promenades in Bath. It must date from before light-out. \n\nThe remaining letters, curiously, are not in English, nor any of the other half-dozen languages you read. Norse? Old English? But in the same hand. How odd. \n\n[[Return the letters and leave the drawers for now|Explore chamber]].|

<<set $AdamantComes += 1>>Drake sighs. 'There was a doom writ upon my neck. We all share them. I fell in love after death.' Here he traces Isaac's cheek with a terrible tenderness. \n\n'I thought if I hid long enough, I'd be forgot. But all my dooms have come upon me together.' \n\nLight gathers at the door.\n\n[[Watch|First question]].

The Countess is at court. All seven rows of candles lit. She bathes in luminescence like a new dawn. \n\nAll Souls is arrayed before her. Your allies from the Mausoleum are beneath her. The one you saved by her side. You are alone at the foot of her throne. Her gaze like a black mirror on you. \n\nShe considers you. At last she speaks. \n\n'A Convent has risen to make war upon us. An Adamant Convent, bathed in old prophecy and half-remembred dreams of salvation. And they would destroy us. It has already begun.' She stands. Her court kneels. You do not. Your hearts beat inside of you, as though about to burst. \n\n<<if $SavedDrake is "yes">>She runs her hand along your throat, cradling your head in her thin, terrible hands. 'He will never forgive you, but I shall. He is dear to me. And more - he knows this new threat. We shall make use of him. We have made good use of you.' She lets you go.<<endif>>\n<<if $SavedIsaac is "yes">>She grips your neck in her terrible, long hands. Her spittle blisters your skin. Her nails break flesh. Draw blood. 'If I think lust or some weaker emotion blinded you when you erred in your decision, I shall break your bones on a new wheel of pain so terrible St Catherine should weep for envy.' She releases you. 'You have saved the boy. He shall have to prove his use. As shall you. You will study his art with him. We will need all of the strange knowledge we can gather to meet this threat.'<<endif>>\n\nShe returns to her throne. 'We are, it seems, at war. This threat will not survive us. You shall all be tested, of that I will make sure.' She raises her hands to the darkness above her brief platform of light. 'Fear not salvation, my coven. We are far too terrible for that fate. Make ready, my flock. We have only just begun.'

James StAnthony

She turns at your approach, uncomfortably jerking her neck suddenly upright, with an unpleasant snap. \n\nShe appears in aspect a woman no older than Charlotte, but her linens, though well preserved, are ancient. More like winding sheets, and peppered with hierogylphys. Her eyes are thick with kohl, and ringed with lapiz. An ibis hangs from the centre of her straight, obsidian dark hair. You breathe her in, and almost choke upon the dust. \n\n'I know you, initiate.' Her voice is soft, like wind on a night desert. 'No doubt you have many questions. But you do not know yourself yet. Once the Countess has done with you, return to me. Then I may have answers, or at least, further questions.'\n\n[[Who is this woman|WhoIsHareishan]]?|\n<<if $KnowHareishan is "yes">>[[You saw her portrait in the Drawing Room. Ask her|Hareishan Portrait]].|<<endif>>\n[[Take your leave of her|Chapel]].|

His eyes fix upon yours. You sense he does not like the question. \n\n'A woman from above. A sun cultist, I think. Appropriate that she might sustain us now. Her husband is on death's door - she has no children. Her heart will dessicate unless you devour it.' \n\nHe pauses, and licks his lips. 'I'm sorry. I seem to be saying that rather a lot. But it's true - I am sorry. And this is the only way.' \n\nHunger groans within, like some long sleeping corpse, bloated with gas, rising from its catacomb shelf to live again. \n\nThe heart glistens in his delicate hands. \n\n[[Take the heart. It is yours|Delicious heart]].|\n[[Refuse. There has to be more than this|Denial]].|

'We all do things to survive. Down here, in the dark, with no-one barely able to afford light. Who'd see if you slipped a little? Off the good path. Maybe rent's due - though the old bitch was carried away, so that's less of a concern. Or you've a very nasty group of gentleman on your tail about money owed. Or maybe you're just bored, or lonely, or despairing. It happens. \n\nBut not here. I keep this place clean, and hope it sets an example to the rest of the sorry spirits drifting down here. I'll sell 'em liquor and good company, and if they want to go slipping down the dark, well they'll have to work to find that particular tunnel. You draw your own line, and you light it with all the candles you can afford, and you hope if it burns bright enough, others will come and curl up all around for comfort.' \n\n<<if $AteMrsHeichmann is "yes">>[[The old bitch? Something in your stomach stirs|Helena Mrs Heichmann]].|<<endif>>\n[[You have other questions|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Leave Helena alone for now|The Bell's Toll]].|\n

There are rather a lot of names carved into the dark wood, but some recur with alarming regularity: \n\nMilton, Drake, Arabella, Tanova, Valen, Kubla, Charlotte, Carthuse. \n\nOne name has been scored out in every instance that it appears: Merveille. \n\nThere is also a scrap of poetry: \n'I saw their starved lips in the gloam,\t\n With horrid warning gaped wide,\t\nAnd I awoke and found me here,\t\n On the cold hill’s side.'\n\n[[Return to prying through the desks|Desks]].|

He stands to take your hand. He bites down, hard, on your knuckle, and blood flows from the fresh wound to touch the back of his throat. His teeth are stained with you. \n\nHe motions for you to take his hand in your teeth. \n\n[[Accept the small, fine-boned hand|Isaac Greeting]].|\n[[Refuse and make your exit|All Souls]].|

<<set $BellTolled += "1">>Somewhere, near yet so very far, a bell tolls. You think it comes from above. It sounds like muffled - as though drowned. 'These are pearls that were his eyes'. Then it is gone, as slow stopped as started. \n\nHelena looks away. 'There was a gentleman, much like yourself, who visited here on occasion. Not in aspect, of course, but in attire. How he carried himself. Said he felt at home here, amongst the lonely, the broken, the almost damned teetering on the edge of salvation.\n\nI served him all the same. I may be prejudiced, but my liquour ain't.' \n\nShe glares at you, a pale fire in her eyes.<<set $HelenaKnewDrake += "1">>\n\n[[Helena knows something. You'll need more evidence to confront her|The Bell's Toll]].|

Novitiate, \n\nHail and well met, Countess Charlotte, the first of her name, greets you. \n\nYour formal instruction begins here. Your master will shadow you on this task. I leave to their discretion both the matter of your contact and its manner. They will undoubtedly have other favours for you to perform during my task. It is the privilege of elderdom. Remember only that what I have set you must take priority, and all shall be well. \n\nI charge you with locating my errant knight, Drake, elder of All Souls. He kept lodging at No. 44a Wayside Court, behind the Stair. He has not sent word in a fiveday, and he has been absent from my shadowed court for a threemonth. His sign is the Hanged Man. His Master was Hareishan. He rebelled from her tutelage, and discovered a new Master in Lassal. He is only a decade older than you in All Souls. I fear he has been converted from us. I would have you determine where he has gone, why he has flown from us, and return him to us, in descending order of importance, and my own personal investiture in this matters.\n\nThink me not too callous,\nCharlotte Regina \n\nWitnessed by the Armsmaster of All Souls, Caul\n\t\t\t the Handmaid of the Countess, Zanche\n\t\t\t the Countess' ward, Emmeline. \n\n[[You return the letter to safety in the inside of your coat|The Long Stair]].|

<<set $PromisedWithmass = "yes">>'It was the lady - Aureate she called herself. Fancy like - and William had the very devil in his loins for women 'bove his station.' Mr Withmass chuckles, 'Above, you see.' \n\nYou have no memory of any lady answering to that description, and poor William is, you've realised, assiduous in his descriptions. \n\n'She came to the Forge in the dark but oh, she shone, and she told me where William would be but didn't say why, and not long after along comes the gentleman in red.\n\nShe smelt like a hot summer's day, I do remember. I wept for her smell.' \n\nTears spring to his eyes again. Well. \n\n[[You never promised not to hurt him, the fool|Goodbye Mr Withmass]].|\n[[Leave him to rot with his guilt|The Forge]].|

Her eyes, blue ringed, like hieroglyphics, widen. In the dark, her pupils dilate, like a cat's. \n\n'Novitiate's rarely ask. The words are [[Aramaic]]. In part. A proclamation - or a creed - binding you to the dark. To below. There is a price - many deny it. I will not allow denial. Accept, if not embrace, all that this means.' \n\nShe leans in close, and you can smell perfume, faded sunlight, and sand on her corpse-breath. 'This is the end. This can only be the end. From here, eternity.' \n\nShe begins to wind the ragged parchment about your breast.\n\n[[Accept this, the only end|Submit]].|\n[[Pull away, not yet|Deny]].|

There was a sailor. The heart beats a little quicker. It warms in your hand, like a bird sheltering in its nest.\n\n[[It will never be more ripe than now. Consume it quick|Eat Mrs Heichmann]].|\n\nHe went out over the dark water, yes he did. You made him swear to come back, and he did. You wasted years waiting for the old sot to come back from over the water, from the islands in Pacific or some other such queer place. And yet he died in your inn all the same. \n\nOh my husband came back over the ocean, and he said he'd seen the sun. He was feverish and raving and reeking of rum, but he was tanned. Somehow, he'd tanned. And someone took offence, and challenged him. And there in a pool of his own blood, piss, and vomit, he died, his teeth shattered and rattling and who had to clean that up?\n\nYour husband sailed over the ocean.\n\n[[This is the love of Mrs Heichmann|Mrs Heichmann]].|

<<set $LassalTrusts += 1>>\n<<set $HareishanDistrusts += 1>>\nThe Countess nods. 'A wise choice. Not one I would have made, but I am ruler here, and that burden is not yours. This world of ours is hidden even to us. Life is only eternal if we show caution. There are pleasures, delights, wonders to be found, but I suspect only savoured in ignorance.' \n\nShe suddenly flies from her throne, and the full weight of her is upon you. With one sapphire-strung hand she holds your throat, with the other she tears open your collar. On the nape of your neck, she carves a symbol of your flesh, as you spasm beneath her. There is little blood. This does not lessen the pain.\n\nIn a moment, she is done, and situated once more upon the white seat of her majesty. She beckons for a mirror to be brought to you. \n\nYou see in the dark glass what she has made of you. A magician sleeps, head on his book, knotted in your flesh. <<set $SymbolIgnorance = "yes">>\n\n[[She claps her hands. You are taken away, into the dark|Your chamber]].|\n

You move to light the match. Gloved fingers pinch the flame out as soon as it is lit. \n\nEmmeline's voice comes softly like death. 'Have there not been enough lights here? They are ahead. Come, let me guide you.' \n\nThe gloved hand, now traced with ash, clasps yours. <<set $EmmelineToDrake = "yes">>\n\n[[You are led onwards|Drake at last]].

<<set $TakenWytheGun = "yes">>It is snug in your pocket. Still damnably warm. But a fine thing nonetheless. Almost unique.\n\n[[You return your attention to the turret room|The lonely turret]].|

The bed is like a great galleon, sunk in the shallows off the shore. Sunken, but stately, masts and sails flung proudly skyward. \n\nGreat [[hangings|hangings]]| create an inner sanctum, in the heart of your chamber. \n\n[[Push back the cloth and enter|Inner sanctum]].|\n[[Leave the bed, for now|Explore chamber]].|

A small, domed structure, a heavy black door between grey-stone pillars. Classical, in the bleakest sense. Sunken into the fallow earth. \n\nInscriptions on the doors reveal it to be the tomb of Sir George Mackenzie, the architect of the Covenanters Prison. You shudder from some far-off chill. \n\nThe doors are locked, from the outside. Presumably, a key too can be found on this side of the doors. Unless you find it, the doors shall remain sealed.\n\n<<if $HasKey is "yes">>You place the key into the lock. It turns. The door clicks. It is open. \n\n[[You push open the mausoleum door|Inside the Black Mausoleum]].|<<endif>>\n\n[[You turn away from the mausoleum|Upper Greyfriars]].|

You take a seat less dust-shrouded than the rest, near a cobweb-hung window illuminated by a flickering candle flame. The air is thick with tallow and sour wine. \n\nYour manner of dress attracts a few stares - even plain, the quality of your attire stands out. Still, you draw no attention to yourself, and eventually you are left alone to glance about the room as you please. \n\nAside from the singer, there is an old lady - though age is hard to guess in the dark and poverty of the Cloister. She might be anywhere between forty and seventy. She seems inebriated and contented. There is an older man, shabbily attired in a fine frock-coat, and with spectacles gleaming with brass frames above a neat-white pointed beard. <<if $afraid is "yes">>There is a familiar figure, ringed in flame and shadow, sat laughing by the hearth. Lassal is here.<<endif>>\n\n[[Approach the singer. He's as close to vital as anyone gets here|Singing Jack]].|\n[[Approach the old lady. She looks like she's having a good time|Mrs Lamprey]].|\n[[Approach the older man. A touch of elegance in the below|Dr Farthing]].|\n<<if $afraid is "yes">>[[Approach Lassal. Why is he here|Lassal in the Bell's Toll]]?|<<endif>>\n[[Continue to watch. You haven't been noticed yet|Keep watching]].|\n[[There are other distractions in the Bell's Toll. Pursue those instead|The Bell's Toll]].|

She spits. 'A right old witch, name of Mrs Heichmann. God suffer not her soul to rest. Was landlady of most of the Cloister. I say there's not much crime down here - the worst climb higher as soon as they can. Mrs Heichmann was our worst - not canny enough to raise her sorry self above these dismal climes, but sharper and meaner than the stupid destitutes hereabout. I heard someone finally done her in. Done her in good and proper.\n\nI'm only sad I couldn't bring myself to do it first.' \n\nAt that, your hearts begin to beat a little faster. There is a terrible pressure in your stomach. Sweat runs down your brow. Your sight blurs - something inside you wants to show you something. \n\n[[Keep down the bile rising, and turn away from the bar. Fast|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Surrender to your beating heart|Mrs Heichmann Speaks Her Mind]].|

<<set $HareishanTrusts -= "2">>She sighs, as you unspool your findings and your careful analysis thereof. She raises a hand to stop your mouth. \n\n'If I had wished my own theory repeated to me, I would have brought a parrot.' \n\nShe walks past you, her gray hands trailing the outline of the eerie chalk figures. 'It seems we are of one mind. Drake has broken with the coven, and Isaac is the cause. The question remains: where has he gone?' She looks about the hallway. 'Perhaps there is something we have missed.' \n\n[[Search for further answers|Drake's boudoir]].|\n[[You have further questions for her|Hareishan in Drake's rooms]].|

'Once the monks made the peasants till their fields to feed their growing bellies, now the poor make their homes in their ruins. I think that's fitting, don't you?' \n\nHelena smiles grimly. 'But you didn't want a history lesson. You're here on Candlemas Lane, the main street, where once the church stood, behind the stair in the old cellars is Wayside Court. A miserable old bitch held court there, and now lies in a shallow grave. Not far from here actually, if you've any spittle built up.' \n\n'It's a grim place, as are its folk. We eke out what we can, most have turned from God, seeing this ruin as proof. Personally, I see it as proof enduring that something remains.' \n\nShe smiles. It is not a happy smile. 'This is the Cloister, friend. Such as it is.' \n\n[[You have further questions for Helena|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Leave Helena for now|The Bell's Toll]].|

'Oh, Dr F. He's a regular marvel, he is.' She coughs, and you find yourself forced to steady her as her shoulders shake with hacking. \n\n'Excuse me. The black helps, I've found. He found me in the gutter, the actual gutter, sir. I'd been kicked out of me old rooms in the tenement. Fucking Mrs Heichmann, if you'll pardon the language. God knows, she didn't. \n\nDr F lets me stay here - I helps keep the place tidy for his lectures. We normally get a bigger crowd than this, but it's a weekend. Dr F gives his improving lectures for free. He calls us his little parish. Might sound blasphemous, but there's not been a priest this far down in years.'\n\n[[Ask about her old rooms|Jenny's rooms]].|\n[[Leave her to her raptured attentions|The Undercroft]].|\n[[You have other questions for her|Jenny the acolyte]].|

A mouldering tenement, crumbling out of the abandoned dormitories, rotten wood extending out of foundations of stone. \n\nCandles flicker in the windows of several former cells. Children wail on the earthly breeze. \n\n<<if $AteMrsHeichmann is "yes">>[[The little stair here leads down to what your heart tells you were Mrs Heichmann's rooms|Mrs Heichmann's rooms]].|\n[[That room on the second floor, doused candle, is where she died, if you were of a morbid bent|The spy's rooms]].|<<endif>>\n[[There is a dreadful smell coming from the attic. Investigate, at your peril|The attic]].|\n[[There is little and less for you here|Explore the Cloister]].|

You open the stone door, which groans and scrapes inwards, to be assualted by a hot wave of perfume and spice, which threatens to overturn your senses. \n\nIn the thick steam, you perceive a series of stone steps running downwards, to a great depression, like a vault in the centre of the chamber. \n\nThere are [[mosaics|Bath mosaics]]| on the walls, in amber and slate, and [[an array of unguents, thuribles, censers, and bottles on a shelf that spans the western wall|vampire bubble bath]].| \n\n<<if $afraid is "yes">>Lassal is lounging amidst the steam, the dark waters lapping about his pale legs, eyes closed, seemingly lost in reverie.\n\n[[Speak to your new mentor|Lassal in the bath]].|\n[[Make your exit. Perhaps later|Main hallway]].|\n\n<<else>>There is a paledark man, white of skin, but dark as sin in eye and hair. He resembles nothing so much as Waterhouse's Narcissus, though here he is fully immersed in his reflection. \n\n[[Speak to the man, assuming you can tear him from his reverie|Lassal Introduction]].|\n[[Make your exit. Perhaps later|Main hallway]].|<<endif>>

He winks. 'This idle old whore?' He chuckles, rich and throaty like fine brandy. \n\n'Not a great deal to tell. I'm sure Hareishan could rattle her bonebox all day, but really, this city was always built on itself. Rich climb on poor in their desperate attempt to escape the gutter. Add to that a hill, several fortifications since man first learnt flame to Charlie's days, and an unceasing appetite for both siegeworks and industry, it's no surprise things get forgotten. A bridge built too high, so a district has to clamber to meet it. A road diverted. A fortress tumbled. \n\nAll Souls has no significance but to the souls in it. Then why make it our capital? Because London could unify against us. Whereas if her Majesty's dread government turns its hand north, all across the North and further hands would go to tools, before a single footstep had touched the stair down. Though when did an army last march across the long dark?' He leans back, arcing his throat. \n\n'We could go anywhere, but a coven is a jealous thing. And we are safe here, and there is much sport above and below.' \n\n<<if $afraid is "yes">>[[Continue the conversation|Lassal in the bath]].|\n<<else>>[[Continue the conversation|Lassal Introduction]].|<<endif>>\n[[Take your leave of him|Bath]].|

Sadly not. \n\nThe inn is desperately decayed. There are no cards, no dice, no dogs. The liquor is behind the bar or in tankards. Everything else is so much cobweb and dust. \n\nThere is a shambling staircase that rickets its way up into the gloom that pervades the place, literally hanging over the ill-lit common room like an executioner's blade. Or Death's. \n\n[[Head upstairs|UpstairsNoBell]].|\n[[Return your attention to the rest of the common room|The Bell's Toll]].|\n<<if $TheBellTolled gte 3>>[[The tolling is coming from up the stairs. Above a bell waits, hanging over all your heads|UpstairsTheBell]].|<<endif>>

The white light is a distant memory. Silence reigns in this shadowed vault. You think you see a sliver of moon hang over in a window impossibly far above, but it is quickly occluded by dark cloud. \n\nThere is a single door ahead that you make out in that brief moment. Perhaps more - you would need to light a match to find out. \n\n[[Light a match|Lit match dark chamber]].\n[[Go through the door|Sacristy]].

You peer closer into the reflection.\n\nThe glass is polished, though the upper reaches have been somewhat neglected. Spiderwebs haunt the higher echelons, framing the space above your head with elegant gossamer cornices. \n\nLeaning closer, you become aware that there are tremors - traumas - in the glass. A thousand tiny cracks, invisible but for candlelight and your newly sharpened eyes. A second, greater spiderweb ensnares the long mirror. \n\nNear the centre, where your heart beats in the reflection, a sliver of mirror shard is missing, exposing the dark canvas on which it rests. \n\n[[Return your attention to the mirror|Mirror]].|\n[[Return to exploring your room|Explore chamber]].|

<<set $SolvingArgentMurder += "1">>The door opens with a gasp, a sharp intake of breath, as the stone scrapes along the floor. Against what, you wonder? The floor is wooden. \n\nBut the room is not. A silver room. Metal, etched in sharp reliefs. The Last Judgement in stark black outline and steel. \n\nA red angel kneeling before the Lord in terrible Triumph, and the bodies of the dead all rising and rising and rising, from tomb and coffin and barrow, all pointing west toward the Lord, even their priests risen to face their flock to point the way contort their limbs so like Michelangelo's Adam their fingertips brush the divine. \n\nThe red angel is in chains. Two women on either side of her. Shade pools about them. \n\nThere are no windows. Sealed tight as a sepulchre. \n\n[[You turn from the eerie reliefs|The hidden room]].|

Helena opens the bottle of liquid emerald, which looks like someone has melted a precious gem and spread out the remnant like a pool. \n\nShe pours out the liquid, which smells sharp, more of citrus than the liquourice quality of absinthe you had expected. Your glass, small and mean like the scent, is filled with the liquid-fire. \n\nYou knock it back, unsure how else to take it. You place a hand on the bar to steady yourself, as around you Helena moves glasses away. 'St Elmo's Fire,' You croak out, before your head ceases to spin. The visions of electric-green-glass light behind your eyes eventually stop. \n\n<<if $AteJosephBlock is "yes">>This is familiar. This is chantreuse. You see light, beyond the window, and a smiling face, female, drip sugar over your glass. You take it back, in a slow gulp, like a snake taking a rat, and begin to speak. It is a marvellous speech - on the metaphysics of man, of John Donne's transfusions, and the alchemic properties of Christ. <<endif>>\n\nYou come to, to find your glass refilled. With water. Helena moves her ash-blonde hair from her face. 'Always takes folk different.' \n\n[[Attempt to make conversation. She may know something|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Perhaps not. There is more to explore|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Request another drink|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|

Tears spring to the old man's eyes, washing out the crusted dust embedded there.\n\n'Found dead Above. Near the river, by the drowned stair - what was he doing up there for? I always loved 'im best of all the lads.' \n\nWithin your stomach, a peculiar burning sensation, as though something emerald roils therein. Memories float unbidden. \n\nMaster Withmass, terror of the forge, who beat apprentices bloody if they but put a rivet out of place, and cast the weaklings out onto the dark. Master Withmass who broke Andrew's pointed nose for fainting with hunger one winter's eve. Master Withmass who would have killed them both if he'd known... \n\nIn your heart and in your belly, you burn. There is a hammer hot on the forge - the old man turns from you, seemingly overcome with emotion. \n\n[[Strike now, while the iron is hot|Goodbye Mr Withmass]].|\n[[Leave the old bully, before you do something you might regret|The Forge]].|\n[[Ask about these crocodile tears of his|Why do you weep Mr Withmass]].|

'You'll think me terribly soppy,' He says, 'But I actually love him.' He smiles ruefully. 'Terrible, isn't it? We may not be mortal, but it's mortal engines that still drive us.' \n\nHe sighs. 'Even if the bastard did leave me. So I'm coming with.' \n\n[[Head into the mausoleum|The Black Mausoleum]].|\n[[No. You have other questions|Inside the Black Mausoleum]].|

Your own screams echo around you in this low-vaulted place, even as you cease, your throat too raw from howling. \n\nThere are leisions in your flesh, angry red wounds where the scroll has buried itself under your skin. \n\nIt itches from within, the words appearing again and again, language after language. Not from within your mind's eye, but from your blood. It speaks. It chants. With each beat of your heart, the words resurface. \n\nYou want to tear inside your skin, burrow with red hot needles, spatter your own blood from your ruined veins across the walls of this old chamber. \n\nHareishan clamps a pair of iron manacles about your wrists before you can begin. 'A precaution. You will adjust.'\n\nBound to her, within and without, she leads you behind her. [[You are to meet someone named the Countess|The Countess]].|

'I bring learning to the ignorant masses below. Not the stuff of the body - but of the mind, which Donne teaches us is as physical as our fleshly substance, and as substantial as our souls' He smiles, seemingly pleased with his erudition. \n\n'Now, I am adamant that wealth brings not neccesarily the sole path to understanding. The oppurtunity, certainly, but the poor mind is not of neccesity a fallow field. There is richness behind these dim eyes. I aim to unlock it. You seem of a better quality than most here, but I sense it was not always thus. You have, I am sure, found your own path to betterment. But I doubt it is one all can walk so readily. Your eyes speak of the intermingling of pain and pleasure Donne spoke oft of. The two walk hand in hand so often, and leave one's every memory haunted. The bad uplifted by the sweet, the good tainted by the wicked.' \n\nHe smiles broadly. 'If you would hear more of my work, I will be giving a lecture in the undercroft in a few hours.'<<set $DrFarthingsInvite = "yes">>\n\n[[You have further questions|Dr Farthing]].|\n[[Leave him for the moment|The Bell's Toll]].|

The wine gurgles promisingly as it spills from the uncorked bottle into the only wine glass in the establishment. The glass is old, delicately constructed with intricate designs in the long panes, which rise like the vaults of a cathedral to the bowl. \n\nHelena watches you without much interest as you luxuriate in the sensation of sour wine pouring down your throat. The aftertaste is to die for. You suspect many have. \n\n[[Attempt to make conversation. She may know something|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Perhaps not. There is more to explore|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Request another drink|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|

She hails you with a raised hand. She stops with a heavy breath.\n\n'Sorry, skipper,' She says with a smile halted by the scarring on her cheek, 'I got delayed. But like the sun, I rise again.' She laughs at her joke, her laughter cutting through the night air. \n\n'So Drake's holed up here? Morbid sod, always was.'\n\n[[Ask her if she is in pain. The burns are recent|Tanova in pain]].|\n[[How did she know where to find Drake|Tanova and Drake]]?|\n[[Ask her where she has been. She has neglected her charge|Tanova's Hiding]].|

The portrait is familiar indeed. \n\nIn faded colours, like a Renaissance masterpiece - Giotto perhaps, though with a de Martini appreciation for pasted gemstones as opposed to gold - is your lover. \n\n[[His beautiful features gape out from the faded canvas|Lover Male]].|\n[[Her beautiful features gape out from the faded canvas|Lover Female]].|

<<set $LoverFemale = "yes">>Robyn Goodfellow. The Parson's sweet faced, albeit sharp-tongued sister, whom you attended on in the little parish of Briar, on the far side of Arthur's Seat. She would accompany you on occasion into the city, to chuse new gowns for the coming season, though she professed to despise the whole business. You would take tea cakes in Jenners, and walk arm in arm about the Mile, putting the world to rights. \n\nAnd somehow she is here. Her hair, once golden like the hay in high summer, is faded, like the canvas. Her cheeks, once full and plump, are fallen, like the Tron Kirk. Her dress is recognisable, as one you bought once, whilst attending a dull relative in Glasgow, but now is but shreds and tatters, keeping the worst of the manacles from biting into her skin. \n\n[[You tear yourself away. Something is wrong|Drawing room]].|

<<set $Lights += 1>>You almost step on Lassal, white with fear, huddled behind a small cupboard, on which rotten priestly vestments have been laid out. \n\n'The Convenanters. They starved to death above! They haunt still!' His eyes are focused on your brief light, a terrible feverish anticipation, equal parts fear and hunger, in his eyes. 'He built this tomb, and they followed. So close! Stupid man. We are not safe here!'\n\nYou pull Lassal to his feet. A grim and confused history falls like Eden's apple from his too red lips. You try your best to keep on. <<set $LassalToDrake = "yes">>\n\n[[Press on|Undercroft]].

The desks, though beautifully made and well polished, have suffered much. [[Names|names]] have been carved into their faces, their undersides, their lids, and they bear the scars of scoring with quills and pens, and are all spattered somewhere with ink. \n\nA few objects catch your attention as you take advantage of the empty study to begin your own of the inhabitants of this new home. A letter, unfinished, sits framed in the writing stand of one, on another a journal, poorly clasped. There is a chain, bereft of its pendant, left languishing and forgotten upon the side of a desk. Perhaps it is being used as a bookmark.\n\n[[Examine the letter|study letter]].|\n[[Examine the journal|study journal]].|\n[[Take the chain. Perhaps you'll find the pendant later|Chain]].|\n[[Leave the desks untampered with, for now|The study]].|

The forge is still hard at work, despite the lateness of the hour. Then again, you suppose, every hour is late here. The clock, such as it was, stopped a hundred years ago. \n\nThe smithy is built out of the ruins of what appears to have been a side-chapel, an icon of the Madonna still visible on the wall, replete with tears. Late medieval, you'd guess. The forge spills out into the street, its smoke and sweat bounded by leather hangings which claimed this space as mine and the rest as thine. \n\nA heavyset man pumps the bellows, clad only in a leather apron and smoke-wrecked britches. A younger man by one of the anvils is doing something complicated with hot iron and links of chain. \n\nThey both glance up at your approach. \n\n[[Examine the forge. This is public land. You have a right|Investigate the forge]].|\n[[Speak to the older man. He seems like he's in charge|Talking to Master Withmass]].|\n[[Speak to the younger man|Talking to Andrew]].|\n[[Leave this place. Why are you here again|Explore the Cloister]].|\n\n

You see yourself bisected. Very fetching. \n\nDo you seem faded somehow? Or more vital? Both halves reveal a different story. That slash - for only a blade could have cracked the mirror so neatly - marks the difference. \n\nPerhaps both are true. Perhaps if the mirror were repaired, something - someone - else entire would be revealed. \n\n[[You shake your head of these idle fancies, and turn from the mirror|Mr Wythe's room]].|

Two bushy eyebrows raised like Tower Bridge. \n\n'Bells? Hells!' He laughs to choking. 'What ye be wanting bleedin' bells for? City's aclog with 'em. Stopped the clockmakers, even.'\n\nNo, no, you intimate, bell. Singular. That got his attention. He peers about the shadowed courtyards of the Cloister, thought the fallen monastic masonry is silent. \n\n'There was a commission, aye. Not Missus Helena either, mind. I thought that strange. The lad's working on it, yonder.' \n\nWhen pressed, he professes not to know the identity of the commissioner. \n\n<<set $AndrewKnows = "yes">>\n\n[[You turn to leave|The Forge]].|\n\n

<<set $MissDelilahsFootsteps += "1">>\n\nThe portraits are identical. Women who walk in beauty as the night, both. One dressed in golden silks, a century out of date, when sunlight still flooded the world like amber. The other beneath the light of a pale moon, in a gown much older than the other. The scene could be of anywhere and from any time.\n\nBoth sit posed before an iron wall, through the wall is an elegant fence behind the silver, a towering gate behind the gold. \n\n[[Leave the portraits|Chasing Miss Delilah]].|

The Khan had married and had a young wife, this was in the year of Our Lord 1587, and he was at this time receptive to the stories of the blessed St Francis, if not to the Saviour, and the sun was shining on his empire. He had dreams to rival Kubla Khan or Chingis Khan, and to that end this princess, whose lineage descended from the Nestorians in that region, and perhaps even John himself, would cement this claim.\n\nShe brought with her fountains and camels and sapphires, and she was a great woman of her people, and they came with her, from the Steppes where the grass is long and the sun is long and will never set. And she came among us, and there was silver in her hair, and she was attached to a fountain that came with her, a particular fountain, a peculiar fountain, that was soft and shining as silken thread, and where lovers in the court would meet, and when a woman's husband was sent away, she would come to the fountain and weep. \n\nThe princess died not long after the wedding, a decent enough interval that all her camels and fountains and sapphires and peoples came to the Khan. He had her legacy, her lineage, and was free to find new, healthier, less distinguished brides for heirs, but he was not happy. He loved her, I think, even though their marriage was not Christian - he rejected even St Francis in his grief, scoffing at lactating saints, and would not see me. But I saw him - at the fountain, silver, now deserted, where he wept and wept, and the fountain wept with him, until the fountain was bloated with tears, and the Khan shrivelled and withered. \n\nI saw her come back. I did not stay to see what followed thereafter. \n\n[[Return to the rest of the book|The Fall]].|

She reclines further, if that was at all possible. \n\n<<if $embrace is "yes">>She smiles, somewhat warmly. 'I'm glad to see you awake so early, friend. After the scarring, most sleep for days. But we shall need vigor, in the coming nights.'\n\n[[Discuss your relationship. The Countess named her your master|TanovaMaster]].|\n[[Ask her the purpose of her initiation. You've learnt a litle more since|TanovaInitiation]].|\n[[Ask her about herself|TanovaWhoAreYou]].|\n<<else>>Tanova smiles. 'It is a shame you were not meant to be mine. I had high hopes. But I'm sorry to say you must learn to live with disappointment, in this new world of ours.' For all that her words might in the mouth of another sound cutting, she appears to be experiencing genuine regret. 'Perhaps in another life, eh?' \n\n[[Ask her about herself. She did seek you out, after all|TanovaWhoAreYou]].|\n[[Ask her why she sought you out|Why me]].?|\n<<endif>>

<<set $rubywatching = "yes">>Let it watch. Two can play at this game. Best know these things, rather than hide them away in the gloom. If you are watched, best know. \n\nYou place the ruby ring upon the mantle. Best view in the chamber, you'd guess. There it sits, and gleams, and lurks. You see no more eyes.\n\nYour time is, at least for now, your own. \n\n[[Explore this, your room|Explore chamber]].|\n[[Leave to explore the catacomb|All Souls]].|

She brings you to a secluded chamber within the complex, riddled with holes like a honeycomb. Her linen trails behind her, like winding bandages. \n\n'They will loathe you above. They can't bear the loss. They term it surrender, denying the inevitability of their own. In one form or another.' \n\nShe takes a long piece of parchment, dust kissed and damp, thin and trailing like her own tattered finery. \n\nShe motions you to stand in this sand-stone chamber, arms raised, so that she may wind this parchment about your flesh. \n\n[[Accept it. She said surrender, after all|Submit]].|\n[[Will this make you as her? Ask, before it is too late|Ask Hareishan]].|

You close your eyes. When did you last sleep? \n\nThe hangings form a convincing simulacrum of a pale night sky, stars scarlet gleams behind the cloth. Incense and candle-smoke as one by one they go out drifts into this, your own sanctum. \n\nWithin minutes, you are drifting. The symbol carved on your nape, the horrors you witnessed, your new master, the Countess, accompany you into your shrouded reverie. \n\nBut there is someone else here. \n\nYou bolt awake. Gone now, but present only moments ago. You felt another lay over you, where you now lie. The sensation was like lying in your own tomb, only to find another already borne there. A hand not your own you briefly felt with your own. Two hands - intertwined not by fingers, but by bone, and flesh, and blood. \n\n[[You decide to leave the bed for the moment|Explore chamber]].|

Wine. \n\nWhat were you expecting? \n\nYou quickly halt the tide, feeling a vauge sense of guilt for the spilt vintage. No-one seems to have paid any attention. \n\n[[You return your attention to the Undercroft|The Undercroft]].|

As you gaze deeper, drowning in the painted reflections of these dead kings, you note the oddities become increasingly tangible. \n\nBehind Charlotte, another portrait existed on this canvas. A woman, flame-haired and dark-eyed, in the clothes of the Steppe, horse-leather and furs, and a pendant of jade at her neck. \n\nThe king next to Charlotte, whose portait is almost equal in magnitude - is lost almost entirely in shadow. A figure, armoured you'd guess due to the great bulk at the torso, loks out in full profile, but his features are lost to shadow. A slight gleam in the dark suggests a fireplace was opposite him while he sat. A strange composition. His inscription reads John Casimir I/II.\n\nThere are portraits visible that were not before - Mongol princes, Crusader knights, a lone Sultana, several Norse chieftans, and a whole dizzying host of pharoahs. There is a man named Akhenaten, and a woman named Hareishan. Both these portraits are almost saturated to extinguishing with faded light. <<set $KnowHareishan = "yes">>\n\n[[You leave the portraits for the moment|Drawing room]].|

<<set $BellFixed = "yes">>'I don't think she's coming back. It should fit - I'll see to it myself. Come back soon - I'll have the bell set up again. The bell tolled shall toll again.'\n\n[[Leave Andrew for now|The Forge]].|\n[[You have other questions for the lad|Talking to Andrew]].|

She leans in, conspiritorially. 'We don't talk about it much. Means the bloody emperor is back. Old blownapart himself. Here, red in tooth and claw.' She giggles at your evident confusion. \n\n'The bells, listen!' The comma you place yourself. Perhaps what she meant to say was 'The bells listen.' \n\nYou do. There is, far distant yet close, like an echo tolling beneath your breast, a bell. It sounds like the sigh of a titan, sealed below the world. Like Gog and Magog when they beheld le roy Alisaunder, and knew their doom was upon them. \n<<set $TheBellTolled += "1">>\n\n[[You have further questions for Mrs Lamprey|Mrs Lamprey]].|\n[[You have had done with Mrs Lamprey and her bells|The Bell's Toll]].|

You surrender, and open your mouth wider than you thought possible. Your jaw clicks, as you place the heart, beating so fast you fear it might break, within. You bite down, and swallow. You feel it continue to pulse as it washes down your throat, and you trace its progress down into your belly with your hand. \n\nYou have never felt so full, so warm, so content. You want to sleep and couple and dance and scream all at once. \n\nYou feel him inside you. All of a moment - everything that was William Gray the smith is within. Every memory, every sensation. You know him. <<set $AteWilliamGrey = "yes">>\n\nAnd then there is only meat and your stomach, and your mouth is ringed raw red. Blood drips like effluent from your chin. \n\n[[The door to the skullery is opening|Enter Charlotte]].|

He sighs, a full and heart-felt sigh, that swells his chest, before exhaling in a long wail of misery. \n\n'Yes. There is business above. In Riverside, I think. Pleasures to be partook of, for sure, but she has a task for you. She saves these pitiable errands up for novitiates, I'm sure. I will accompany you, and may have a thing or three needs doing myself.' He winks. 'Honestly, they're rather a jaunt. Spread your wings - though you don't get those yet. Poor Mr Stoker. So close and yet so far.' \n\nHe leans in close, all of a sudden, dampening you with his skin. Steam envelops you both until there is nothing in the world but you and he. 'I think we'll rather have fun, you and I.' \n\nHe bursts into laughter and sits back, watching you with some mirth. \n[[Continue your conversation, miffed as you might be|Lassal in the bath]].|\n[[Take your leave. You'll not be mocked|Bath]].|

You crawl through the darkness for a while, until you hear a thud. You frantically feel about you, until you discern you are stood in front of a door. Thankfully, it gives way with a push.\n\n[[Enter|Dark chamber]].

You follow the spectral pull down, watching the death swell from his bones, expanding like a black cloud through him, until his skin is transluscent - washed through with death. \n\nWilliam Gray the smith leaves the forge, after a day expanding his muscles, wearying them closer to exhaustion and collapse. His heart pounds so fast - distractingly so.\n\n[[He is dead. What does it matter? His heart is within your hands. Feast|Eat William Grey]].|\n\nYou hear footsteps. He is followed - by more than just you. You feel hot breath on your neck. Whomever William's stalker is, he has been drinking. Spiced wine - expensive. New to this. \n\nWilliam is walking down towards the valley, the long step that descends into the pit at the heart of the city, through elongated parks now viewed only through lamp-light, smoggy and green. His foot reaches the first step. Old, brown-grey stones, eerily illuminated, rise out of the smoke. His boot brushes the first, when the man with the spiced wine breath pushes past you - through you. He wears a scarlet uniform, military, and it is a soldier's sabre that pierces William Gray through, and topples him down and down into the dark. \n\nYou feel his death in his heart. \n\n[[This is William Gray the smith|William Grey]].|\n

The Countess smiles, slightly. As though mice nibble at the edgs of the portrait she has made of her countenance. \n\n'Betrayal to begin. A dark path yawns before you. Some of our finest, our bravest, our most able, have begun as you. Lose what you were, become what you are. Attachments can be shackles for those that tread the bitterest chambers of our state. You intrigue.' \n\nShe suddenly flies from her throne, and the full weight of her is upon you. With one sapphire-strung hand she holds your throat, with the other she tears open your collar. On the nape of your neck, she carves a symbol of your flesh, as you spasm beneath her. There is little blood. This does not lessen the pain.\n\nIn a moment, she is done, and situated once more upon the white seat of her majesty. She beckons for a mirror to be brought to you. \n\nYou see in the dark glass what she has made of you. A prisoner prisoner facing the noose pleads your indifferent flesh. <<set $SymbolHangedMan = "yes">>\n\n[[She claps her hands. You are taken away, into the dark|Your chamber]].|\n

She stands, and glares at you. \n\n'Sorry Dr F. Got a visitor asking questions. Making themselves unwelcome.'\n\nDr F stops speaking and gazes as you. There is a certain sadness in that glance. 'Ah.' He says. 'I am sorry for that. I invited you here to listen. Would you do me that courtesy, or must I ask you to leave?' \n\n[[Refuse to leave. You'll be damned if you're hurried out by an obstinate old professor and his murderous doxy|refused to leave]].|\n[[Acquiese and listen|Dr Farthing's sermon]].|\n[[You've heard enough. Time to go|Explore the Cloister]].|

The longest fragment remains thus:\n\n"Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour,\n To think of things that are well outworn?\nOf fruitless husk and fugitive flower,\n The dream foregone and the deed forborne?\nThough joy be done with and grief be vain,\nTime shall not sever us wholly in twain;\nEarth is not spoilt for a single shower;\n But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn.\n\nIt will grow not again, this fruit of my heart,\n Smitten with sunbeams, ruined with rain.\nThe singing seasons divide and depart,\n Winter and summer depart in twain.\nIt will grow not again, it is ruined at root,\nThe bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit;\nThough the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart,\n With sullen savour of poisonous pain."\n\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>You recognise the poem. It is not Drake's, but the vanished Algernon Swinburne, manic poet of sensations forbidden. The poem, you know, continues thus: \n"I have given no man of my fruit to eat;\n I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine.\nHad you eaten and drunken and found it sweet,\n This wild new growth of the corn and vine,\nThis wine and bread without lees or leaven,\nWe had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven,\nSouls fair to look upon, goodly to greet,\n One splendid spirit, your soul and mine.\nIn the change of years, in the coil of things,\n In the clamour and rumour of life to be,\nWe, drinking love at the furthest springs,\n Covered with love as a covering tree,\nWe had grown as gods, as the gods above,\nFilled from the heart to the lips with love,\nHeld fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings,\n O love, my love, had you loved but me!" <<else>>\nThis is his hand, but these are not his words. You know not whose. <<endif>>\n\n[[Return your attention to the couch|Drake's couch]].

You see a brief halo of blonde, and then your match dies. He was running through a high archway ahead. \n\n<<if $LassalInTheMausoleum is "yes">>The moaning echoes about the vault. You will have to light a match to locate it. \n[[Strike a match|Lassal in the Sacristy]].<<endif>>\n\n[[Follow Isaac through the arch to who knows where|Undercroft]].

The carpet is thread-bare, often used. It bears considerable scarring from spilt wax and wine. \n\nIts design is a five pointed star, though it has been overlaid with other symbols sewn over the initial design. A lion rampant, an owl, a fiery bird, a horned horse, and a man, naked and anatomically detailed, like a Da Vinci sketch. \n\nChalk scores the faded fabric. \n\n[[Return your attention to the young man|Isaac's Chamber]].|

Remains of the Day

The candles have been arranged in an angelic hierarchy. That is to say, in sevens. Seven candelabras of seven in seven rows on seven ascending steps. The candles are white, wax not tallow. The steps are polished obsidian. The walls are snow-white. \n\nAs is the throne. \n\nThe Countess, high-collared, in a fashion that might be described as Late Elizabethan, though more Prospero than Miranda in stye, rests her pointed chin on her fine, small hand. Her hair is the red of the fires lit above, to light the way, to huddle against for warmth. For hope. \n\n'You are the apprentice.' Her voice sounds like chimes disturbed by a sudden turn in the wind. 'Who is your master?'\n\n<<if $survivor eq "yes">>Hareishan steps forward, holding you by the wrists. 'I am.' She does not bow, but stands on the seventh stair, looking up through the great many points of candle-flame to gaze into the shallows of the Countess' eyes.\n\n'You are lucky indeed, newcomer,' The Countess says softly, 'Few know are our traditions, our great and unwieldy history like Hareishan. You will find she wields it like a knife.' \n<<endif>>\n\n<<if $afraid eq "yes">>Lassal takes your hand. He squeezes your own tight, presumably for comfort. You think of the heart. \n\nHe bows before the Countess, his black hair falling out of place. She laughs, and extends her hand for kissing. Each finger is bedecked with sapphire. He kisses each. \n\n'You have already proven too fortunate, apprentice. The blind Lady watches you. A finer vessel for your instruction, I could not have picked better myself.' Her hands reach for something under his neckerchief. With reluctance, she releases him and beckons you forward. \n<<endif>>\n\n<<if $embrace eq "yes">>Tanova steps in front of you. It feels like a gesture of protection. 'I am. Your grace.' Tanova smiles not once. The Countess inclines her head. Her gaze, like an angler fish behind its lure, meets yours. \n\n'My condolences. May you find yourself fired through the kiln of adversity.'\n<<endif>> Your master - the term is uncomfortable - too much like shackles you thought you'd left long behind - steps back into the many shadows fleeing from the radiance the Countess has built around her. You stand before her throne, at the rampart of illumination. \n\n[[She has a question|Charlotte Sometimes]].|\n\n

<<if $LassalTrusts gte 1>>Lassal smiles warmly. 'It's an unhappy business, but the Countess insists every novitiate in the coven has a master amongst the older remnant. You will learn from me, and in exchange, there are things you may peform for me.' He strokes your cheek, piercing the skin with well maintained nail. He kisses his finger, slick with your blood. 'The arrangement will not last, but our friendship will. I am sure of it.' \n<<else>>Lassal smiles. It is like the shaft of thin sunlight one sees in Giorgione's landscapes. 'The Countess insists, and it is proper. All novitiates must be trained by a master, learning from them and aiding them by many means.' He presses your hand to his lips, which shine like rubies in the steam. 'Who knows. We may be friends, in time.<<endif>>\n\n[[Continue speaking to Lassal|LassalRelationship]].|\n[[Take your leave of him|Bath]].|

You almost break this heart within your hand. It is like holding a little bird, that beats against your fingers like it is in danger of escape. It was dwarfed by the box it was stored in. \n\nThe heart is cold, though it looks tantalisingly fresh. You could take it in one gulp. \n\nYou feel memory stir, as your hands cradle the thumping muscle. Your hands are sticky with it, you can taste the blood, but the memories are coming on. \n\n[[Succumb to the memories|Mrs Heichmann]].|\n[[Succumb to the hunger|Eat Mrs Heichmann]].|

<<set $BrokeWythesDoor = "yes">> are far stronger now than you ever were before. Above. \n\nThe lock breaks and the door buckles under the weight of your shoulder. In a shattering of splinters and an outpouring of dust long enclosed, you gain entrance.\n\n[[You step through the decidedly open door|Mr Wythe's room]].|

The front door opens on a long corridor winding serpentine through the stone hallways. Walls bisected by clapboard, doors nailed in wherever there happened to be space. Pools of noisome water drip and collect, as though the building had a perpetual cold. The sounds of children's wailing and father's hands disciplining hands echo as you duck through archways, draw back rotting curtains, and ascend an almost entirely worn stone stair. \n\nYou find the lit room with ease. It is the only one on this second floor - half the floors rotten away, and the air so perishing cold as to force away all but the most desperate. \n\nThe door is locked and bolted. A lantern, green, in front of it, is shattered.\n\n[[Force the lock and hope nobody is inside|Forced lock]].|\n[[Leave the door for now. Perhaps you'll find the key later|Cloister Tenement]].|\n<<if $FoundWytheKey is "yes">>[[You have the key. Here is the lock. You apply one to the other|OpenedWytheDoor]].|<<endif>>

The very entirety of the world's wealth seems to be crowded here, stoppered and bottled away, in containers of the most exquisite make. Gold, porphyr, jade, obsidian, lapiz dazzle, even obscured by steam. \n\nMost are unlabelled, though a few you recognise by sight, being in use in the stewhouses of Southwark - almond oil, crushed pomegranate, lindenseed, jasmine, lavender. Then there are more esoteric unguents - there is blood, though to your relief, it is almost entirely full, rosemary, jackal milk, the powder of the collected fingerbones of St Jude. Someone with a sense of hunour has clustered frankincense and myrrh next to a lump of gold-leaf. \n\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>Amongst the many luxuries on display, you note an almost equal amount of poisons. Belladonna and cantarella, arsenic and powdered hemlock, mandrake root and wormwood. You wonder if these remain lethal, even in your altered condition. You shudder and look away. <<endif>>\n\n[[You return your attention to the bath|Bath]].|

<<set $SavedDrake = "yes">>Drake bellows and fights as you tear him from the hunger. \n\nYou feel a void open around you - from your stomach you feel it inward. You do not look behind you. You hear no sound, but the void moves through you. You feel silence, absence, ripple through you. Through your bones, as though hollowing them like death. Whatever is done to you, you know far worse has happened to Isaac. You run. \n\nDr Farthing and his adamant light are gone. You run, through the dark, away from the hunger, away from what claimed Isaac. \n\nThrough the dusty vaults that have now known death once more. Through the hungry darkness. Through the waking cemetery and the slumbering Above. \n\nCrueler duties wait Below, down the stair. \n\n[[Return to the Countess|Charlotte Hears]].

The clock is made of a queer, crystalline glass, so thin it seems almost white - an impression heightened by the soft light of the lanterns on the desks. \n\nYou press a hand to the glass and feel an unearthly cold. Like someone long dead rose up and breathed upon your fingers. You withdraw your hand. \n\nThe clock contains three sets of hands, around three concentric spirals. The first measures the minutes, the second the hours, and the third much larger wheel you cannot imagine, but only are aware that the hand has stopped. That clock will not chime whatever time it silently ticks towards. \n\nThere is an inscription below the face, where the glass juts out in a kind of shelf. \n\nIt reads: 'Tempus Vult.' \n\n[[You return your attention to the study|The study]].|

The place is alight with candles. The sweat exacerbated by the dripping tallow. It stinks as though someone has lit the rotting cadaver of a whale ablaze, and you stand in its cremation. \n\n<<if $AteWilliamGrey is "yes">>A heart within you begins to beat, your stomach awash with digested memory. There should have been a piece of armour here, but there is none that you can see. Was William's last work already sold?<<endif>>\n\nThere is a preponderance of armaments here. The nation has not been at war since Bonaparte, and yet here are bayonets, swords, guns, breasplate, and chains, in varying states of composition. \n\n<<if $TheBellCalled is "yes">>There is a great, hollow bell here. Just the outer shell, without a tongue. But a bell nontheless. <<set $BlacksmithHasABell = "yes">><<endif>>\n\n[[There is little else to see, without seriously trespassing. You return your attention to the rest of the forge|The Forge]].|

<<set $rubyconcealed = "yes">>You place the ruby on a chain about your neck. No-one needs to know. Not yet. You slip it inside your shirt, past your layers of waistcoat and velvets. You feel the warmth of it against your breast.\n\nYour time is, at least for now, your own. \n\n[[Explore this, your room|Explore chamber]].|\n[[Leave to explore the catacomb|All Souls]].|

<<set $WentToThePubFirst = "yes">>The door opens with a pleasant jingle, chimes ringing as you push your way inside, bringing the wind and the cold and the dark with you. \n\nInside is dank, cobwebbed with gloom. The few candles lit serving only to display the vast unlit spaces of the long common room. There is a hearth, ringed by sitting shadows. Each window is decked out with dust, hung like banners to meet a returning army. \n\nThere is, against, all odds a singer. A handsome young man, though judging by the state of his stomach, exposed through his threadbare shirt, long-sleeved, more starving than artist. He sings some maudlin dirge of a mother's loss and a son's vengeance, out on the black sea. \n\nThere is a tired looking woman, her poor sleep weighted beneath her eyes, behind the sunken plank that serves for a bar. She is serving a patron - a sailor, judging by his tattoos and the stench of lime - without much enthusiasm. \n\n[[Order a drink. You can still enjoy the demon drink|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Sit and watch the crowd. It's been sometime since you've been surrounded by so much life. Such as it is|Watch the patrons]].|\n[[Speak to the singer. He seems the most lively soul in here|Singing Jack]].|\n[[Explore the Bell's Toll. There must be some diversion here, surely|Explore the Bell's Toll]].|

'Charlotte will tell you it has something to do with advancement - of a recognition of skill, of seniority. All lies.'\n\nShe leans in close, so that you can smell her tomb-mouldered breath upon your pale cheek. 'We maintain division to provide eternity meaning. To encourage striving - from novitiate to fledgling - like Tanova, or Drake - to elder, to courtier, and perhaps in the fullness of wicked time, to Count. Many rebel. Others accept. Few strive. There is a great void of darkness upon every horizon. It is only those of the strongest stuff who can look at their coven and admit that yes, this is it. This is best. This is where I might learn.' \n\nShe sighs, it is like the closing of a sepulchre door for the final time. From here there is only regret, forgetfulness, the decaying of flowers, and the slow gathering of earth against the chamber door. \n\n'There is a vast darkness. Those who leave, we hear not from again. The system is imperfect, but it is a system.'\n\n[[You have further questions for Hareishan|Hareishan in Drake's rooms]].|\n[[Leave Hareishan for now|Drake's boudoir]].|

'Proper gent. Tails and all. Weird smile. Stunk of coal. Had a cane - think he couldn't walk without it. Could have made him a proper one, if he'd bothered even look at me.'\n\nAndrew frowns. 'I do remember him saying he wasn't a Queen's man. Though that was a bit queer for a soldier.' He shrugs. 'Not my place to question my betters.' \n\n[[You have other questions|Talking to Andrew]].|

<<if $TanovaTrusts gte 2>> She regards you for a while, reflecting you in the cool, smooth glass of her eyes. 'Our kind have always enjoyed hierachies. I have no patience for them. I find them rather frightful. I would prefer that we were friends. I will teach you how to live in your altered state, and I might ask a favour on occasion, but that is the extent of it.' \n\n[[Do you have other questions of your new friend|Tanova in the Drawing Room]]?|\n[[Take your leave of Tanova|Drawing room]].|\n\n<<else>>She looks away. A pained expression crosses her face. 'Our sort value hierarchies too much. But until I get the measure of you, I'm afraid our relationship will be a little give and take. I'll have a task for you later - in the Above. We will instruct each other in ourselves, I think.'\n\n[[Do you have other questions of your new superior|Tanova in the Drawing Room]]?|\n[[Take your leave of Tanova|Drawing room]].|\n<<endif>>

<<set $AndrewEnemy = "yes">>He disappears into the dark, his slight form briefly silhouetted by candlelight, and then he is gone. \n\nYou stand alone, the flames of the forge all around you. \n\n[[Turn away from the opened door|The Forge]].|

<<set $MissDelilahsFootsteps += "1">>The table is a heavily tarnished silver. The expense of moving it up those rickety stairs must have been enormous. Yet here it is. \n\nThere are two seats, one more recently disturbed than the other - lost beneath layer on layer of dust. The bottom that sat the used chair must have been alarmingly thin, judging by the imprint. \n\n[[Leave the table|Chasing Miss Delilah]].|

<<set $MrsHeichmannsLetters = "yes">>You stuff the letters into your voluminous pockets, and return your attention to the room.\n\n[[You continue your exploration|Mrs Heichmann's rooms]].|

The couch, hung with red cloth in a shade two decades out of fashion, is festooned like a Venetian balcony at Carnival with papers. \n\nYour hand brushes several aside as you make space amidst the yellowing dust to sit. You comb through scraps of [[poetry|Drake's poetry]], a piece of a [[will|Drake's Will]], and finally a collection of [[letters|Drake's letters]].\n\n[[Leave the couch unrifled through for the moment|44a Wayside Court]].|

<<if $EmmelineInTheMausoleum is "yes">>You hear footsteps approaching you from ahead in the gloom. Rapidly. \n\n[[Strike a match|Emmeline alone]].\n[[Remain silent|Drake at last]].<<endif>>\n\nThere appears to be a stair running ahead. You think you see the moon, too low, too low. There are windows. There is a door ahead, stone. It has been dragged open. You think you see figures ahead. \n\n[[Walk on|Drake at last]].\n

<<set $AttendedDrFsLecture = "Yes">>The good Dr is eloquent as he lectures on a particular poem of John Donne's. The Flea. \n\n'It is in many ways, the most perfect poetic form, combining metrical exactitude with bounded space - the space in which to explore, expand, elaborate an idea, whilst still bounded within formal constraints that of necessity, shape the piece. They create a kind of negative-space, in which the poem cannot go, and in that imposition, thus have a presence. Presence in absence.\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>[[Wait. That's not what he's saying at all. Listen|Dr F's real speech]].|<<endif>>\nWhich is precisely, of course, what the poem is not. The narrative is simple - three actors, a man, a woman, presumably, and of course, the flea, who passes between them. \n\n"It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,\nAnd in this flea our two bloods mingled be; \nThou know’st that this cannot be said\nA sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead"\n\nYou see of course the flea is elevated above man, despite its later demise, precisely because through its unholy comingling of bodily fluids, it overcomes the limitations placed upon it by the mores of society. It adheres to its nature as Donne, for we must assume the poet and the authorial voice are, like the blood, comingled here, cannot. Elevation through abomination. But is it abomination? Or is it entirely natural, and are we unnatural if so? A provoking thought, for sure. I leave you with it.' \n\nThe doctor winks at you, as he departs the pulpit, and heads out into the dark, making apologies to his limited congregation. A seminar at the University calls. \n\n[[Leave the Undercroft. You've heard enough|Explore the Cloister]].|\n[[Continue investigating the Undercroft|The Undercroft]].|\n

The map resembles an old Mappa Mundi rather than any accurate cartography. Though what with all the world now being wrapped in shadow, the accuracy of any known geography is suspect. We are all now off the edge, where blemmyae and serpents haunt the rim. \n\nThis map is parchment, but for the centre, where a carved representation of a city sits in the hollow. The table must have been carved to accommodate this map. An Edinburgh in smooth oak, far cheerier than the dismal reality Above, sits snug in the little hollow. \n\nBeyond, Britain blooms like a firework - this is a georaphy of connection, you think, rather than proximity, as Rome and Istanbul are across the water, whilst pieces of France float about like flotsam - the old Occitan regions with bits of Britanny are affixed to Cornwall, and from there to the Peninsula, but Lorraine may as well be on another continent. \n\nYou note, after some study, that Jerusalem is absent. That is until you lean in for a closer look, and hear a terrible crunch, and splinters shatter up your foot. You look down to find you have stepped upon Jerusalem, lying discarded and broken on the stones. \n\n[[Return to exploring the Drawing Room|Drawing room]].|

The altar is unremarkable, laid with purple cloth over white marble, and littered with candles. It might almost find a place in St Peter's except ...\n\nExcept that the tabernacle is open, and the cloth drawn back, and only a sucking void can be seen inside.\n\nYou blink - it was merely a trick of the candlelight. The wall of the gleaming silver shrine is indeed present. \n\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>There is a wall, solidly so. The empty tabernacle is eerie, but of this world. <<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>There is no wall. A cold wind blows from the back of the tabernacle, from a darkness that shadows the billowing curtains of the open shrine. There is a void at the heart of the chapel, bringing a breeze from far, far away.<<endif>>\n[[You return to exploring the rest of the chapel|Chapel]].|

'Woman with a posh accent. Sounded almost English.' He grins. 'Dressed all in gold. Must have been the poshest bird in all the 'Burgh.' \n\nHe frowns. 'She had a queer name. Argent, or summat.'\n\n[[You have other questions|Talking to Andrew]].|

You push open the door. There is a stillness beyond - not of silence, but of hushed breath.\n\nAnatomists declare that the heart has many chambers, but here they have only one. \n\nInterred in the stone walls of the long skullery, where once bones must have languished, are glass cases, each containing a pulsing heart. \n\nYour stomach begins to swell and growl, and the nape of your neck burns. You feel your mouth dry and your jaw clench, preparing itself for the consumption. \n\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>[[No. These are not for you. You retain control and begin to explore|OpenDoorSkullery]].|\n<<else>>[[You succumb|Affair of the Heart]].|<<endif>>

<<set $embrace = "yes">>She tosses back her head, her exposed throat glowing with some strange far off light. You think you hear a howling. \n\nThe orange is in your mouth, the scent running through you, the heady thick musk of rotted fruit.\n\nThe moon is red. The sky is red. She is not. Her now empty hand grasps yours, and leads you from the tumbled graves, to the gloom of the city below the hill. \n\n[[You shall see. You shall see it all|The Catacomb]].|\n

<<set $GenderMale = "yes">>You see a handsome man glancing back at you from the cracked glass. A young man, in the prime of his life and the bloom of his health. \n\nBut you know better. \n\n[[Look away from your reflection|Look at the mirror]].|\n

You descend the little stair. The door at the bottom, awash with fallen rain and swirling with leaves, is locked, but your heart remembers. There is a trick with a piece of wire and the catch. The door swings open, and you are overpowered with decay.\n\nAh, home. \n\nThe place is as you - she - remembers. Aside from the corpse, gently mouldering on the couch. The wallpapers peel with onset damp. Letters yellow on the mantle. A deed in pride of place framed on the wall - there are no other pictures. Mrs Heichmann cared not for sentiment. \n\n[[Examine the corpse. It does rather draw the eye|Mr Screwssbury's body]].|\n[[Let's take a look at that deed, shall we|The deed indeed]].|\n[[Those letters looks intriguing|Mrs Heichmann's correspondence]].|\n[[Leave this dismal shrine to decay|Cloister Tenement]].|

The chain, though ornate, resembles in miniature a set of manacles - more suited to imprisonment than ornament. \n\nThey feel heavy - weighted - as you wrap them about your hand. You pocket the small chain, safely in the billowing depths of your greatcoat. \n<<set $TakenChain = "yes">>\n\n[[Return to peering at the desks|Desks]].|\n

The distinguished gentleman in the white frock looks up and grins as you approach. He makes room at his table for you.\n\n'Dr Farthing', He says, proferring a hand. 'Professor of English literature at the university. I have business below.' He says, by way of explanation. \n\n[[Ask him about his buisness below. He's evidently eager to share|Dr Farthing explains]].|\n<<if $sawDrFarthingsBand is "yes">>[[Ask him about the band on his wrist he seems so attached to|Dr Farthing's Band]].|<<endif>>\n[[Leave the good doctor to his buisness below|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<set $TanovaDistrusts to 1>>\n\nTanova frowns, as you place the chalice amidst the star-light dappled pebbles. \n\nYou sit together on this sunless shore, with the dark waters lapping against your feet. You are both silent. You think that waves imply this pool might be more than a still body. \n\nAt last, Tanova shakes off her silence, stretching herself, like a cat rising from slumber. \n\n'You are right, of course. It is too soon. I was too eager. Come on, Skipper', She takes your hand, smiling again, 'The Countess is waiting.' \n\n[[She leads you from the shore, back to the catacombs you must now call home|The Countess]].|

<<set $AcceptedAndrewsDeal = "yes">>Andrew nods towards the old man. He folds his arms, watching you expectantly. \n\n[[Approach Master Withmass, hammer itching in your hand|Killed Master Withmass for Andrew]].|

There are in fact two mirrors in your chamber. There is the small, oval looking glass, framed in silver that sits atop your vanity. \n\nAnd there is the other mirror - the long, thin mirror, the shape of a tall, slim man. It stands alone, framed in faded bronze. You approach it, and drawing yourself up to your full height, gaze within. \n\n[[Examine the mirror|Look at the mirror]].|\n[[Examine yourself. You have changed of late|Who are you]].|\n[[Leave the mirror for now|Explore chamber]].|

<<set $Bitten = "yes">>The grass is flat and withered, and all within a neat, circumscribed circle. \n\nAs though something - and something large - ought to be here, but is no longer. Removed, perhaps. A tomb? Or a statue? \n\nAs you step onto the circle, you feel something on your shoulder. A brush at first, then a breath - and rotten breath at that. And then something bites down - \n\nYou jump back. Your coat is torn. Blood, though mercifully not much, bubbles from the wound. A series of little marks, like sharp teeth. The kind of teeth one has if poorly maintained - all root and mishaped head. Hungry teeth. \n\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>Teeth beneath a mouldering dark wig, on a face long and bereft of all flesh, but a few thing strips. Long and hungry and eyes that hated. A glimpse, and the rattle of teeth poorly held in a jaw that gnawed and worked. And then, mercifully, was gone.<<endif>>\n\n[[You leave the depression well alone|Inside the prison]].|

The will, such as it is, to you with no legal training, though with much experience in the practical application of the law, has been composed by Drake alone. It is his hand - and it is not witnessed. It is void - a testament to nothing. \n\nThis being the last will and testament of Drake Morton, of Regent's Court, London, Great Britain. I entrust all of my possessions to the care of Arabella of All Souls. To the greater community of All Souls, I grant nothing but bitterness and regret, long may you keep it so. I am adamant in this, and will not be swayed. I entrust the continued instruction of Isaac Raycleith to Milton Alexander of Greyfriars parish. \nI bequeath my soul to whomever would claim it. \n\nBeing of sound mind and body,\n\nDrake \n\n[[Turn your attention from the will|Drake's couch]].|

You head up, to the newer plots. The most splendid of sepulchral sculpture predominates here, fine masonry in the most fashionable of mourning style. \n\nThe towering Mackenzie monument dominates - the Black Mausoleum, as it is colloquially known. Fashioned after Bramante, but made of dismal Scots stone rather than bright Italiante marble. \n\nTo the south, the sealed yard of the Covenanter's Prison. \n\nAround, the resting places of the great and good of high society - though in these troubled times, who can say if they rest easy, if rest they do?\n\n[[Head to the Black Mausoleum|Black Mausoleum entrance]].|\n[[Inspect the Conventanter's Prison|The Covenanter's Prison]].|\n[[Explore the graves of the upper cemetery|Upper cemetery graves]].|\n[[Explore the lower cemetery instead|Lower Greyfriars]].|

<<silently>>\n<<set $'survivor' = no>>\n<<set $'afraid' = no>>\n<<set $'embrace' = no>>\n<<set $'LassalTrusts' = "0">>\n<<set $'LassalDistrusts' = "0">>\n<<set $'TanovaTrusts' = "0">>\n<<set $'TanovaDistrusts' = "0">>\n<<set $'HareishanTrusts' = "0">>\n<<set $'HareishanDistrusts' = "0">>\n<<set $'CharlottesRuby' = "0">>\n<<endsilently>>'Life is eternal. You will not survive.' \n\nTanova speaks, holding the orange before her. In her pallid hand, under the rotten glow of the harvest moon, it resembles a lantern, casting shadows across the tombs. \n\nThis is the choice. After many long, terrible months, this is at last, it. The end, after a fashion. You know you must speak. But how? \n\n[[But I must|I will survive]].|\n[[I'm not afraid of life|I fear death]].|\n[[I want to see. To see all of it|Life in all its complexity]].|

'Oh, Drake.' Lassal takes a long draught of wine. Funerals have been quicker. 'He was my novitiate once. Much like you are now. A sad creature - do you know, by the end of my time with him I quite thought that he sought out sadness. Stalked it in miserable corners, like his hovel in the Cloister. He quite fancied one of the other novitiates - but I could never manage to engineer that into anything interesting.' \n\nHe gives you a long look. 'Honestly, 'Lottie likes to give the new novice's the old runabout. Whatever Drake's up to will have to do with some heartbreak of his own design, have no doubt about it.' \n\n[[Lassal seems discinclined to speak further for the moment. Ask him about something else|Lassal in the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Leave Lassal for the moment. He is worse than useless|The Bell's Toll]].|

'What's to tell? Owned by me father, and his father before him, and before him his grandmother. Tough old bird, by all account. Kept orders open even when Bonaparte was bombarding the city to kingdom come from his damned river. 'Tis said, the old bell was tolled for every life lost to fire and mortar and ash that night.' She leans forward, to look you full in the eye. You taste her scent of sweat and resigned desperation. 'Puts a bit of a different light on calling for last orders now don't it?' \n\nShe sighs, and pours herself a glass of the whisky, which she knocks back in one. 'These days few enough come down here, but for the despairing, the mad, the lowest scrubs in the wheels of gangs above. I have my regulars, and the occasional poor soul newly dropped down. I won't have flesh or dice under this roof, so the criminal element largely leaves me alone.' \n\n[[Ask about her regulars. This is the only watering hole in the Cloister|Helena's regulars]].|\n[[Ask about the bells|The Bells, the Bells, the Bells]].|\n[[Ask about her prohibitions|Neither flesh nor dice]].|\n[[Ask her about another topic|Quizzing Helena]].|

Like candles lighting from the far edges of a church, and being brought in procession towards the altar, they appear around you. From all corners, and in all manner of dress, though all in some way out of place, they surround you. \n\n'Family,' Tanova says, squeezing your hand. It is like being grasped by crushed ice. 'We will look after you.' \n\nSomeone walks over your grave. [[You sleep|Before I wake]].|

'Didn't I tell you? To get saved. It's what you need to get on, isn't it? An education, I mean.' \n\n[[Saved? Curious choice of words|Saving Jenny]].|\n[[An education? In what|Educating Jenny]].|\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

<<set $HasPole = "yes">>It is terribly chilly here. \n\nYou lean out, and reach for the pole. Sturdy indeed. A janitor - or a morbid thought, a gravedigger, to move the more unsightly remains from public view from plots exposed whilst digging a fresh grave. \n\nSo cold your breath forms ice in front of you. \n\nYou take the pole in your shaking hands. Your teeth chatter as though about to burst from your head, spilling forth like the broken links from a shattered chain.\n\nYou feel so very hungry all of a sudden. \n\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>Like all of those hollow-eyed men who look from every tomb, hands outstretched, piled high within the walls, within the earth. Hollow like their bellies. Hollow eyes and raised hands, and all around you, brushing at you, against you. With you.<<endif>>\n\nYou almost don't notice the looped noose placed atop the arch. \n<<if $SymbolHangedMan is "yes">>Identical in composition to that carved on your own throat from your own flesh.<<endif>>\n\n[[You turn from the grave quickly|Inside the prison]].|

Drake was no artist. His style might politely be described as 'minamilist' in the Viennese fashion. \n\nHe achieves with sheer lines of chalk, mimicking the machinery of human flesh, what most struggle to capture in a thousand fleshy saints exquisitely martyred in oversided portraits in the National or the Ruskin. Figures as alien as yourself in the mirror, slender lines of chalk, except for black roundels for their eyes, which contain not portraits of the Evangelists, but voids. White lines and black abysses and a host of such figures score the walls. \n\nEach hand, pointed - for what else can one do with such hands - points in a single direction. Up. \n\nTheir expressions are immovable as their stiff frames. \n\n[[Tear your gaze from the dreary chalk|Drake's boudoir]].|

<<set $IsaacDistrust += 2>>His sulkish countenance sours further. 'I wish you had kept your insights to yourself. You are not of my order, and have no right to such knowledge. You have not earned it, and I despise you for it.'\n\nHe glowers at you, those green eyes briefly as hot as the embers of the fire in his cold hearth. 'But I see you will not be satisfied with nothing, though our kind is ultimately satiated by absence. Have this then, and then begone. There is an economy of bargain and sacrifice that makes our own pale into insignifance. There are those to whom we must show deference. I have ascended into such an economy, and am thus forever marked.' \n\n[[You sense your audience here is at an end. Perhaps he will be more forthcoming in the future|All Souls]].

You close the hangings after you, and lay down amidst the silk sheets. The pillows are soft, indigo, and perfumed. The hangings on the inner side are a deep violet. The effect is like lying on a beach at moontide, washed in the soft rays of its pale light. \n\n[[There are rather a lot of pillows|Pillows]]|.\n[[Close your eyes. Give in to the whispers of sleep in your ear|InnerSanctumSleep]].|\n[[That's enough luxury for the moment. You draw back the hangings|Explore chamber]].|

The room is pitched into darkness. Those that walked with you are lost in the sudden night. \n\nDrake's voice is by your ear. His hand is at your throat. He traces the symbol carved into your neck with all the venom of a jilted lover. \n\n'What thought you to bring him here? Do you have any idea what these are? What they mean?' \n\nYou hear Isaac cry out in the dark. Blake is gone from your throat, his touch like smouldering coals on your nape. \n\nThere is a light above. \n\n'They are here!' Drake hisses, though in the sudden blazing white light above, all you see are his teeth. \n\nAnd then he is gone, through an archway to the north. Isaac, you see, blinded, has followed. \nFootsteps are on the stairs above.\n\n[[You run after|South arch]].

I saw the face of a beatific man, nailed to a pile of trees torn weeping from the earth. He was enclosed by a disc of the sun - our solar orb, who orbits the apostle as it orbits us now. \n\nThey had nailed him upside down, so as not to imitate our Saviour. There was horde all around him - not those of Cathay, or the two Indias, or the Khanate, but of those two I hate most. They poured from the wall to watch him hanging. Fruit burst from his wounds, like nectar, pouring from his breast that I longed to suck. \n\nI could not save him. They have dug a pit to trap him, that open beneath the staked trees, a great crack in the world, like the smile of the Adversary - who is watching. Oh, he is watching - I see his scarlet smile, from which births forth the Whore, and old Babylon, and Oh I lay me by the waters, of the Euphrates and long for the Khan - \n\nAnd St Thomas his eyes open so he sees only the pit yawning, and the disc falling from his sainted brow, and all of his seed and blood pouring like fountains, upwards towards the watching face of God, and oh he speaks, he speaks in a terrible moaning and he speaks and he says 'The Sun will out, and not for the first. You will crawl in its wake, and from there all foul things will come.'\n\nI wake. They are watching. The wall is cracking. \n\n[[Return to the rest of the book|The Fall]].|

Lost in a forest of urban rising and subterranean delving, Tanova leads you through spired hamlet and dismal arcade to a great stair that yawns and whispers of below. \n\n'It is here, beneath us, that we must live.' She guides you down, as your feet, poorly shod, brush the wet stone, following the pooling water down and further down. \n\nThere is a gate, iron and miserable, scraping the cavern roof. You pass beyond. She closes behind. \n\nHere lie fallen sepulchres, forgotten statuary, a garden of discarded stone, lying at the bottom of the world. And dreaming - for around are great tunnels, chambers, and hallways, carved from the dim stone. Dripping with noisome waters, the only sound below. \n\n[[But you are not alone. They are waiting|The Coven]].|

Tanova looks at you for a long time. At last, after what feels like an eternity, she speaks.\n\n'When you ask that, you are expecting me to say there was something about you - like Calvin's predestiny or Boethius' God - that meant you would always become a remnant. You wish the distinction of uniqueness and the absolution of inevitability.' \n\nShe takes your hand, hers is very warm. 'In truth, you seemed the sort of lost soul who usually winds their way down here. A past like spent gunpowder, and a future like a slow drowning.' She seems as though she is going to let it lie at that, but then speaks once more, in more animated tones. \n\n'But in your ashes, I felt a slight ember. Not enough for hope, nor anything so solid as a promise. A glimmer perhaps, like Lord Tennyson's gleam.' \n\nShe shrugs. 'I'm afraid that's all it was. Don't dwell on it. It doesn't mean that's all it is.'\n\n[[Do you have more questions of her|Tanova in the Drawing Room]]?|\n[[Take your leave of her|Drawing room]].|

You think he might have wished to live forever. \n\n[[He still might. With your help. Within you|Eat Joseph Block]].|\n\nBut there is more thesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsunthesunthesunthesunTHESUNtheSUNSUNthethesunthesunTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUNthesunthesunthesunsusnsunsunsunsun\n\n[[You pull yourself away. Before it is too late|Joseph Block]].|

He uncoils. He is slightly less beautiful when not in repose - his eyes are too like a cat's, hungry and dilated. \n\nHis stomach is slightly distended - his sleep had resembled that taken by a snake after consuming its live prey. \n\n'Lassal. A pleasure - for us both.' He smiles. His lips are full and red, like a Rossetti painting. 'I know who you are.'\n\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>'I liked your answer. To Charlotte. It seems you're after my own heart.' He presses your hand to his breast. It takes you a moment to realise there are two heartbeats in him. One is considerable fainter, and fading fast. <<endif>> \n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>'I must say, I didn't care for your answer. To Charlotte. Why forsake our greatest advantage? Pleasure not haunted by the grim spectre of death. But we all make our choices.'<<endif>>\n\nHe lowers his eyelids. Long-lashed like the kind of young lady Mr Dickens would write to The Times about. On his collar, carved in skin, is a sleeping magician. \n\n[[Ask him about himself. He seems inclined to talk|WhoIsLassal]].|\n[[Ask him about All Souls. You don't know much|LassalAllSouls]].|\n[[Take your leave of him. He is somewhat tiresome|Bath]].|

The heart begins to swell. The love has faded, but the currents and the shape of it are familiar passageways through the organ. \n\n[[It is ripe and willing. The sweetness would be unimaginable if you were to feed now|Eat Joseph Block]].|\n\nThere was a pretty young woman, whose father was a minister in Kendal, and she spun wool so prettily, and she was sweet. And consumptive, which made her all the more alluring, and she mixed blood and breath like you stirred life and death in equal measure in your poems. \n\nShe died of course, and you swore vengeance on death that no-one else might ever die. You liked the sound of that promise - the sound and fury of it. You would be the one to conquer death. \n\nYou were your only true love. \n\n[[This is the love of Joseph Block|Joseph Block]].|

The fog parts a little, and the graves and the trees that twine around them are lit by brief shafts of moonlight. Enough to make out names on the headstones - Laird this and Campbell that and Wallace, Watson, and Whytt. \n\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>You see the bones beneath the earth, and the slow decay of the corporeal bodies lying there in the cold dirt. Atoms of flesh dissolve, chewed away by worm and rat and worse. Bones whiten, freed of their rotting cages. Mankind sloughs into perfect unity, utterly alien to the living flesh of those remaining.<<endif>>\n\nYou walk in circles along the tree-lined paths, amongst the genteel dead. Not a soul disturbs you, nor is there trace of any yet walking above the earth to be found. It seems you are alone here. \n\n[[Explore elsewhere|Upper Greyfriars]].|\n\n<<if $embrace is "yes">>No. Not quite alone. You become aware of laboured breathing, and a dragging foot in the dark. You are reminded of old children's tales, of the devil club-footed walking with his heavy falls, pacing the hallways after all decent folk are abed. But not safely. \n\nA figure, cloaked and limping emerges from the fog. The cloak drops to reveal the face, partially burnt along the cheek. Tanova.\n\n[[Go to your master|Tanova in Greyfriars]].|<<endif>>

You pull out the page, almost entirely lost to the flame. You strike a match against your thigh, and hold it against the too-much scorched paper. \n\nWhat little you can make out is mostly obscured by ash. \n\n'Beloved Draco,\n\nDid you know Donne spoke of the draconic races - in his Alchymic Marriage they represented the union between the sanguine and the melancholic - to his mind they stood for the perfect balance of humours [the rest is obscured] these he termed 'Exsanguinated.' \n\nI am adamant [this too is obscured] you will not forget. We have an agreement. John is delighted. \n\nThe rest is ruined by flames long since burnt out. \n\n[[Return to the rest of the room|44a Wayside Court]].|

'Oh, everything. Dr F covers it all. Medicine to literature. He calls it the Arse Moriendi.' She giggles. 'A poem encompasses life, death, and every stage of grief, Dr F says.' \n\nYou note, beneath the layers of dust and grime, her clothes are all black. She wears a piece of jet at her throat. \n\n[[Is she in mourning|Jenny grieving]]?|\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

You flip the latch on the ancient chest. A different sort to the one that must long ago have held this mangled heart within its breast. \n\nThis heart is dessicated. It is almost brown, preserved through some masterwork of the embalmer's trade. It resembles nothing so much as a dead bird, crushed, found after the snows of winter had first melted. \n\nYou feel old memory stir, as your hands cradle the somehow still throbbing muscle. Your hands are sticky with it, you can taste the blood like copper, but the memories are coming on. \n\n[[Succumb to the memories|Joseph Block]].|\n[[Succumb to the hunger|Eat Joseph Block]].|

You stumble in the dark, your knee almost broken by a sudden pew. You hear a scrabbling of feet ahead. \n\nYou brush against the altar. A candle! And you have matches left...\n\nThe feet are receding in the dark. \n\n[[Light the candle|lit match chapel]].\n[[Walk on in the dark|Dark chapel]].

<<set $HareishanTrusts to 1>>\n\nYou bow your head, watching as she winds the scroll about you. Around your breast it goes, and down towards your groin. \n\nWith each new binding, Hareishan undoes a piece of your clothing, until you stand naked before her, in the shadowed sand stone of the vault. The parchment is wound from your neck to torso, wrapping around your thighs like the tempter around old Eve. \n\nHareishan inclines her head, long nails brushing your shoulder, as she adjusts the faded scroll, tightening. You are reminded of the bands certain mortifying saints wore about their sanctified flesh, through torment seeking God. \n\nYou are more vividly reminded of this as the parchment sinks within your skin. \n\n[[You scream. It is the only possible response|Scream for the end of days]].|

Dismal indeed.\n\nIt is hard to see. The glass reflects lantern-light from your room, and outside is only darkness. There are no lights below. \n\nBut, you acclimatise. Perhaps this is one of those changes Tanova told you about, months ago in the emporium. There is a way of looking at darkness that shows only light. \n\nBeyond your chamber are graves, arrayed below the vault of the great cavern in which these forgotten tombs slumber. The roof of the vault is awash with crystal, and some has fallen, scattered, about the sepulchral sea beyond. Little colonies of strange luminescence, adrift on a lake of night. \n\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>There is you think a light out there - a lantern far out in the foggy gloom, where the graves are farthest, and surely the cavern walls must rise up beyond.<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>There is you think a light out there - a lantern far out in the foggy gloom, where the graves are farthest, and surely the cavern walls must rise up beyond.<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>There is a lantern light out beyond. Surely the gamekeeper, you assure yourself, not stopping to wonder what kind of game stalk cavernous underground graveyards. You draw the thick indigo velvet curtains shut, occluding the night with a cosier darkness.<<endif>>\n\nThere seems little else to see. \n[[You withdraw from the window|Explore chamber]].|

<<set $GenderOther = "yes">>You see yourself glancing back at you from the cracked glass. Handsome, and in the prime of your youth and the bloom of your health.\n\nBut you know better. \n\n[[Look away from your reflection|Look at the mirror]].|

It was the little, dark man, who sat at her parlour who did for her. \n\n[[She was so wicked. You could finish the job in one swallow|Eat Mrs Heichmann]].|\n\nIt seems that either she misjudged or he erred, but either way one October day, when the snows drifted down to Riverside, his rent was overdue a whole month. With considerable glee, and several pocketfuls of silver, Mrs Heichmann enlisted Mr Screwssbury to draw up the eviction papers and present them to him. \n\nHe looked at them, from behind his ruined door, wretched with rot, behind the long stair of Riverside. He asked her to come inside - there was a matter of a deposit. She said she'd show him deposit, and got Mr Screwssbury to go running into the lamplight to find the constables. \n\nThere she erred. You feel the heart stop. She'd sent the dark gentleman in to a panic of some sort, for he levelled a cudgel into her face, and there shattered her glee into an inwards collapse of little white shards. \n\n[[This was the death of Mrs Heichmann|Mrs Heichmann]].|

He looks you up and down. 'You look strong. Stronger 'n me. I'll do you the bell if you'll do for him.' He nods in the direction of Master Withmass. \n\nHe stares at you. His blue eyes burn like the coals all around.\n\n[[Accept. The old bastard has it coming|Andrew's Deal]].|\n[[Refuse. There are other ways|Refused Andrew's Deal]].|

<<set $DrakeTrusts += "3">>He shakes his head, the flames a corona. 'I fled once to avoid bringing harm - in doing so I attracted worse. I fled again to face the doom I brought upon myself, alone.' His eyes gaze into yours, his mouth set in fearsome determination.\n\n'If you would fetch Drake from the flame, you will be followed. Know by whom.' \n\nThe fire flickers and dies. Your blood is spent on the cold hearth. \n\n[[You know where Drake has gone, if not quite why. Travel to Greyfriars Kirk|Greyfriars]].|\n[[There is more to be learnt here in the Cloister. Continue your investigation here|Explore the Cloister]].|

<<set $OldLocket = $OldLocket + 1>>You feel about under the pile of pillows, disturbing the careful arrangement of elegantly scattered luxury, to discover pinned between two plump velvet-lined cushions, a locket. \n\nThe locket opens with a nasty surprise - a little sliver of glass, like a needle, sticks up when the case is disturbed. \n\nInside are two daguerreotypes - of two people, curiously similiar, dressed in the long coats and high collars fashionable of the 1870s. Both bear haughty countenances - flared nostrils, dark hair, dark eyes that glower, as though trying to break the camera lens. But both equally bear half-smiles, like knives affixed to their face, and lined with teeth. Brother and sister perhaps? \n\n[[You shut the locket, and place it on your mantelpiece|Explore chamber]].|

The room is pitch black. You stumble onwards. You think you hear footsteps brush past you, but it might have just been the eerie wind tht howls through these lightless chambers.\n\nEventually, you stumble down a further step, into a seemingly larger chamber that extends out darkly all around you.\n\n[[Walk on|Long dark]].

<<set $Light += 1>>A long undercroft, lit by your trembling hand. Three doors at the far end. Dark stained floor and large casks between you and they. \n\nFrom two of the openings you think you hear footsteps, the doors are so close together. The third, further away, is silent. \n\n[[Take the first door|First door]].\n[[Take the second door|Second door]].\n[[Take the third door|Third door]].

The graves are older. Their inhabitants in likelihood no less refined in their time than those who slumber above, yet the centuries have washed away the distinctions of their names. \n\nYou wander under yew trees and rowan, ash and birch, peering at names - Mylne, Erskine, Carstars. All long dead, these weathered tombs all that remain. The wind that whistles through the trees and shakes the branches is almost peaceful. \n\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>No. Not all that remains. Below, the worms have long since filled their bellies on the corpse-meat. All that remains of us when we go down into the earth, there to rot below the skies, in hopes of Resurrection. And in most cases, before the mortsafes, the Resurrection Men got to these beleagured bodies, not allowed to sleep easy even in death. Hatchet and axe, saw and knife. Cadavers cut and loaded away. All that remains, a few sorry bones huddled below the earth.<<endif>>\n\n[[You return to exploring the lower kirkyard|Lower Greyfriars]].|

'Oh, from All Souls. I left you to bumble about the Cloister on your own. That looked tedious and a half.' He yawns. 'Honestly, your patience for the - shall we say mortals? - is remarkable. I knew you'd find where he went. So I waited by the Stair, till up you went. \n\nAnd I came after.' He smiles. 'I had complete faith. But when you meet him, I think you'll need me.' \n\nHe looks ahead, through the opened door. 'Shall we?'\n\n[[Head into the mausoleum|The Black Mausoleum]].|\n[[No. You have other questions|Inside the Black Mausoleum]].|

You run on, dust rising up to greet you, as you almost slip upon the oddly sticky floor. Your feet stick and slide, unti you are faced with the far wall, you think.\n\nYou feel about the cracked wall and discover three openings into cool night. Archways three. \n\n[[Take the first|First door]].\n[[Take the second|Second door]].\n[[Take the third|Third door]].

The drawer is curved, like the front window of an old shop, jutting out in the centre of the chest, like a beating heart proffered. \n\nThere is an intricate lock fixed into the grey wood - gold, though damaged by damp. You realise it is the only thing in the whole room that has suffered so. \n\nYou examine the lock - a key would, thankfully fit here, but of a most peculiar design. The head of the key would have to join somehow, forming a continuous loop. Like a ring, or an arch, or a heart. \n\n[[Without a key, the lock will have to remain a mystery for the moment|Explore chamber]].|

The fire is warm. It is the first time since you arrived here that your flesh feels heat. \n\nThe room is low ceilinged - like a wine cellar, an affect accenuated by the barrels that line one stone wall. What wood there is is obscured by long carpets of fine red taffeta, or reflected in the gleaming brass mantlepiece that encloses the hearth like the entrance to the cave at Cumae. \n\nThere are [[portraits|Drawing Room Portraits]] behind the mantlepiece, and a [[map|Drawing Room Map]] spread out on the long morning table. \n\nTanova is spread out like spilled wine on a long velvet couch, her gloved hands holding a newspaper above her like a parasol. She smiles her familiar slow-thawing smile as you close the door behind you. \n\n[[Talk to Tanova|Tanova in the Drawing Room]].|\n[[Make your exit. There is much to explore|Main hallway]].|\n

<<set $HasPrybar = "yes">>Curious. The gate is unlocked. \n\nYou descend a narrow flight of stairs, that sweep like waves upwards from the romanesque arch waiting below. The gates are open, clanging in the increasing wind. \n\nAh. There. The chain has been snapped. A prybar hangs, discarded from the chain. Someone has entered here, likely this very last. Even in the dark, the rituals of the dead are maintained assiduously. \n\n[[You take the prybar and return to exploring the kirkyard|Lower Greyfriars]].|

He lowers his eyes. He has extremely long lashes. They must serve him well to conceal his heart's desires. \n\n'I made an unwelcome advance, and was put in my place. Mistress Helena shares her lover with no-one.' The boy looks at you plaintively. 'But I knew he wanted me - the way he looked at me - but he let her score me all the same, said it was how I'd learn. She kept him and he let her. Perversity, I call it. He wanted it that way.'\n\n'Still,' He finishes his glass and looks at you expectantly, 'Mistress Helena's paid my keep ever since. In this brief world of ours, you can't ask for more.' <<set $HelenaKnewDrake += "1">>\n\n[[You have further questions|Singing Jack]].|\n[[Leave him for now|The Bell's Toll]].|

'Sshhh.' She whispers, in a low voice. A Leith accent. She clutches a handkerchief to her face. You see on its withdrawal, a few spots of blood. Cholera or else the consumption, you presume. How sad. \n\nAfter a few minutes, she leans in close. You think to move away before remembering that it probably doesn't matter anymore, even if she is contagious. \n\n'My name's Jenny. From the waterfront.'\n\nYou introduce yourself. It's only polite. \n\n[[Ask her about her condition. It might be a little blunt|Jenny's Sick]].|\n[[Ask her why she is here|Why are you here Jenny]].|\n[[Ask her about Dr Farthing|Jenny and Dr Farthing]].|\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

There is light. You are standing by a river, and you can see the grass and it is green. There is light in the sky and you can see the colours of the world and this is what it must be like to see - \n\nAnd you are walking in the valley, and it is green, and you feel content, because you have learnt at last what you set out to. You carry a sheaf of poetry as your crest the next slope, and you know that there are lakes in the distance. And you know you should write Mary but what does that matter now that you know - what does she matter now? \n\nYour heart in your chest swells to bursting, and thinking on that sensation makes you smile in the golden idyll you walk through. There are few people here. There will be less. \n\n\n<<if $SymbolHeart is "yes">>[[This ruined heart is expanding like rising dough - there is desire, but it is overwhelmed by love. So much love|Joseph Block's Heart]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>[[This is moments before Joseph Block died, you're sure of it. Follow the trail of that shroud to its source|Joseph Block's Death]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>[[This heart had hopes, before it lost them to death. Trace those|Joseph Block's Hope]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolHangedMan is "yes">>[[The heart has a loneliness that cuts to its core. It is hidden, but the well pooling with blood at the heart's base is unmistakable|Joseph Block's Alone]].|<<endif>>\n[[This is the heart of Joseph Block the poet, who died so his heart might feed you. Leave it for now|Affair of the Heart]].|\n[[This is the heart of Joseph Block the poet, who died so his heart might feed you. So feed|Eat Joseph Block]].|

She looks at you for a long moment, before pulling up the sleeve of her burnt velvet gown. \n\nBeneath singed cloth, singed flesh. 'I saw the light, you could say. I'm in deep, I won't lie to you. The cult of the Sun - I haven't betrayed the Coven, if that's what you're wondering, but I'm not exactly on official business either.' \n\nShe sighs. 'And I got burnt for it. Can I trust you to keep this a secret? Until I know more?'\n\nShe looks at you, her eyes as large as the pool where first she took you. \n\n[[Yes. You'll keep her secret|Trust Tanova]].|\n[[No. You won't make that promise|Distrust Tanova]].|

You walk into the shadow, and have the uncanny impression that the shadow walks into you.\n\nYou open your eyes in a long space of grey stone - like a balustrade that runs on and on - cast in a perpetual twilight. You fancy you stand on the intersection between the dormitory and the old church, where once the novices in the first hours of the canon - Lauds, perhaps - wandered barefoot and candlelit, harried by aged masters, to shiver salutations to the divine in the hours before dawn. \n\n<<if $survivor is "yes">>The shadows at the end of the long chamber pool. A familiar figure steps out. Hareishan, in her long winding robes, spills out, shrouded in shadow. Her blue-ringed eyes of bleak night watch you, dispassionately.<<endif>>\n\nThere are strange markings in chalk on the wall. A single gate leads off, to look out onto the Cloister, where strange winds blow. The corridor otherwise ends. Whereever it once led, if the Church or else below, has long been filled in. \n\n[[Examine the wall markings|Drake's chalk]].|\n[[Go through the gate. It is, after all, the only exit|Through the gate]].|\n[[Light a candle. It is so very dark here|Lit a candle in Drake's rooms]].|\n<<if $survivor is "yes">>[[Speak to Hareishan. She is watching you|Hareishan in Drake's rooms]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>[[Open a vein. Blood calls to blood|Opened a vein to Drake]].|<<endif>>\n\n

<<set $TanovaDistrusts += 2>>\n<<set $HareishanTrusts +=1>>\n\nThe Countess surveys you from her bone-white seat. \n\n'The safe choice. There is no shame in that. You will already have made enemies through the saying. But in the self-same speech, gained a score of allies, bonded through the same words. Many have knelt thus, and spoke thus. You shall not see the sun.' \n\nShe suddenly flies from her throne, and the full weight of her is upon you. With one sapphire-strung hand she holds your throat, with the other she tears open your collar. On the nape of your neck, she carves a symbol of your flesh, as you spasm beneath her. There is little blood. This does not lessen the pain.\n\nIn a moment, she is done, and situated once more upon the white seat of her majesty. She beckons for a mirror to be brought to you. \n\nYou see in the dark glass what she has made of you. A sunset falls upon your collar. <<set $SymbolSunset = "yes">>\n\n[[She claps her hands. You are taken away, into the dark|Your chamber]].|\n

<<set $LassalDistrusts to 1>>\n\nLassal shakes his head, and devours the heart in a single, messy gulp. You watch in repulsion as his throat bulges as it slides down his oesophagus and slips into his digestive system. \n\nHis mouth is ringed red, like a long distant planet. \n\n'I'm sorry. It was a little much. But this is our way, and you will come to see it is the only way. The Countess is waiting.' \n\nHe looks at you, forlorn you think, and walks back towards the network of catacombs you now must call your own. \n\n[[Follow|The Countess]].|

<<set $SavedIsaac = "yes">>You reach for Isaac, who in a brief moment of terror gazing at what waits above, releases Drake's hand. You think you hear Drake whisper thanks. Perhaps you merely tell yourself of that to absolve yourself of the horror that follows.\n\nThe void opens all around him. Through him. He is within - and without. There is only silence, but you saw his face. \n\nDr Farthing and his adamant light are gone. You run, through the dark, away from the hunger, away from what claimed Isaac. \n\nThrough the dusty vaults that have now known death once more. Through the hungry darkness. Through the waking cemetery and the slumbering Above. \n\nCrueler duties wait Below, down the stair. \n\n[[Return to the Countess|Charlotte Hears]].

There are coins between your small fingers, like little branches in winter, stripped of leaves, gnarled and twisted. You run the coin between your branches before biting it. Silver. Fancy you think, couldn't imagine what he was doing in Riverside, but coin is coin. You'll give him the room, hike up the price half-way through the lease, double it again if he stays longer than a threemonth. \n\nThere is a knock on your door. You smile and excuse yourself. It's Mrs Crabmore again, complaining about the rent. You can smell the gin from her rotten teeth. If she can afford that, there's no reason her gaggle of bastards can't be well fed, instead of malnourished. Horrid to look at, and all covered in soot. She says it's the lightless madness this time. You shake your head and slam the door. You'll have to draw up eviction papers again. Mr Skewsbury might sneer, but you bring in the coin, never mind his lawyerly airs and graces. You knew him as little wet-the-bed Jack. \n\nThe man at your parlour table - mud at his boots, would you believe, is dark. Foreign like. It's said they can see better in the gloom.\n\n<<if $SymbolHeart is "yes">>[[This small heart has a thin beat - regret and loss intertwine with love|Mrs Heichmann's Heart]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>[[This is not long before she died, you're sure of it. Follow the trail of that shroud to its source|Mrs Heichmann's Death]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>[[This heart had hopes, before it lost them to death. Trace those|Mrs Heichmann's Hope]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolHangedMan is "yes">>[[The heart is almost frozen with isolation. It is fascinating|Mrs Heichmann's Alone]].|<<endif>>\n[[This is the heart of Mrs Heichmann the slum landlady, who died so her heart might feed you. Leave it for now|Affair of the Heart]].|\n[[This is the heart of Mrs Heichmann the slum landlady, who died so her heart might feed you. So feed|Eat Mrs Heichmann]].|

He flinches, before inclining his head to your breast. His eyes close, and he listens a moment. \n\n[[You lean together in silent reverie for a moment, the warmth of him on your cold chest|Andrew Realises]].|

You pull back the heavy pond-green curtains, unearthing a graveyard of dust, to find a very modern rifle, black and gleaming in the candlelight from the inn opposite. \n\nIt is, in fact, pointed straight at the Bell's Toll. \n\nYou examine the rifle - you're no expert, but you'd guess this was military grade. No amateur huntsman's gun this. \n\nThere are no bullets, and the chambers are cold. \n\n[[You draw away from the window|Mr Wythe's room]].|

The hallway opens out into a large chamber, like one of Well's illustrations, more an underground train tunnel than a sensible chamber. The Ortranto decor continues in black candelabras and tapestries no doubt any art collector in New York with its gas lights would long to behold. \n\nThere are doors - marked - along both walls, before the sunken gate that leads into the [[undercity|Undercity Definition]].| beyond. The nearest door is carved in mahogany, and gleams a deep fire, and is marked 'Rex'. It is locked with heavy chains. \n\nAlong the left wall are two unremarkable doors bearing themselves as 'Drawing Room', and 'Chapel'. On the right, past the royal suite, are the 'Bathhouse', and the 'Skullery.' \n\n[[Enter the Drawing room. How do your kind relax|Drawing room]]?|\n[[Enter the Chapel. What sort of chapel can this be|Chapel]]?|\n[[Enter the Bathhouse. Perhaps relaxation is in order|Bath]].|\n[[Open the Skullery. You sense a hunger beyond. Perhaps leave this till last|Skullery]].|\n[[Return to the novitiate's hallway|All Souls]].|

<<set $MissDelilahsFootsteps += "1">>Chains suspended from above hold the bed in place. Strong too, you note, as you run your hands down the links setting them a rattling. You suspect the floor could rot away and the bed would remain. \n\nThere is a bullethole, you notice, in the headboard. It does not quite correspond to the gun opposite. Too low. In fact - you place your head on the pillow to test. Yes, someone lay here for a final rest. \n\nThe air smells of charcoal. \n\n[[Leave the bed to its hanging|The lonely turret]].|

<<set $MrWithMassWantsBrandy = "yes">>The old sot eyes you up and down, and taps his empty bottle. \n\nYou move to speak, but are silenced by an upraised finger. He taps meaningfully on the bottle. On dust-enlaid glass you read 'brandy'. \n\nConversation does not seem to be forthcoming. \n\n[[Leave the forge master for the moment|The Forge]].|

'We're not at war. Nothing above, anyrate.' He speaks slowly, as though to someone very dense. \n\n'Maybe there's gonna be one. Though queer metals they want. Iron all.' \n\n[[You have other questions|Talking to Andrew]].|

Despite the exquisite beauty of the manuscript, bound in stitched cloth and resembling a heart, someone has torn most of the poem out, leaving only a single stanza. Even the illustrations are missing. What remains is this: \n\nSwift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart,\nMet the fire smouldering there\nAnd overbore its lesser flame;\nShe gorged on bitterness without a name:\nAh! fool, to choose such part\nOf soul-consuming care!\nSense fail’d in the mortal strife:\nLike the watch-tower of a town\nWhich an earthquake shatters down,\nLike a lightning-stricken mast,\nLike a wind-uprooted tree\nSpun about,\nLike a foam-topp’d waterspout\nCast down headlong in the sea,\nShe fell at last;\nPleasure past and anguish past,\nIs it death or is it life?\n\n[[Return to browsing the shelves|Shelves]].|

<<if $LassalToDrake is "yes">>Lassal rolls his eyes. 'You will all owe me for this.' He gazes with particular distaste at Drake, before uncovering his own chest. He draws a knife and makes an incision above his heart. The room is silent but for the pitter-patter of blood falling on stone. Where the light gathers below the door, the blood flows to extinguish it. \n\nDrake breathes a little easier.\n\n[[You have more questions|Drake at last]].\n<<else>>The door opens of it's own accord. Light, terrible and merciless, enters the room. Drake falls to his knees, full of trembling. Isaac stands over him.\n\n[[You are between light and dark|The Choice]].<<endif>>

The hangings appear to have been made of cut-up tapestries. The quality is fine. Cloth of gold, and you notice gemstones have been woven into the design, so that in the soft lantern-light, the hangings shine like distant stars. \n\nExamining the designs, you note that these clearly formed part of a cycle - like of old Alisaunder. But there is something different. The addition of the Hellmouth - opening wide to entrap a score of errant popes is novel, as are the forms writhing in the mud, serpents or men you can't be sure. But it is the woman who catches your eye - she is winged, and bears a sword, riding in triumph in a crimson chariot over the hellscape. You would guess an angel, but no angel of God ever bore such a countenance. \n\nThere is a child, all in gold, bearing a viol, dancing off the edge, its face bisected by the azure fray. The design ends - when it resumes on the opposing side, geometric red and gold circles form the extent of the design. \n\n[[The remainder of the tapestry seems lost, for now|Bed]].|

Wings brush against you, briefly, somewhere after Terce. (Below, the hours are Canonical). A bat flies briefly against you, before surrendering to the dark once more. \n\nIn the blackness, the luminescene you glimpsed earlier from your window gleams like fractured starlight. Crystal formations in the dark, native to the cold, hidden places of the world, shine bright. You are oddly comforted knowing they will continue to shimmer here, even as you leave for above. \n\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>You fancy you see a lantern, out where the cavern wall ought to be. Looking closer, you think you spy All Souls reflected in deep, dark water, an the lantern light further magnified within. There is no cavern wall. Something extends.<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>You fancy you see a lantern, out where the cavern wall ought to be. Looking closer, you think you spy All Souls reflected in deep, dark water, an the lantern light further magnified within. There is no cavern wall. Something extends.<<endif>>\n\n[[You continue to climb up above|The Long Stair]].|\n

He bristles as you term him a knave and a scoundrel for his insult, and draws up to his full height to stare you square in the face. \n\nHis murky eye rolls in its socket with each movement of his head. His breath is ripe with whisky, and his gums rank with disease. \n\n'I merely acquiesed to the law of this place. A man has no better below, but stands amongst equals always.' He runs his greasy fingers along your cravat. 'Pretty piece,' He says, in his voice like cheap liquor coursing over broken glass, 'Pity about its deportment.' \n\nBehind you watch Lassal wince, and shake his head at you. \n\n[[Press the issue. The man is impertinent indeed|Fight the eyeless man]].|\n[[Withdraw. You'll not be drawn into this|Stand down from the eyeless man]].|\n[[Inquire as to his rudeness. You have done nothing to warrant such treatment|Why are you so mean eyeless man]].|

The dome is low. The light is non-existent. Ahead is pitch. \n\n'I can see stairs,' Isaac says, guiding you to a gap of greater dark plummeting through the centre of the floor. \n\nThere is indeed a long spiral stair, clinging to the wall for dear life, winding down and down into the dark. You sigh. And you had just come Above. \n\nIsaac takes the first step. \n\n<<if $TanovaTrusts gte 3>> There are footsteps at the door. You turn, to see Tanova, clutching her head. 'You've been followed. I got jumped. I got away, don't worry.' She winks. 'Couldn't let you wander off into trouble by yourself, could I skipper?' \n\n'He's with me.' Isaac protests from the stair.\n\n'Precisely. Come on,' Tanova says, taking your hand.<<set $TanovaInTheMausoleum = "yes">><<endif>>\n\n<<if $HareishanTrusts gte 3>>There are footsteps from outside. Slow and measured. The figure of Hareishan appears in the portal, her winding sheets gathered about her. 'I'll brook no argument,' She says in her voice like exhausted dust, 'I won't see our most promising fledgling in nigh on aeons thrown away so easily.' She takes the stair ahead of you. <<set $HareishanInTheMausoleum = "yes">><<endif>>\n\n<<if $LassalTrusts gte 3>>Someone enters the door behind you. Lassal, head bowed, looking almost sheepish. 'Let's not make a meal of it, yes?' He says to your inquiring gaze. 'I do sometimes remember my commitments.' He looks down at the dark and shudders. 'My god. Drake's really not worth this, let me tell you.' He waits for you to go ahead first. <<set $LassalIntheMausoleum = "yes">><<endif>>\n\n<<if $CharlotteTrusts gte 3>>Light footsteps behind you. You turn to see a slight young woman, blonde, in a long gown of blue silk. Not out of place in the day of Charles II. She reaches you, and you recognise her. The Countess' shadow. \n'Charlotte wishes you good fortune, and sends me in her place.' She removes a glove, and takes your hand in her cold grasp. 'My name is Emmeline.' Her eyes shine hoarfrost in the dark. 'Consider me security. I know I do.' And with that, she moves to follow Isaac down into the gloom.<<set $EmmelineInTheMausoleum = "yes">><<endif>>\n\n[[You descend|Drake Below]].|\n

Her face is like a polished mirror - whatever you see there is only projection. You think you spy pity in the shallows of her pallour, only to find confusion, then realisation. \n\n'Our first law is rejection. For we have been, all. Here, we reject hope. Not on a general principle, or else life eternal would not be worth the living. But, the devil is always in the details. Hope for the specific. Tangible, so that the heart might better break.' \n\nShe takes your hand, runs her finger down your palm - tracing the life-line. A shiver shakes your spine. Someone sits up in your grave and begins to walk. \n\n'Most surrender hope for the sun's return. It is the most straightforward, though the cause of much suspicion above. But then again, those who mewl for day rarely bother to learn the specifics of our own. As far as they are concerned, all of us made that surrender. But you need not.' \n\nShe looks at you. There is no lure this time. Only the predator of the deepest darks. She is waiting for an answer. \n\n[[Surrender hope of seeing the sun return|The Sun, the Sun]].|\n[[Surrender hope of an old love returning|The Lovers Inverted]].|\n[[Surrender hope of saving an old friend|The Hermit]].|\n[[Surrender hope of understanding all that has occured|The Magician Inverted]].|\n[[Surrender hope of living forever|Death]].|\n[[Surrender hope of living untouched by this new world|The Tower]].|

The door closes behind you with a clank that echoes throughout the long hallway you find yourself in. \n\nThe long chamber is rib-vaulted, rising to unseen darkness high above. The stones beneath your feet are cobbled, with gutters running along the walls. A long tattered blue carpet traces the length of this depth. \n\nThere are two doors on the opposing wall to your own chamber. At the far end of the hallway is a locked gate of iron, wrought and crowned with spikes. The chamber runs in the opposite direction further inwards, disappearing into gloom. \n\n[[Examine the door on the left|Isaac's Chamber]].|\n[[Examine the door on the right|The study]].|\n[[Venture further into the catacombs|Main hallway]].|\n[[Return to your chamber|Explore chamber]].|

<<set $GenderFemale = "yes">>You see a beautiful woman glancing back at you from the cracked glass. A young woman, in the prime of her life and the bloom of her health. \n\nBut you know better. \n\n[[Look away from your reflection|Look at the mirror]].|

The heart blisters as you light its words aflame. The pages crumble to ash, turning at the corners, as line by line is consumed by the flames. \n\nYou stamp out the flames and the few lines left with your boot. \n\n'And you won't remember me,\nmy darling lad,\nwhen the year turns again\nWell, maybe a tad \nenough t' make ye sad.\nwhen the heart turns again.'\n\n[[Continue exploring the room|Mrs Heichmann's rooms]].|

You meet the Doctor and gaze into the mirrored glass before his eyes. 'A pity,' He says, shaking his head. 'I did not come here to quarrel.\n\n<<if $HareishanToDrake is "yes">>'Though your friend outside has rather decimated my own guard. There will be restitution, in time.<<endif>> \n\n'Stay there if you wish.' You are stood before Drake and Isaac, hand in hand. \n\n'I merely wished to formally withdraw our support in time. And announce ourself to your allies, for whom there is still yet time.' Dr Farthing sniffs the air. There is a terrible chill. 'Yes, not long at all now.' \n\n[[Witness|Covenanter]].

<<set $SuspiciousOfSalvation = "yes">>She tuts. 'Fancy asking such a question. Look around the Cloister, friend. We all need saving. Don't look an outstretched hand in the mouth. As it were.'\n\nShe turns her attention back to the pulpit.\n\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

He shakes his head. 'Weak. Just like me.' He sighs, the energy that had briefly compelled him, swelled him into something burning and strange leaves him. \n\n'If you happen to find the fancy lady, tell her the bell's waiting. Otherwise, I can't give it no-one.' \n\n[[You have other questions|Talking to Andrew]].|\n[[Continue to explore the forge|The Forge]].|

The heart is bursting with pride. Blood, rich and old leaks from the pulsing organ. \n\n[[So swollen, it almost resembles a normal heart. Imagine what such a full, rich vintage would feel like, sitting on your stomach. Taste|Eat Joseph Block]].|\n\nJoseph Block was always apart, in the classroom, mooning over clouds when he ought to be learning Latin grammar, in church when he wondered why God made man to make him suffer, in the taverns of Penrith when he loudly admired Bonaparte, as a colossus bestride Europe. \n\nIf he had society of equal culture, perhaps things might have been different. But he had not, and a proud intellect left alone tends to fester, to auto-cannibalise. Joseph Block became apart by instinct. How could there be equal?\n\n[[This is the isolation of Joseph Block|Joseph Block]].|

You are woken by cold water - really cold this time, being poured down your throat. \n\nYou are numb. Like losing a tooth - the mouth feelingless. Perhaps a mercy, given what has occured. \n\nTanova wipes the last of the blood from your teeth. You must have bit down hard on your tongue. \n\n'I knew I wasn't wrong. You saw it.' She makes no apologies, though there is something like kindness as she dabs at you. 'But we are late. Our beloved Countess rises - she would see you.' \n\n[[Tanova once again takes you by the hand, and guides you toward the catacombs you must now call your home|The Countess]].|

Her eyes darken. Something wicked plays at the corners of her mouth.\n\n'Me, dear? Mercy, no! I'm not sure I could even had I the inclination. Even he couldn't do it, back in the day. She might, but she's resorted to half-measures.' She sighs. 'The difference between you and I, child, is you fear death but I do not, and yet you may die but I never shall.' \n\n'I'm dreadfully sorry, dearie, but that's not it.' She sighs. 'Blast. I suppose it's to be expected from a fledgling, and from below to boot. I shall have to try something else.'\n\nAnd with that, and a chill breeze rattling from all doors, she is gone, leaving you alone in the now silent hallways of this nested labyrinth above the ruined dormitory. \n\n[[Less enlightened than you were, you depart|Explore the Cloister]].|

You wander the inviting darkness of your chamber. There is much to admire here. Much to discover. You are not sure if it is quite your own yet. Something about it - a sudden extinguishing of a candle, a shadow in a mirror, a rattling of the casements - unnerves you. As though you were experiencing resistance to the imposition of your presence. \n\nStill, much catches your eye. \n\n[[There is the great, stately ship of the bed|Bed]].|\n[[Perhaps there is something in the drawers|Drawers]].|\n[[The view from the window is dismal but perhaps something may be glimpsed there|Window]].|\n[[There is, of course, the mirror|Mirror]].|\n[[You have spent enough time cooped up here. The catacombs await|All Souls]].|

She giggles again, and pours you a glass of gin. She forces you to toast to the demise of a Mrs Heichmann. The gin is foul, but above your choking, you make out some of Mrs Lamprey's screed on her not so dearly departed landlady. \n\n<<if $AteMrsHeichmann is "yes">>The heart within you burns, like particularly virulent indigestion. You bear your teeth. This unholy baggage, you know, kept her home through the goodness of your heart. You even kept that business with the baby farm quiet, even after the inspector left.\n\n[[You could reveal what you - Mrs Heichmann knows - if you like|Mrs Lamprey's secret]].|<<endif>>\n\n'Rumour has it,' Mrs Lamprey says, leaning in close so you might smell the rot in her gums, 'It was Helena's fancy gentleman what done it. A man all in black, secretive they say, who owed Mrs Heichmann a few bob. Well, only one as fits that descriptor is the one that shares Helena's bed.' <<set $HelenaKnewDrake += "1">>\n\n[[You have further questions for Mrs Lamprey|Mrs Lamprey]].|\n[[Leave her for now|The Bell's Toll]].|\n

He grins broadly. 'Ah, you noticed that. How very perspicacious.'\n\nHe spreads his hands, revealing the band on his wrist. It is steel, engraved with a map of three kingdoms, you think, each enclosed in a multitude of spheres. Strange creatures and stranger walk the kingdoms. All of the names are strange.\n\n'A curiosity I was given by a friend of mine - a man named, Drake. You remind me of him. You have the same look in your eyes. Sorrow and need. The need, I'm afraid, is winning. He was much the same. I'd tell you more if he were here, but alas, it is otherwise. If anyone knows where he has gone, it is our stout innkeep, but she is silent on this, as in so much else.'<<set $HelenaKnewDrake += "1">>\n\nAs he speaks, you fancied you heard a bell, quiet but near, insistent, chiming like the office of the dead behind your eyes. When Dr Farthing revealed his curious band, you head that bell again. It was near but not quiet. Above, it tolled.<<set $TheBellTolled += "2">>\n\n[[You have further questions|Dr Farthing]].|\n[[Leave him for the moment|The Bell's Toll]].|

'Funny,' Helena says, as she unlocks the cabinet and exposes the fat, contented looking bottle of port, amethyst exsanguination locked away in dark glass, 'That's what he always ordered. Only feller, or lass mind, I've ever known take port in this pit.' \n\nThe port is aged, and you taste each year as it spills down your throat, like time unspooling, drop by little drop. \n\n[[Attempt to make conversation. She may know something|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Perhaps not. There is more to explore|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Request another drink|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Who is this other port-drinker|Helena Knows Drake]].|

<<if $SolvingArgentMurder gte 2>>She stands in the centre of the room, equally between all doors. She smiles, though sadness emanantes from her like a chill. 'Perhaps you know. Perhaps you know who did this.' \n\n[[Dr Farthing, of course|Answered Dr Farthing]].|\n[[Mr Wythe, naturally|Answered Mr Wythe]].|\n[[The woman in gold, who else|Answered Aureate]].|\n[[Drake, sadly|Answered Drake]].|\n[[Helena, in all probability|Answered Helena]].|\n[[She did it to herself|Answered Argent]].|<<else>>The key turns in the lock, with a click like the breaking of a bone. You wince, as shudders chill up your arms, your too fragile bones. \n\nA coldness seeps into your flesh as you enter, across the threshold, guarded by twin angels, swords meeting in a point forming the arch of the portal. As though in another Eden. \n\nHer voice echoes about the ocatagonal antechamber you find yourself in. 'I kept watch, back in the day. You never knew what was hiding down below, do you? Oh, there I go again, slipping my tenses. Substitute past, dearie. Always substitute past.' There is no source. \n\nThis narrow antechamber bears four doors, at each cardinal direction. All stone. All silent. \n\n[[North|North door]].|\n[[South|South door]].|\n[[East|East door]].|\n[[West|West door]].|<<endif>>

'Old.' She breaks a vein on her arm, and presses it to your mouth. The blood tastes of dust and coal, smouldering to the last ember. \n\n'I am archivist, historian, tradition-keeper, and elder here. The Countess acts, but I ensure All Souls keeps within the proper parameters. I keep the chapel and the rituals because they preserve our identity. Without which, we are but lawless predators, devouring each other in the dark.' \n\nShe turns her back to you, to the altar. 'There is no redemption here. But there is memory, and it is long.' \n\n<<if $survivor is "yes">>[[Continue your conversation with her|Hareishan in the chapel]].|\n<<else>>[[Continue your conversation with her|Hareishan Introduction]].|<<endif>>\n[[Take your leave of her|Chapel]].|

The heart stills, as you make it dwell on solitary isolation - both before when it was still inside a man - and now, when it sits and waits to be devoured. \n\n[[It would be a mercy really. You could do it in a swallow|Eat William Grey]].|\n\nA familiar scene plays out - mother dead of the consumption, father mad for lack of sun. Another suicide from the bridge. Taken in to learn the forge, under the grim tutelage of Master Whitmass. You were always watched. Your fingers broken often. Other apprentices stayed little. There were lovers, as you grew, and your heart swelled for them, but how many depended on transaction? If not money, then service. And there were new commissions. \n\nYou realise William was always alone - you see the glance of Master Withmass from his drunken seat reflected in the eyes of all those important enough for the heart to record. \nIt was because he was never trusted.\n\n[[This was the loneliness of William Gray|William Grey]].|

Helena gazes at you, before hurling a glass at the far wall, where it shatters, embedding shards into the wood and mould. \n\n'Bastard,' She hisses. 'I'll not deny you. I knew him. God help me, I knew him - even with what he is. What you are' She bares her teeth. 'I'm not a fool. I know what lurks in your belly. Fucking children of Cain, playing at Lucifer.' She spits. Her red-ringed eyes narrow. 'I loved him. I did wicked things for that love. I'd burn in hell were I not already here.'\n\n'He left for Greyfriars cemetery on the above. In the old town. I don't know why. He said he could tell me where or why - both would destroy me. He liked having that over me, I can tell you. He annihilated me so I might point the way to another of his fucking kin, like Satan's John the Baptist.' \n\nShe stares you full in the face. You realise she'd attack you, if she thought she were guaranteed to lose. She breathes. 'Don't make my whole being a fucking waste. Go after him.'\n\n[[You know where Drake has gone, if not quite why. Travel to Greyfriars Kirk|Greyfriars]].|\n[[There is more to be learnt here in the Cloister. Continue your investigation here|Explore the Cloister]].|

His eyes snap open. His pupils are initially thin, but quickly dilate. His tongue slips from between his red, red lips. \n\n'Sweetling, I have missed you.' He frowns. 'I assume you've been settled in. I'm afraid for the moment you are a novitiate, but Charlotte has plans for us that should change all that. I remember being a novitiate was very tedious. You'll only have Isaac for company. How very bored you must be. No wonder you sought me out.' \n\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>'I liked your answer. To Charlotte. It seems you're after my own heart.' He presses your hand to his breast. It takes you a moment to realise there are two heartbeats in him. One is considerable fainter, and fading fast. <<endif>> \n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>'I must say, I didn't care for your answer. To Charlotte. Why forsake our greatest advantage? Pleasure not haunted by the grim spectre of death. But we all make our choices.'<<endif>>\n\nHe looks at you expectantly. He seems less hungry, and less fearful, than last you saw him. Relaxed might even be an understatement. \n[[The Countess has plans? Best inquire about those|LassalPlan]].|\n[[The Countess said he was to be your master. That may be worth exploring|LassalRelationship]].|\n[[Ask him about himself. He seems inclined to talk|WhoIsLassal]].|\n[[Ask him about All Souls. You don't know much|LassalAllSouls]].|\n[[Take your leave of him|Bath]].|

<<set $IsaacTrust += 2>>He smiles. A hunger reaches his eyes. He leans forward, his breast exposed, though you sense no more vulnerable than when you entered. \n\nThis is display, and you sense not for your benefit. He bites your neck, dragging your head back, till his green eyes freeze their fury into your own. It is like having your head dunked in a stream at midwinter, the ice breaking over you. \n\n'You are clever to attempt such, but I shan't be abjured so easily. Furthermore, I see you have made no precautions of your own - not even a thin circle in chalk. I shall grant you clemency, this once. But all this is not to dissuade you. I enjoy the attempt.' \n\nHe smiles again, and he leans back, stretched out on his rug, neck bared. He seems to be waiting eagerly for your next sally. \n\n[[At this vantage, the symbol on his throat is exposed. You could look if you like|Isaac Symbol]].|\n[[He said he was a student. Of what|Isaac's Studies]].|

<<set $Light += 1>>A bat startles you as it rises from the floor, wings aloft, fleeing the light dancing in your hand. There is nothing in this ruined vault but for the door ahead - a few broken pews, a desecrated Madonna - all shadows and dust.\n\n[[Make for the door|Sacristy]].

<<set $IsaacTrusts -= 3>>Isaac stares at you with utter hatred as you step into the shadows. \n\nDr Farthing advances upon Drake, who pushes Isaac aside. \n\n'I am ready, Farthing. End this.' \n\nDr Farthing chuckles. 'Oh, no. You have sprung this trap upon yourself, my dear boy. I merely wished to formally withdraw our support in time. And announce ourself to your allies, for whom there is still yet time.' He sniffs the air. There is a terrible chill. 'Yes, not long at all now.' \n\n[[Witness|Covenanter]].

You focus upon his throat, which pulses, throbbing visibly even in the dim candlelight. Isaac seems to favour black tallow, which drowns in traces of itself slowly about the room. \n\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>You can make out a certain configuration scored into the delicacy of his flesh, but it seems to shift, blurring before your eyes, eluding you. You must have stared too long, for Isaac is glaring balefully at you.<<set IsaacDistrusts += "1">>\n[[You apologise, and attempt conversation|Isaac Greeting]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>You don't know this symbol. A swan, pierced with swords, five, whose hilts form a pentagram above the dying creature. You can only imagine the agony he endured at the Countess' hands to create such intricacy. \n[[Attempt to make conversation|Isaac Greeting]].|\n[[Ask about the symbol. It is most unusual|Swan Symbol]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>The symbol is that of the sun. Isaac, like so many others, has foresworn seeing daybreak forever. \n[[Attempt to make conversation|Isaac Greeting]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>The symbol is that of the sun. Isaac, like so many others, has foresworn seeing daybreak forever. \n[[Attempt to make conversation|Isaac Greeting]].|\n[[You share a symbol, perhaps you might ask him his reason for making the same choice you did|Isaac Sun]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $SymbolHeart is "yes">>The symbol is that of the sun. Isaac, like so many others, has foresworn seeing daybreak forever. \n[[Attempt to make conversation|Isaac Greeting]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $SymbolHangedMan is "yes">>The symbol is that of the sun. Isaac, like so many others, has foresworn seeing daybreak forever. \n[[Attempt to make conversation|Isaac Greeting]].|<<endif>>

The door, oaken with a silver grate, swings open at your touch. \n\n'Do you mind?' A voice, high and nasal, greets you as you step into the chamber, as does a sudden chill. \n\nYou see a variety of equipment you'd imagine more at home in the residence of John Dee, shelves lined with books, a variety of precious metals, and various glassware, mysterious in design and purpose. \n\nThere is a pale youth sat cross-legged upon a [[carpet|Isaac's carpet]] He is draped in a loose gown of black silk, lined with red stars. His hair is long and loose, blonde, that complements the extreme pallour of his skin. His eyes are a cold green, like leaves trapped under a frozen lake. He appears to be waiting for a response. \n\n[[Introduce yourself. It's only polite|Isaac]].|\n[[Apologise and leave. You have intruded enough|All Souls]].|

Suddenly, he is away from you, like Spring-Heeled Jack, teeth bared and snarling. \n\n'So that's what's become of him.' Those lightning eyes presage a storm. 'You utter shit. You should have stayed below where you belong.' \n\nHe darts behind a rack of spiked weaponry, newly forged. There is an open archway behind him, yawning out onto the gloom of the Cloister. He'll be away in seconds.\n\n[[Let him. You have caused him enough pain|Andrew escapes]].|\n[[End him. He knows - you know not how - but neverthless he does|Kill Andrew]].|

This book encased in emerald snakeskin, is an unfamiliar text. Its pages are yellow, musty. It seems not to have seen much use. There is, revoltingly, an eye, bound into the front, encased in a glass dome, that rolls and rots with every movement of the book. Perhaps that would account for the volume's neglect. \n\nIt purports to be The Secrete and Dire Estoire of the Coming Fall of Man, shewing the Hidden Revelation of St Thomas in the Greater India. \n\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>You open the book and find it in an appropriately dire and secrete condition, the pages so riddled with rot they may as well be mulch, the ink having long ran, taking meaning with it. \n[[You sigh, and return the book to its gloomy incarceration|Shelves]].|\n\n<<else>>You begin to turn the pages. It is the edited translation of a 16th century Franciscan Missionary's travels to Cathay, by an obscure Calvinist minister from a place called Dunnottar. \n\nThe prophecies begin about mid-way through, when the good mendicant collapses in the court of the Crimean Khan. He is visited by an angel of a decidely peculiar theology, of the division of God from Man, and of those who came before the Flood. A few passages emerge amidst the fog of fevered hallucination. \n\n[[Read of the Angel of the Seventh and what she said to me|Angel of the Seventh]].|\n[[Read of the martyrdom of Thomas the Apostle|St Thomas]].|\n[[Read of the Poisoned Tree|Poison Tree]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>[[There is a secret passage, inserted between the covers, concealed|The Plague]].|\n<<endif>>\n[[Put the book back on the shelf|Shelves]].|

<<set $TanovaTrusts to 1>>\n\nThe water is cool. Chillingly so. The kind of cool that comes, you realise, when a source is so hot, the flesh registers cold in a desperate attempt to survive. \n\nYou feel hands on your throat, your hair, pulling you back. Making of your throat a bridge down which the water might flow. \n\nYou almost pass out from the pain, as the deluge drenches you from tonsil to the roof of your tormented mouth. \n\nAnd in a heartbeat it is over. As the last drop passes from lip to scorched tongue to throat - a sun rises behind your eyes. All is gold - a single star shrieking, as your eyes raise veils of dark to shield you. \n\n[[You pass out|Tanova speaks]].|

She leads you to the Black Mausoleum. A small, domed structure, a heavy black door between grey-stone pillars. Classical, in the bleakest sense. Though, as Tanova tells you, it goes deeper than it looks. \n\nThe doors, on trying, are locked. 'Of course,' Tanova says, exasperated. You ask if she's sure Drake is here.\n\n'Of course,' She repeats, 'It's called the Black Mausoleum, for pity's sake! And his self-pity knows no-bounds. He's here, and locked it behind him.' \n\nYou notice the lock on the outside of the door. Whoever locked it did so from outside, which means there might still be a key on this side of the door. Somewhere. You express as much. \n\nTanova's eyes widen. 'That makes things a little easier. Let's scour the graves, meet back here when one of us finds it? I'll start with the North gate,' She gestures to a distant point along the wall of the lower cemetery, and is off. She seems relieved to have found a task. \n\n[[You return to exploring the upper graves|Upper Greyfriars]].|

There is no bell. \n\nThe window is open. There is a double bed, and a large rafter high above - a length of rope that might once have supported a bell hangs there. A rope above the bed. Morbid. \n\nThe tolling is so loud in your head you think you might scream, but there is nothing here. It is as loud as a cathedral organ, as though Bach himself played merry hell with the pipes behind your eyes. There is nothing here.\n\nYou close your eyes. You see the bell. Bronze and crack'd, swinging above. <<if $AteWilliamGrey is "yes">>You remember this bell. Or like it. Bells like this were made at the forge - fashioned after the Cloister bell. You always liked the bells best - so different to the merciless instruments you otherwise fashioned in the bellow flame<<endif>>\n\nYou open your eyes. There is nothing here. The tolling is slowing. It grows quieter, but still there. Whatever is here wants something. A warning - but of what? Without knowing more, it is just a phantom toll. <<set $TheBellCalled = "yes">>\n\n<<if $SymbolHeart is "yes">>The door closes behind you. \n[[Turn around|Lover arrives]].|<<endif>>\n[[Leave this room and its phantom enigma|The Bell's Toll]].|

He clears his throat. 'Here goes Jack's best song, the one that earned him silver coins and a smile from the prettiest man in all the Cloister.' He begins to sing, soft at first, his voice deeper than expected, rising through him, making of his slim form a choir. \n\nTHE wind doth blow today, my love,\n\tAnd a few small drops of rain;\n\tI never had but one true-love,\n\tIn cold grave she was lain.\n\t‘I’ll do as much for my true-love\n\tAs any young man may;\n\tI’ll sit and mourn all at her grave\n\tFor a twelvemonth and a day.’\n\tThe twelvemonth and a day being up,\n\tThe dead began to speak:\n\t‘Oh who sits weeping on my grave,\n\tAnd will not let me sleep?’\n\nHe finishes, and smiles shyly. 'I think you enjoyed that, friend. Seems to strike a chord in you fine folks, who come up from below.'\n\n[[You have further questions|Singing Jack]].|\n[[Leave him for the moment|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<set $LassalDistrusts += 1>>\n<<set $TanovaTrusts += 1>>\nThe Countess leans back on her throne, considering you. \n\n'For most, eternity is the seduction. Perhaps you have another purpose here. Or have already been swayed by the words of another. Or you have a will of stronger stuff than most.' \n\nShe suddenly flies from her throne, and the full weight of her is upon you. With one sapphire-strung hand she holds your throat, with the other she tears open your collar. On the nape of your neck, she carves a symbol of your flesh, as you spasm beneath her. There is little blood. This does not lessen the pain.\n\nIn a moment, she is done, and situated once more upon the white seat of her majesty. She beckons for a mirror to be brought to you. \n\nYou see in the dark glass what she has made of you. A pale horseman stands astride your collar. <<set $SymbolDeath = "yes">>\n\n[[She claps her hands. You are taken away, into the dark|Your chamber]].|\n

Drake nods. Isaac glares, but does not relinquish his lover's hand. 'Yes. Adamant offered me salvation. Freedom from the sign. A life perhaps with Isaac without fear. But - ah, but - the price was to be All Souls. Conversion by terrible annihilation. I could not pay - so I fled. And so have brought you all here - to witness my doom.' \n\nLight gathers like the tide around and below the door.\n\n[[It comes|The Choice]].

'I don't know!' He wails 'I thought at first he was the queer dark man who tailed Mrs Heichmann, who gave us our commission - the forge in business again, friend, oh the wonder of it.' He looks at you, expectant of understanding. 'But you see, it can't have been him. He stunk of charcoal, this other man, though he looked the same, and he smiled. I remember that smile - like the anvil when the fires blazing beneath.' \n\n[[You have other questions|Why do you weep Mr Withmass]].|

You slide your long-fingered hand underneath the case and find stored therein a large heart. Plump, you think. You stroke it tenderly, fancying it swells in response to your touch. You could make it live again, albeit briefly. \n\nBlood and meat enclose about your finger. You close your eyes. Memory stirs within that swollen organ. \n\nYou could follow that memory, if you choose, before consigning all that remains of it to your stomach. \n\n[[Surrender to the memory|William Grey]].|\n[[No time. Feed|Eat William Grey]].|\n[[Leave this heart alone for the time being|Affair of the Heart]].|

The man laughs, and shakes your hand. He presses something round and hard into your palm. Looking down, you see you hold a replica of his glass eye in the crook of your palm. \n\n'Memento mori,' the man says, bowing once more, 'I'd hate you to forget our meeting. After all we're both friends of the great man.' He points at Lassal, who half-smiles, and inclines his head graciously. He looks relieved. \n\nThe eyeless man stands away from you. You breathe cleanish air once more. <<set $LassalTrusts += "2">>\n\n[[Continue your conversation with Lassal, before you were so rudely interrupted|Lassal in the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Leave this parade of villainy|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<set $TanovaTrusts += 2>>She smiles broadly. 'Me? Well, if you ask any of the others - the adults that is, not the novitiates. Though, no offence intended, of course - if you ask them, they would say I was the least of All Souls. I have never converted anyone - till now - nor have I done the coven any great service. But I shall.'\n\nShe takes a sip of water. 'I'm sorry. I'm rambling. No-one has ever asked me that. The short history of myself is that I was a student at the university above. I come from wealth, and had older sisters. I spent my time travelling to the old cities - like Rome - and then painting them. It was thought proper I received formal instruction, lest I be considered idle.' She smiles ruefully, her dark hair lit by the lamp behind her. 'Of course, no-one was to know my tutor was one of the remnant and they were looking for new blood.' \n\nShe pours wine and forces you to accept a glass. It is ruby, tastes of honey and lost summer, and yet is curiously lacking despite the clear excellence of its vintage. 'Poor Mr Amberforth. He died on our last major excursion above.' She seems as though she would say more, but thinks better of it. 'I was recruited for my charm more than my art. We have portraits enough, as you see.' She falls into silence. \n\n[[Do you have more questions of her|Tanova in the Drawing Room]]?|\n[[Take your leave of her|Drawing room]].|

<<set $rubyconcealed = "yes">>You dig amongst the chest of drawers beside the great window, which glances out gloomily upon a gathering of graves below the ground, and locate an old piece of lace. The fabric is dark grey. It will serve for the moment. \n\nYour time is, at least for now, your own. \n\n[[Explore this, your room|Explore chamber]].|\n[[Leave to explore the catacomb|All Souls]].|

<<set $HeardtheWord = "yes">>'In the chambers of the lord, the true chambers, where he lay in winding sheets for three days and three nights, when the world lay bare and from the empty throne of Heaven the world could be seen turning as on a spindle, and in those chambers, a voice spoke and it was not the Lord's, nor was it of the Lord's, nor was it the Way, the Truth, and certainly not the Light. \n\nBut in the chambers of the Lord for three days and three nights the voice spoke and it spoke a single word and it spoke that word thusly to the world as it turned on its spindle - \n\nAnd in the beginning was the Word and the Word was made Flesh and the Word - \n\nThe Word was adamantinae.' The doctor finishes and clears his throat. \n\nThe doctor winks at you, as he departs the pulpit, and heads out into the dark, making apologies to his limited congregation. A seminar at the University calls. \n\n[[Leave the Undercroft. You've learnt something you were not meant to|Explore the Cloister]].|\n[[Continue investigating the Undercroft|The Undercroft]].|\n\n

You strike a match against your leg. Your long trousers are now scored with white. A shame - they were very nearly the height of fashion three decades ago, when a gentleman might think nothing of riding out into the dark, to seek game on his lands with an increased challenge. \n\nYou light the candle.\n\nIt begins to scream. \n\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>You knock the candle to the ground, its black wax pooling about your boots as you stamp out the flames. That's quite enough of that, thank you very much.<<else>>\nThe candle screams as the black wax melts, distorting the holes pierced in it - like a Paschal candle - through which the sound shrieks, altering it in strange and uncanny ways. Whatever device had been employed on it is long lost to the melting, warped. But a name rings out - Greyfriars - before it is lost in the slow corrosion of flame and wax.<<endif>>\n\n[[Leave the candle. It is unpleasant|44a Wayside Court]].|

<<set $afraid = "yes">>Her eyes like wells, though it is not water that waits there below. \n\n'Perhaps you should be.' Is all she will say. \n\nThe orange is in your mouth, its juice dripping like tears down your chin. \n\nThe moon is red. The sky is red. She is not. Her now empty hand grasps yours, and leads you from the tumbled graves, to the gloom of the city below the hill. \n\n[[You are not afraid of life eternal|The Catacomb]].|\n

You ascend the stairs, which creak in the graps of the fierce winds that flow through these lightless halls. Back from where you ascended, you think you hear a single lonely bell toll. \n\nThe door is old. That is not paint. You press one long finger - how pallid you've become in your time beneath - against the old wood, mottled with age and ill use, marked like one suffering the Scarlet Fever, and the door creaks open, like a coffin opening at a funeral, revealing the withered remnant of one once dearly beloved. \n\nInside it is immediately apparent that this place has never been dearly beloved. There is a long parlour, embers in the hearth, recently lit. A fainting couch, piled high with clothing and papers. A door leading further in, into some dark gloomy stair, that improbably from this height, rises higher. There is a candle, unlit, on a desk. \n\n[[Investigate the hearth. It is recently lit|Drake's Hearth]].|\n[[Investigate the papers on the couch|Drake's couch]].|\n[[Light the candle, that you might better see the desk|Light Drake's Candle]].|\n[[Head further in. You've seen all there is to see here|Drake's boudoir]].|\n[[Leave this place. The air is fetid|Wayside Court]].|

The letters are all addressed to a young man, Isaac of All Souls. \n\nThey speak tenderly of your shared condition, of Isaac's studies - first at Hareishan's hand, then at Drake's own - his program of studies appears to have diversified greatly here - and now at the hand of a man named Milton. \n\nThey also speak of lust - of eroticism that would have shocked Sade, that Swinburne himself might have blanched at committing to paper. \n\nIt is a lust in the past tense, like Isaac's tutelage. Drake keeps, or kept, his distance of late. He does not say why, though you guess from Drake's replies to Isaac's unseen pleas, that Isaac was as much mystified as you are now. \n\n[[Return your attention to the other papers|Drake's couch]].|

'Godfrey. Named for the crusader who wouldn't be a king, or so my ma told me when she dandled me on her lap. All covered in flour I was when she told me the story. 'Course he was French. Flemish they'd call it now, but back then it was all French. Almost was again, once upon a time.' \n\nHis head looks on, into the shadows that pool all around him. You suppose the direction of his gaze means little to him now. \n\n[[You have further questions for him|Godfrey the soldier]].|\n[[Leave him to his memories|The Undercroft]].|\n

<<set $HareishanDistrusts to 1>>\nThe parchment tears. Words go spooling ike broken thread to he shadowed stone floor. Hareishan's foot stands upon them, a horrible grating sound as her sandal crunches the dirt-smothered ground. \n\nHer eyes narrow. In the dark the slits of her pupils are like knives, gleaming. \n\n'A stupid decision. You will bury your head in the sand? Cling to a hope that cannot exist. If you will deny what you are, you are of no use to me.'\n\nIt is not anger that hisses from her tongue, but disappointment, and one often borne. This is a speech rehearsed, honed through bitter practice. \n\n'Perhaps Charlotte will set you straight. The Countess always does.' \n\n[[She leads you away, to the brighter reaches of the catacombs you must now call home, away from this ancient place|The Countess]].|

'Oh. They wasn't much. Third floor, in the wooded bit. Above the turret on the chapter house. Mrs Heichmann charged the earth for 'em.' \n\n<<if $AteMrsHeichmann is "yes">>The heart within you boils. You feel like this little chit in front of you didn't pay the rent, and was doing some kind of drugs, hoh yes she was, I sawed her, stashed 'em up the chimney, hence why little Tommy perished up in the dark, lungs full of God knows what, hoh yes I knows what the little bitch did...<<endif>>\n\n'I got booted out for mischief, she called it. I was doing no-one no harm, kept to meself in my rooms, worked her kitchen, and she knew I had nowhere else. God keep her soul. I wouldn't want it.' \n\n<<if $AteMrsHeichmann is "yes">>[[Ask about little Tommmy|JennyLittleTommy]].|<<endif>>\n[[Leave Jenny to listen to the lecture in peace|The Undercroft]].|\n[[You have other questions for her|Jenny the acolyte]].|

There is a pool that glimmers in the cavern below. The water is dark, though leaning closer, you see there are lights like stars winking up from below. There is a chalice, embedded in the pebbles on the shore of this sunless lake. \n\nTanova, for her part, sits herself upon the iron railing enclosing this gloomy pond, brushing dirt from her velvet gown. She seems unwilling to tell you what it is you're supposed to be doing here. \n\n[[Confront her. She knows much|Ask Tanova]].|\n\n[[Fill the chalice and drink from it. It seems obvious|Drink deep]].|

The singer brushes back his unruly mop of hair at your approach. His eyes glint like knife edges in the dark - his teeth are black and wine soiled. \n\n'A fancy sort, like master Drake! I wonder if you'll be so kind as him. I had a song he liked to sing, a sort only those with refinement he said appreciated. Are you the refined sort, my darling? Shall I sing it for you and we'll judge your refinement together?' He grins, an impish smile, that accenuates the scar on his face. \n\n'Or shall you buy me a wine, red preferably, and I'll tell you the tale of the Bell's Toll?'\n\n[[Listen to his song. How bad can it be|Singing Jack's song]]?|\n[[Buy him the damned wine. Red|Singing Jack's story]].|\n[[Ask about his scar. It's almost a perfect crescent moon|Singing Jack's scar]].|\n[[Leave the young man to his idle fancies|The Bell's Toll]].|

The Countess enters the skullery, attended by Lassal, and three others you have not seen before. A dour older man, jaundiced of skin and head shaved like a Franciscan, bearing an ancient ceremonial sword, like the Saxon kings of old were once buried with. A woman with white-blonde hair, and dreaming eyes, azure, draped in a costume that would not look out of place in a Restoration comedy. Finally, a small, dark woman, Mongol in appearance, who shadows the Countess' every step. The Countess makes an expression of surprise when she sees you stood amidst the hearts. \n\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>'I was not aware the door to this chamber was unlocked.' She grips you by the throat. Her grasp is adamantine. Her cold fingers run down to the mess she made of your nape. 'You have displayed a resolve of steel, being in here so, and yet your pretty lips are unstained, and I hear no heart beating in the charnel house of you but your own.' She releases you. 'I am well pleased.' \n<<set $CharlotteTrusts += "1">><<else>>\n\nHer pale face runs livid. She is on you in a moment. Her attendants, the large man, and the small woman, have your arms pulled behind you, cradling empty air. The blonde woman watches on. Her gaze is as much on the Countess as on you. \n\n'I could apply myself to your stomach and by means of pressure have you bring up your stolen heart. Imagine all that you have just experienced being torn from you. I have been told it is like being drained, like your very soul-stuff, not to mention the more temporal aspects of your innards, being pulled still beating from within you. Like being forced back into whichever wretched womb excreted you.' This last is a whispered shriek, and she is but a heartbeat from your face now. \n\nYou have time to register that that pallour of hers is unnaturally obtained, a fine powder applied rigorously, before she speaks again. \n\n'If you were not a novitiate, I would do it. I want you to know that. If I find you in here again, I shall find a box for your heart and you shall feed some other incautious, stupid novitiate, centuries from now, and what a dessicated wreckage they would find after I had mangled you from here to ruin.'\n\nShe nods, and you are released. The Countess smiles, as though nothing has come between you. <<endif>>\n\n'I am glad indeed to have found you. It is well past the hour I send you out into the above to prove your mettle to me, and I shall see what can be done with you. How long have you slumbered in these pleasant halls? Too long. It is time to spread your wings and soar above into more dismal delves than this.' \n\n[[The Countess has a task for you.|Charlotte's orders]].|

It is a deed, indeed. \n\nDocuments of legal ownership to this sad cellar. Well, it might be alright with the wallpaper and corpse stripped. \n\nThe signatures on the deed have rather faded. Mrs Heichmann has not kept best care of this place, worse since her death. \n\nYou reach for the deed. The heart within you mutters. <<set $DeedtoMrsHeichmanns = "yes">>\n\n[[Continue your exploration|Mrs Heichmann's rooms]].|

She laughs, like a rusty blade drawn from its sheath. \n\n'You told me you wished to see. I can think of no better device than this.' \n\nShe softens at your expression, her gaze shifting from penetrating to merely disconcerting in its intensity. \n\n'I will not lead you astray after all this.'\n\nShe lifts the chalice, scattering pebbles, and places it in your cupped hands. The lake shines with drowned stars. \n\n[[Fill the chalice and drink from it|Drink deep]].|\n[[Refuse her. You don't know enough|Refused the cup]].|

You bite down, piercing the white flesh with your own ivory teeth, befouling both with rich blood, that tastes like rare venison as it washes down your throat. \n\n<<if $GenderMale is "yes">>He smiles at you, his lips as stained as yours. \n\n'You taste well. My name is Isaac. I am a student here. I know who you are. You looked so fine at the ceremony earlier. If you'll forgive the expression, new blood is very much appreciated here at All Souls.' \n<<else>> He dabs at his lips with a piece of tattered black silk, handing you it once finished. He is meticulous in his cleanliness. \n\n'My name is Isaac. I am a student here. I assume you are the latest novitiate. You'll forgive me if I'm less than completely thrilled. I had hoped another would have been chosen who might aid my studies, but alas, this fallen world.' <<endif>>\n\n[[He is a student? Of what|Isaac's Studies]]?|\n[[His throat is bared in that gown. You could glimpse his symbol, if you like|Isaac Symbol]].|\n<<if $GenderMale is "yes">>[[Return the compliment. He is rather arresting|Complement Isaac]].|<<endif>>\n[[Make your apologies. You have lingered here too long|All Souls]].|\n

'A motley collection of rogues, if ever there was one.' She begins to list names as she wipes dust from the cabinet glass.\n\n'There's Mrs Lamprey. A widow, not that you'd know it. She keeps residence at Wayside Court. Husband died in a brawl twenty years ago. She's currently drinking to the health of dead Mrs Heichmann over yonder. \n\nThen there's Dr Farthing. A professor at the university come slumming. Gives improving lectures on this or that. He calls charity what I call waste. He's by the window there. \n\nThe singer - if you can call it that - is my boy, Jack. He lodges here for free in exchange for upsetting the patrons with his caterwauling. What you'd call an innocent heart.' \n\n<<if $afraid is "yes">>'Oh, and there's Mr Lassal. No last name, but he insists on the honorific.' She spits. 'Prick. He's by the hearth, with his friends if you're in the mood to be vexed.'<<endif>>\n\n[[You have other questions|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Leave Helena alone to her invective|The Bell's Toll]].|

You step down with a jolt. Your feet meet stone. \n\n<<if $HareishanInTheMausoleum is "yes">>You hear footsteps - coming towards you! \n\n[[Light a match to see|Hareishan in the chamber]].\n[[Stand aside. Hide in the dark|Alone in the chamber]].<<endif>>\n\nYou feel about you, all around is stone, aside from another passage ahead of you. You appear to be in some kind of octagonal vault, if your grasp of dimensions is still sure. If the dimensions are the same here...\n\n[[Press on ahead|Long dark]].\n

You rattle through the chest for some time, unearthing drawer after drawer, all irritatingly different in size and shape. The woodcarver must have had the very devil in designing it. \n\nAs you suspected, many of the drawers give up little more than clouds of dust to menace your lungs with, but you do turn up a couple of curiosities. \n\nThere are the [[pile of letters]]| you found hidden beneath a false bottom in one of the lower drawers, bound in red string and smelling something malodorous. \n\nThere is also the single [[locked drawer]] in the heart of the chest. \n\n[[At last you decide you are done with drawers for the moment|Explore chamber]].!

<<set $GaveAndrewTheForge = "yes">>His eyes widen. He swallows once or twice. Then, brief expressions of mourning dispensed with, he nods.\n\n'If you insist. I'll get the deeds forged by morning. I know a bloke.' \n\nHis eyes pierce your own. 'We both knows now. In each other's debt, like. But if you need anything doing - I'm your man.'\n\n<<if $TheBellCalled is "yes">>[[The Bell|Andrew and the Bell]].|<<endif>>\n[[You have concluded your business, such as it was, here|The Forge]].|\n\n

She nods. 'You have to go through it if you want to be saved. And I do. Oh, I do.' \n\n[[Saved? Curious choice of words|Saving Jenny]].|\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

She laughs. It's like the peal of bells on a Sunday, announcing the Resurrection. 'Farthing? Goodness me, no. Though I should like to see him try! Give him my love, when you see him. Tell him - ah, well. He'll find out soon enough.'\n\n'I'm dreadfully sorry, dearie, but that's not it.' She sighs. 'Blast. I suppose it's to be expected from a fledgling, and from below to boot. I shall have to try something else.'\n\nAnd with that, and a chill breeze rattling from all doors, she is gone, leaving you alone in the now silent hallways of this nested labyrinth above the ruined dormitory. \n\n[[Less enlightened than you were, you depart|Explore the Cloister]].|

She frowns. 'Who?' She shakes her head. \n\n'I'm dreadfully sorry, dearie, but that's not it.' She sighs. 'Blast. I suppose it's to be expected from a fledgling, and from below to boot. I shall have to try something else.'\n\nAnd with that, and a chill breeze rattling from all doors, she is gone, leaving you alone in the now silent hallways of this nested labyrinth above the ruined dormitory. \n\n[[Less enlightened than you were, you depart|Explore the Cloister]].|

There is a cluster of portraits haphazardly arranged above the burning coals. \n\nAt the centre, and by far the largest, is a be-ruffed woman, with long red hair, draped in mantle of white fur. The Countess' implacable countenance is unmistakable. An inscription below reads Charlotte I. \n\nBehind, above, and around, are several portraits in silver frames, that shine like stars around the sun. Or like the tail of a comet. \n\nThere are kings whom came before - pale Richard, wild-eyed William, who seems more starved wolf than man, scarlet-cheeked Stephen, whose skin is wrinkled but whose hair is yellow and fine as a boy's. There is hungry Jane and laughing Charles, and starved Lambert. Draped in the finery or rags fashionable over the spread of a century or more, each now glowers from the wall, their eyes but reflected flame from the hearth. \n\n[[Return to examining the drawing room|Drawing room]].|\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>[[There's something very odd about some of the portraits|Look closer at the portraits]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>[[There is an old portrait of a pharoah, almost hidden at the farthest point from Charlotte|Pharoah portrait]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolHeart is "yes">>[[One of the portraits is hauntingly familiar|Old flame portrait]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolIgnorance is "yes">>[[There's something very odd with some of these portraits|Odd portraits]].|<<endif>>\n

'From this vale of tears?' She coughs, and covers her mouth again. Blood trickles down the white cloth. 'There's more for us than the churchyard or a cold hillside. Got to be.'\n\nShe looks at you as though for the first time. \n\n'Don't you want to be saved?'\n\n[[No, frankly|Don't want to be saved]].|\n[[In a heartbeat|I want to be saved]].|\n[[Depends by whom|Who's saving me]].|\n[[Depends from what|Saving from what]].|\n[[It's too late for that|Past saving]].|

It will come again. \n\nIn Florence, they described the mass graves as being like lasagne, first a layer of dirt, then flesh, then dirt again, and flesh once more. In Milan they barred the gates so the dead might die faster. \n\nI know it came in the reign of Justinian, when all Byzantium groaned with the stink of it. I know old Ravenna wept, in San Vitale the mosaics poured tears of blood, and they lapped at them at Mass, for where then was Christ? Theoderic had three palaces, and it was not enough. Why did he have no sons? \n\nThis much I know. London burned and the Pope closed his gates in Avignon, and the pestilence kept on. \n\nThis much she told me, on the shores of the Black Sea, whilst the Khan wept - other things are birthed, in the years of black summers, when the corpses go bloated down the rivers. The flesh sloughs itself and from the remains comes worse. There is another such summer to come, for man has ignored the first and the second and every summer thereafter, and so there shall be no more sun, only pestilence. I shall die, she said, but she will wake me before Judgement and show me. \n\nOh, I am afraid. \n\n[[Return to the rest of the book|The Fall]].|

<<set $AdamantComes += 1>>Drake uncovers your throat with a fluid movement. 'These! They are curses - destinies scored upon us. Perhaps yours has already come to pass. Mine had not,' He uncover his own neck. The Hanged Man. 'My doom is upon me.' He takes Isaac's hand. 'I had neither friends nor a love that might be named true.' \n\nHe looks at you, fear in his eyes. 'Now I do. And so my destiny is upon me. This is Charlotte's will.' \n\nLight gathers at the door.\n\n[[Watch|Second question]].

The mortsafes. Grisly devices, like instruments of torture that used to be placed like grilles upon the face - here fixed to the ground over exposed vaults in the earth. An iron cage for the dead. Something about the very concept induces bodily shudders. \n\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>You know why. The dead have nowhere to go. Twice trapped, even if they could raise themselves, and pound upon the iron bars, they would remain locked below, until only the fine bones of their hands were left, clinging to the bars whilst the moon whitened their bones.<<endif>>\n\nWait. Something glints, below the bars. Like silver - a small object - like a knife, or a key. The moon shines intermittently behind the clouds it lightens. \n\n<<if $HasPrybar is "yes">>You attempt to reach down with the prybar and manouever the object to you, but the vault is too low, and you only succeed in knocking at it. You do note that it is definitely a key, however.<<endif>>\n\n<<if $HasPole is "yes">>You kneel by the mortsafe and gingerly lower the pole down into the dark. It is slow work, as you have to wait for the brief intervals the moon deigns to show itself from behind its veil of cloud. But, eventually, you hook the heart of the key around the pole, and pull it free. [[You have the key in your hand.|MausoleumKey]].|<<endif>>\n\n[[Continue exploring the lower kirkyard|Lower Greyfriars]].|

<<set $HareishanTrusts -= "1">>She claps the iron back around your wrists, and the whispers, the scratching of your blood under your skin, ceases. The words that pounded like vessels thundering across your skull are silent. \n\n'In time I hope you will find the courage to face what you are.' Is all the ancient one will say. \n\n[[Try and continue the conversation|Hareishan in the chapel]].|\n[[Take your leave of her|Chapel]].|

The man runs a hand through his black hair, like a dead crow's wing, and spits just past your polished boot. \n\n'Making sure Lassal knows his place. You're his creature too, and I wouldn't see him think you better than we, his dear friends.' \n\nBehind, Lassal glares at you, shaking his head. He gestures for you to stand down from this oaf. \n\n[[Press the issue. The man is impertinent indeed|Fight the eyeless man]].|\n[[Withdraw. You'll not be drawn into this|Stand down from the eyeless man]].|

The mosaics, though made from one of the harshest stones, are surprisingly sensual. \n\nThere is something neolithic about the contrast between the shaded figures worn into the stone, mirrored by the insects trapped in the enlaid amber, posed to mimic the acts of the human instruments. \n\nThere are the familiar postures of lust, desire, and the negation of the same. The old routines of acceptance and denial, such as might be found on the porticoes of any pleasure palace of the east, or Roman villa. \n\nBut there are others of a different sort. A heart swallowed can still beat, it seems. Feel. Lust. Give and receive, though it is the new flesh that feels it. There is a cycle of a woman seeking her husband beyond his new graves, for it seems like Bacchants, his heart was devoured by several. She sought them all out, it seems. To the ends of the world. \n\nAfter a while, you become dizzied, by the perfume, the steam, the sweet scents, and the fast beating beneath your own breast. \n\n[[You turn your attention elsewhere. Quickly|Bath]].|

Blood trickles up your throat. The hot acidic sensation of vomiting in reverse overwhelms you. \n\nA voice speaking within you. 'Look.' The voice is muffled and ghastly, like long human nails given voice and scratching. \n'This Jezebel. She spoke of morality, oh yes, she liked to talk of the good path, when her own was being trodden on and up, oh yes, all the livelong day. Whore! Her fancy man - where do you think she got all the money to keep this place from? She was near broke, whore bitch that she was, silly slut, when in wanders that fancy gentleman, with his heart in his breeches and she was all agasp for his dark hair and his fancy manners and I had the deed all drawn up by Mr Screwsbury, all ready but the whore was already getting her coin from other quarters, and all quarters, oh yes.' \n\nYou feel as though this heart might burst inside you. Indigestion and heartburn combine in an unpleasant sensation of expanding and breaking, your innards swelling and then rapidly retracting.\n\nAnd then the voice is silent, and your hearts still. \n\nHelena looks at you curiously. \n<<set $HelenaKnewDrake += "1">>\n[[Take your leave of her|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[You recover yourself. There are more questions|Quizzing Helena]].|

<<remove $TakenWytheGun = "yes">>The gun is gone. You didn't see where. \n\n'There,' she beams, 'Much safer, now. Safe as houses. Or walls, perhaps.' \n\nShe presses the key into your palms. 'Now. There is, I am afraid work to be done. You'll show yourself out, yes? We may see each other again. Or maybe not. I really don't know how long this will take.' She frowns, before smiling again. She begins to hum. She seems, somehow, more corporeal than before. \n\n[[The door is behind you.|Explore the Cloister]].|

'One of our number has vanished. Unaccountably so. It was as though the errant sparrow has taken wing and flown south for the winter. But this has been a long winter, and he is not returned. He kept rooms in the Cloister, near the Stair. Find him, and you would be doing our fair state of All Souls a great service.' \n\n<<if $AteMrsHeichmann is "yes">>You feel a stirring within your stomach. A faint movement of pressure, that once you might have attributed to indigestion. You think you know these rooms<<endif>>.\n\n'Your master will go with you. I have already send them ahead. Take the Long Stair up, and go to Wayside Court. You'll know it by the stink of tallow.'\n\nShe turns to leave, her retinue trailing after her like the tail of a comet. They move as she. She turns at the doorway, her expression strange. \n\n'Oh, and his name is Drake.' \n\nWith that she leaves. \n\n[[You make ready to leave for Riverside|The Long Stair]].|

You open the pages of the familiar penny dreadful. It caused quite a stir Above when it was first published, by an Irish drunk with pretentions to secret knowledge. Even before your conversion, you recognised it as the nonsense it was. It has been whispered in the gin palaces of the fashionable districts that Stoker disappeared not long after. Perhaps someone decided to show him the truth of his lies. \n\nYou thumb through the pages, to reach the infamous scene of the staking of Lucy Westenra, to discover that someone has torn out the back-half of the novel, and replaced it with a hand-written version of their own, neatly stitched into the original binding. \n\nThe plot takes a dramatic turn here. Lucy remains staked, but is not slain. Quite the contrary in fact - she tears out the heart of Van Helsing and swallows it, raw and thumping its way down her small throat. Thus envigorated, she converts the remainder of the men who battled to save her soul, establishing a rival coven to the Count and his dread harem. Though Lucy rises again, the sun never does.\n\nThe penmanship is small and archaic in style, but elegant and flowing. \n\n[[Return to examining the shelves|Shelves]].|

<<set $CompletedAndrewsDeal = "yes">>The first blow shatters the spine, the second has him on the stones, the third sprays his brains to fry in the fires. \n\nYour arm aches. He did not see it coming. Both hearts are beating fast. \n\nAll that remains lies quivering before you. \n\n[[Flee, murderer|Explore the Cloister]].|\n[[Look around - it's not as though you'll be stopped now|The Forge]].|

The scrap of red on inspection reveals itself to be a faded uniform. Colonial - back in the long sun-drenched days of Empire. Military for certain. Ancient equally for certain. \n\nThe wardrobe is otherwise unremarkable. Not even a single false back. How dull. \n\nExcept - the hanger on the wardrobe is wire, from which the ragged coat is hung. But the bar is missing - broken or torn off. \n\n[[You turn your attention back to the room|Mr Wythe's room]].|

<<set $Light += 1>>You strike a match, and briefly you can see. You find Tanova enshrouded in dust. Her hands are at her stomach. 'I feel so hungry.' She looks at you, and shakes her head. 'There is nothing to be done about it down here, but when we are Below, I shall swallow a heart whole.' \n\nShe takes your offered hand. 'Whatever trouble Drake has brought down upon us, I suggest we find him first.'\n\nShe brushes dust from her skirts. 'I can't think what came over me. I'm not having the best evening. Shall we?'\n\nYou hear the fall of a candelabra. <<set $TanovaToDrake = "yes">>\n\n[[Investigate the noise|Isaac in the chapel]].

He leads you to a shaded courtyard, where [[moonlight]] falls in soft beams on carved, elegant stone arches. He offers you a heart. It is not his own. \n\n[[Do you care|Whose heart is this anyway]]?|\n[[Accept the bloody, beating muscle proferred|Delicious heart]].|

The old wooden door creaks open. The candles lit in the hallway flicker and gutter as a chill wind sweeps in from the opened chapel. A small spiral of narrow pale stone descends inwards. \n\nYou are not sure what you were expecting from the Chapel of All Souls but it was not this. \n\nThe chapel is built in an upturned dome, like a bowl, with [[a painted cycle on the floor|upturned fresco]]. There is an [[altar|chapel altar]] in the far corner, before a black gate, down a shallow set of steps, securely locked with several bolts from the other side. \n\nThere are [[murals|chapel murals]] on the walls. They are not happy things. \n<<if $survivor is "yes">>Hareishan is kneeling before the altar, her blue-ringed eyes rolled back in her skull, as she seems to be unwinding pieces of her skin, before lighting it aflame, letting the smoke waft over the altar.\n[[Approach your mentor, if that is the right word for it|Hareishan in the chapel]].|\n[[Leave this place. It is unsettling|Main hallway]].|\n<<else>>There is a woman, black of hair and dark of skin, runed and hieoroglyphed, her head arced backwards, her blue-ringed eyes rolling back into her skull, as she seems to be unwinding pieces of her skin, before lighting it aflame, letting the smoke waft over the altar.\n[[Approach her|Hareishan Introduction]].|\n[[Leave this place. It is unsettling|Main hallway]].|<<endif>>

<<set $Light += 1>>Light! The match strikes. A brief candle in the dark, but enough to see by.\n\nBlonde hair, moving towards an opened door to the north. There is a darkness beyond. \n\nBehind, the door you came through. Ahead, a third door, shut. \n\n[[Continue to follow Isaac|Isaac in the Sacristy]].

<<set $SawMrWythe = "yes">>The lid falls from the coffin with a extended creak and a final thud. \n\nYou peer in at the contents of the shut-up box. \n\nThere is a body. Quite dead, judging by the advanced state of decay - bones peeping through rotten flesh. \n\nGloriously gruesomely, the cadaver bears a placard, held between hands frozen with rigor mortis. In fine Gothic script, \n\n'Ma première victime'\n\nThe air is thick with decay, yes, but also charcoal. You feel nauseous. Fresh air might be the ticket. \n\n[[You leave the box. Fresh air might do him good as well|Mr Wythe's room]].|

'We're friends. He didn't recruit me, no, but when I entered the Coven, he was the closest in age. Neither of us has much patience for traditions, or rules.' She grins. 'I like to think we raised a little piece of hell for the old guard. Gave 'em a taste of home, I suppose.' \n\nHer smile fades, her gaze serious. 'But he changed. He told me, before he was sent away by Charlotte on this mission of his, that if ever I was worried for him, to come here. He told me not to tell Charlotte. Ever. Perhaps I should have told you - but I'll be honest, after he disappeared - I feared for my own neck.' She shakes her head. 'I hope it's not too late.' \n\nShe extends a hand. 'Come with me. Please?'\n\n[[Take her hand|Follow Tanova]].|\n[[No. You still have questions of her|Questioning Tanova]].|

There is a formidable chest of drawers by the bed.\n\nCobweb hung and formed of ancient, grey wood, the chest is in remarkably good condition, in spite of the dust. \n\n[[Explore the chest|Explore the chest]].|\n[[Perhaps not. What could still be in here other than dust and mouldering regret?|Explore chamber]].|

The Stair goes on, as you too must. You can hear the rain falling Above as you rise higher, through Canongate, and the other dismal shelves of Riverside. You emerge, crested in moonlight with a corona of rainwater into the Above.\n\nIt is no brighter here. The moon hides behind a cloak of fog. The tall buildings of the Old Town, stacked upon the remnants of themselves forbid the entry of starlight. Shuttered lanterns are blinded by the rain. Somewhere above your head, an owl cries. You could almost be out in some sheltered glen, far from the gaze and heavy trod of man. Yet you are not, though still alone. \n\n[[Alone, you walk on|The King George IV bridge]].|\n

There was light behind her eyes once. Though long faded, she remembered her childhood dream, after breaking her bones to brittleness in the mills well before their time, she remembred. \n\nThe heart still beats because of this. Beats so tantalisingly, and so cold. \n\n[[You could warm it inside you|Eat Mrs Heichmann]].|\n\nShe wanted pearls. And fine gowns. And a great ballroom. She wanted respect. Love never came into Mrs Heichmann's head. All of this she achieved, though none thawed her in the end. All she achieved was corroded somehow. \n\n[[And yet these were the hopes of Mrs Heichmann|Mrs Heichmann]].|

The old lady, clad in ruined white inches from your face, giggles. \n\nYou jump backwards. How long was the terrible baggage there? \n\nShe raises a finger to her lips, her ancient sleeve floating, yellow in the candle-flame. Her face is round like the moon, though her spectacles are crescent. Behind her eyes, the dark. \n\nShe disappears from the thin circle of light, her train trailing behind her like lilies discarded at a graveside. You suspect she wishes you to follow. \n\n[[Follow her into the dark|Chasing Miss Delilah]].|\n[[Head away. There is a small stair in the opposite direction|The lonely turret]].|\n[[Head back down away. Far away|Cloister Tenement]].|

<<set $LoverMale = "yes">>Robin Goodfellow. Your sailor, for whom you on occasion waited for over the railings as he sped off on his skipper into that dark night. \n\nHis blonde hair, faded like the canvas, is instantly recognisable, worn shockinly unkept, a contrast to his fine tailored shirts. Even in his rags, after weeks at sea, he endeavored to appear as though stepping out of Savile Row. \n\nNot here. Here his clothes are shackles, and his hair stuffed with thorns. About his pale form, far more pale and weaker than you remember, linen tatters. \n\nYou might not have recognised him at all, but for his eyes. \n\nThey are full of wanting. \n\n[[You tear yourself from the portrait. Something is wrong|Drawing room]].|

You stand in the Cloister courtyard - the Cloister proper, and breathe in the cool air. There is a chill here. There is always a chill. \n\n[[Head to the Bell's Toll - the only drinking house in the Cloister|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Go to Wayside Court - Drake's last known residence|Wayside Court]].|\n[[Follow Drake to Greyfriars. He is above|Greyfriars]].|\n[[The sound of hammer on anvil, the flames of the forge. There is a smithy on the other side of the Cloister|The Forge]].|\n[[Facing the Stair is a towering tenement, built out of the ancient dormitories|Cloister Tenement]].|\n<<if $DrFarthingsInvite is "yes">>[[There is a hanging sign displaying several rows of stacked wine barrels. Stairs lead below to the Undercroft|The Undercroft]].|<<endif>>\n

<<set $BeyondSaving = "yes">> Jenny takes your hand and shakes her head. \n\n'No-one's past salvation. Dr F says it and the minister too. But if you think you're really lost - ' She shivers. 'Heaven forefend I cross such a threshold.' \n\nShe turns away from you, turning back to the pulpit. \n\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

<<set $AdamantWatches = "1">>The candle sputters, casting strange shadows on the wall. The smell of cheap tallow, smokey and fat-full chokes the air. \n\nThe shadows coalesce into shapes, you realise. As you raise the candle to glance at the walls again, a second cycle occurs below the white chalk. Shadows rise, thin and small, to clutch at the pale limbs of the trapped figures - further shadows encircle the hollows of their eyes, creating the effect of eyes raised upwards, rolling above to avoid glancing beneath where they are grasped by rising shades. \n\nLifting the candle higher, uncomfortably resulting in the chalk figures being entirely consumed in shadow, is the painted effigy of a monk in a grey habit.\n\nThe candle in your hands suddenly bursts into vivid flame, tallow pouring onto your hands, burning briefly, before casting them in hard, spilt effluvia. \n\nYou look around - the chalk is visible through the darkness you've layered over them. Their eyes are now white - as though each hollow socket has been filled with a white candle. You move your own, gingerly, and watch as the lights on the walls flicker and move with you. \n\nSuddenly your candle gutters and goes out. Smoke, dripping tallow, and the memory of white hollow eyes lingers in the new darkness. \n\n[[You know where Drake has gone, if not quite why. Travel to Greyfriars Kirk|Greyfriars]].|\n[[There is more to be learnt here in the Cloister. Continue your investigation here|Explore the Cloister]].|

<<set $FreedGog = "yes">>Her mouth widens. Her smile is like a drawn blade. Her eyes pool with stars. There is something - red - about her. A trick of the light, reflecting on her gown, perhaps.\n\nBut there is no light. There is only her. \n\n'Yes. She was behind it - but too afraid to do the job properly. And in you waltz, fledgling, and from below no less, and see right through it. I'd kiss you but I doubt you'd enjoy it.'\n\nShe laughs. It is like the tolling of a final bell. 'Oh yes, she'll regret this little game of hers. Of that, I am adamant. The end won't be put off much longer. And as thanks - well, you will see me again. Of that be assured.' \n\nAnd then she is gone. You know not where, only that the air stinks of camphor and sulphur, and as you walk from that strange labyrinth, your vision is occluded with a bloody silver tinge. \n\n[[You leave the tenement, unwillingly enlightened|Explore the Cloister]].|

<<set $LassalTrusts += "3">>His eyes widen further in abject delight. You wonder if you might have made a mistake. \n\n'I'm not surprised you haven't heard of me. They hush these things up.' He does not elaborate on who 'they' are and you think it would be rude to ask. \n\n'I was born in Paris, before the Fall. The accent, of course.' You hadn't noticed anything but the faintest trace of French. He appears to have deliberately and almost entirely extinguished his natural accent from his vocal cords. 'Though we had a fall of our own, that prescient like seems to have prefigured the greater.' He looks at you, and then rolls his eyes. 'The Revolution of course! And then the Terror. I was involved in both, of course, my father being the Bishop of Lyons, and my mother the famed actress La Fontaine. If you'd give the rumours credence. My own very neck was in dire peril, when I caught Marat's eye. Beneath all that powder, there beat a heart, you'd be surprised to learn. Actually several. There are subversions and then there are perversions.'He blinks, and looks away. He continues in a huskier tone. \n\n'The Revolution didn't survive the Fall of course. Nothing did. Corday did for Marat, and I fled. The Auld Alliance helped, and here I chose to lay, amidst the ashes of this world. Things have been as they are for almost a hundred years. Can you imagine? Peace in our world.' \n\nHe stops. After a time it becomes apprent he is finished. \n<<if $afraid is "yes">>[[Continue the conversation|Lassal in the bath]].|\n<<else>>[[Continue the conversation|Lassal Introduction]].|<<endif>>\n[[Take your leave of him|Bath]].|

Here the graveyard could almost be a park. Long rows of trees range northward, graves cluttered and tumbled about the grass. Long rows built into the walls all around. Nightingales call in the canopy. \n\nYou pass through a wide, round archway to stand amidst the trees. One of the infamous mortsafes stands extant nearby. \n\nA gate, leading down onto Candlemaker's Row, rattles in the breeze, as though unlocked. \n\n[[Explore the graves of the lower kirkyard|Lower kirkyard graves]].|\n[[Examine the mortsafe|Mortsafe]].|\n[[Investigate the gate to Candlemaker's Row|Kirkyard Gate]].|\n[[Explore the upper kirkyard instead|Upper Greyfriars]].|

The heart glistens and pulsates. \n\nYou are aware of each beat, and as you listen, you realise Lassal is right. It is fading. A slow death. Perhaps you convince yourself this is a mercy. \n\nYou gasp as you fill your mouth to straining with the muscle, your jaw in brief agony, before the first drops land on your tongue, as your teeth bite down and the heart - [[it bursts|Devour]] ...|\n\n\n\n

You reach the bottom after a long, slow descent, clutching at the iron railing as though you were drowning and it the last rock in the unforgiving ocean. Your escort fared little better. For all your alteration, in the utter dark you are no better than you were. \n\nAt last you stand on ground, a mile below the kirkyard. A single candle stands lit, illuminating a battered Roman mosaic on the ground below. \n\nA wind, even down here, gutters the candle. A man steps out from behind. \n\n'Hello,' says Drake, 'You've gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me.' \n\n[[The candle goes out|Drake in the dark]].

<<if $EmmelineToDrake is "yes">>Emmeline draws a vicious looking pistol from her purse. She fires it at - no, through - the door. There is no sound, but the encroaching light retreats. You think you see the bullet - or something like it - return up through the barrel of the gun. Emmeline nods, acknowledging the gratitude within the room.\n\nDrake breathes a little easier.\n\n[[You have more questions|Drake at last]].\n<<else>>The door opens of it's own accord. Light, terrible and merciless, enters the room. Drake falls to his knees, full of trembling. Isaac stands over him.\n\n[[You are between light and dark|The Choice]].<<endif>>

The vast collection of tombs, forgotten vaults, tunnels, and cellars buried beneath the vast weight of the Old Town, below the Long Stair, and directly beneath the under-slum of Riverside. \n\nA lonely place, forgotten but for the remnant of All Souls, who make their home in the largest complex of tombs still standing. \n\n[[You are standing in the main hallway|Main hallway]].|

She jerks her head back as you speak her name. The effect is jarring, like a crack, as she wheels to face you. \n\n'You came.' She tilts her head to better consider you. 'To be expected. I assume you have questions. I know I would.' \n\nShe faces you, this ancient creature with her lapiz-ringed eyes, and her iron-straight hair of absolute night. \n\n[[The Countess said she was to be your master. It would be unwise to ignore this|Hareisham Relationship]].|\n[[Ask her about herself|WhoIsHareishan]].|\n[[What were the scrolls she made you bind into your skin|HareishanRitual]]?|\n<<if $KnowHareishan is "yes">>[[Ask her about the portrait you found in the Drawing Room|Hareishan Portrait]].|<<endif>>

You take your bleeding wrist in your hale arm, and stumble down the steps to the parlour. You stand, head bowed, into the pit of the fire, and drop your blood amidst the embers. \n\nInstantly, you are fored to step back, as flames rush to fill the hearth. You are surprised to find yourself unharmed. The fire you realise is cold. \n\nAs you marvel at this pale fire, it forms a face in the flame. The face on the portrait. Drake, formerly of All Souls. \n\nThe fledgling's handsome countenance appears a little bruised, and several days unwashed, every pore of its skin detailed in flickering tongues of freezing flame. \n\n'Hello. You have me at a disadvantage, despite my fair face currently appearing to you wreathed in smoke.' His voice is light, mocking. Something about him raises the hair on your arms, despite his pleasant manner. 'I am Drake. I assume you have come on behalf of All Souls?' \n\nYour blood, you note, is drying fast. You don't have much time to converse.\n[[Ask him where he is|Where are you Drake]]?|\n[[Ask him why he fled|Why Drake]]?|\n[[Ask him what he was doing here|Why were you here Drake?]]?|

<<set $MissDelilahsFootsteps += "1">>The gargoyles, in faded Babylonian blue, are equal in stature and hideousness. Lips peeled back in silent shouts. Eyes stretched to encompass some horror, just behind your shoulder. Stomachs full - pregnant - as though they were about to birth legions. \n\nNo. One set of eyes is closed - someone, inexpertly, has painted open irises onto the stone of closed lids. \n\n[[You turn your attention back to the room|Chasing Miss Delilah]].|

<<set $TanovaTrusts += "2">>She smiles. 'I'd embrace you, but it'd sting.' She drops the heavy cloak, the weight falling from her shoulders, her scorched flesh exposed to the damp night air. \n\nShe extends a hand. 'Come with me. Please?'\n\n[[Take her hand|Follow Tanova]].|\n[[No. You still have questions of her|Questioning Tanova]].|

You trip down a narrow flight of stairs, but manage to right yourself with the aid of some kind of barrel. \n\nFootsteps echo ahead. A voice cries 'Drake!'\n\n[[Attempt to follow|Follow Undercroft]].\n[[Strike a match|Match Undercroft]].

The old man grunts. Fat and muscle fight a losing war of attrition all across his grizzled body. He reeks of cheap liquor, sweat, and that disinctive stench of despair you've come to associate with the Cloister. \n\n'What you be wanting?' He has stopped his work at the bellows to place his hands upon his hips, staring at you. 'If you've got a commission, leave it with the lad. If you've got a proposal, I'm listening, but I'm best sweetened with brandy and I'll tell you that for free.' \n\n[[Leave him for the moment. Perhaps he's right. Brandy might help|Explore the Cloister]].|\n<<if $AteWilliamGrey is "yes">>[[Ask about William Gray. You might learn more about this temporary piece of yourself|WithmassWilliam]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $TheBellCalled is "yes">>[[Ask about the tolling bell. Perhaps there is something to be done|WithmassBell]].|<<endif>>\n[[Ask about his work. There seems to be rather a lot of it in such an otherwise impoverished area|Withmasswork]].|\n\n

The gate opens with a long scraping sound, like an executioner's axe on the whetstone. \n\nYou are greeted by the buffeting of winds, as bitter as the fabled Arctic. You shield your face with your cloak to meet the onslaught, as you gaze out on the tumbled ruin of the Cloister. Ahead you see the inn, built in the cradled bosom of the fallen church. Like a spine, the stair rises up - through the ruins of Riverside built ontop and ontop of each other - through the Leprosarium and Holyrood, up to Canongate, and the thousand slums, tenements, and necropoli between. The flames of a forge can be seen ahead - otherwise, the only light below is candlelight, which glimmers in the permanent night, serving not to illuminate but rather make visible the endless complexities of the dark. \n\nYou breathe in - your lungs expanding to drink in all that you survey. A cool realisation falls on you, like the first snow of winter. Your eyes are no keener than your living form. Though wedded to below, you keen for the light as much as what you were did, before your weaker form embraced Tanova in the kirk above. \n\nDrake must have stood here, and felt thus. Seen the candlelight and forgelight. Out there, by the inn, you hear a lonesome bell toll in the long dark. \n\nIt must have been so terribly lonely out here.\n\n[[Head inside. It is drear out here|Drake's boudoir]].|

A gate, locked, stands between you and the sealed vaults beyond. \n\nA heavy chain bars the gates from swinging open. A peculiar cold emanates from the square yard you can seek beyond. \n\nLeverage, perhaps.\n\n<<if $HasPrybar is "yes">>This might just do it. You take the prybar, which has thus far been a comforting weight against you shin, and lock the head against the chain. You pull - and every muscle in your cold form shrieks with the effort. Your shoulders in particular will not thank you for this evening's work. But - but! It pulls free - the chain breaks, as links fall in a satisfying arc. The rattle of chains sounds out in the silent graveyard, but the gates now open at your hand. \n\n[[You enter the Covenanter's Prison|Inside the prison]].|<<endif>>\n\n[[You return to exploring the kirkyard|Upper Greyfriars]].|

<<set $TanovaTrusts -= "3">> She gives you a long look. 'Every instinct I have is telling me to leave right now.' She says at last. Her voice is as cold as the autumnal air. 'But I have a duty to you, and I won't leave you alone to this. I want you to remember that I said this.'\n\nShe extends a hand. 'Now. Come with me. Please?'\n\n[[Take her hand|Follow Tanova]].|\n[[No. You still have questions of her|Questioning Tanova]].|\n\n

<<if $survivor eq "yes">>A woman leans over you. Her robes, linen-made, which at some time aeons ago she was sewn into, overpower you with dust. Her faded features crack like plaster. Like the unsealing of a tomb. It is, you hope, a smile. \n\n'My name is Hareishan. I will show you the way.' \n\n[[She wants you to follow her|Hareishan]].| <<endif>> \n\n<<if $afraid eq "yes">>A man leans over you, dark hair in his eyes, scarlet blooming full lips, his perfume damask and overpowering. There are tooth marks on your throat. He dabs at his mouth with a silk handkerchief. \n\n'I'm sorry,' He says, and fear blossoms in the black stones of his eyes, 'I was so hungry. I was sent to show you. Oh, my name is Lassal.' \n\n[[He wants you to follow him|Lassal]].| <<endif>> \n\n<<if $embrace eq "yes">>Tanova is standing over you. She holds a lamp, orange, that heightens the pale decay of her skin. She licks her lips and winks at you. \n\n'Come on, skipper,' She says, her voice like overpowering perfume, that carresses, promises, invites, 'There's work to be done in the dark.'\n\n[[She wants you to follow her|Tanova]].| <<endif>>

The penmanship is fine, elegant, if somewhat archaic in its elongated serifs and looping ligatures. The journal itself is a battered crimson leather-bound book, whose pages bear the marks of frequent usage. \n\n\nTuesday - that was Tyr's Day - the god of justice whose hand was swallowed by the hound, and thus allowed Ragnarok and the doom of this world. \n\nI wonder at heresy. The above passage was surely heretical, yet Snorri was allowed to write it all the same, under the guise of Christian scholarship. Yet in Milan, Maifreda and her order burned for merely following the prophecies of St Joachim. But foretelling is heretical in itself...\n\nMy mind pulls at these obscure strands, seeking a unity where I suspect there is none, to avoid the truth which stalks me in these sunless chambers. There are others down here with us. I see them reflected in the window pane, where rain pours down. How can there be rain here? And yet there it is. We are not alone.\n\nAll those heresies - that surely pointed to us, to this, in the thousand years before the End of Days. Surely we are the Ancient of Days? But if there are others... What can the damned fear? What can be worse than this? What abomination could there be, that is so terrible old Rome could not bring herself to name it. What comes after Babylon. \n\nI sleep with Revelation under my pillow. I find now the thought of Last Judgement comforting. Let it come soon. Before they do. \n\n[[There is nothing more written|Desks]].|\n\n

You prowl the chamber, creeping about the perimeter, gazing into heart after heart, as intoxicatingly the muscle expands, swelling with blood. You realise not only blood - you can taste life. \n\nYou stalk the low-ceilinged chamber, having at some point removed your shoes to better avoid detection. You are alone, but you ought not to be here, you know. In your hunger, you have become cunning. \n\nYou note three cases, interred in the walls, which are brittle enough to break. Two are poorly stored, so one may contrive to move one's hand beneath the case and slide out the captive heart. The third is a wooden box, unlocked, but you can hear the heart beat within. \n\nYou are starved, and your stomach groans with it. You will eat one of these waiting hearts. But which?\n\n[[Examine the first glass case|First heart]].|\n[[Examine the second glass case|Second heart]].|\n[[Examine the wooden box|Third heart]].|

You feel your own heart-beat. Rapid, excited within your breast. \n\nBut softly, oh, terribly softly, there is a second beating behind your ribs. Your stomach is heavy, but so warm, as though it were a child you carried within you. \n\nYour mouth, your tongue, your teeth, and you must imagine your throat, are soaked in red. \n\nThe heart within you weakens its beating, as your own pulses stronger. \n\n<<display 'Devour'>>

<<set $MissDelilahsFootsteps += "1">>A gun is pinned to the wall - nailed. The nail is rusty - wait. Not rust, but blood. Dried, but still. By now, you're intimately acquainted with the stuff. \n\nThe gun falls from the wall the moment you disturb the nail. It really has not been fixed well. \n\nIt is still warm in your hands, though coated in dust. A sensation of burning thrills your fingertips. There are bullets in the chambers of its heart. No make you have ever seen. The gun is copper, you realise, long-handled. A queer piece. \n\n[[Take the gun|Gun]].|\n[[Leave the gun to dust and smoulders|The lonely turret]].|

He leans in close, and you can smell his breath - like whiskey and gunpowder. \n\n'The others!' He hisses, and bursts out laughing, as though he could see your expression. Which, surely, he cannot. \n\n'Nah, just pulling your leg. You still have both of 'em I hopes? Known plenty in my time without. Was a time you couldn't walk five feet aboard a navy ship without knocking knees with half a hundred planks of wood.'\n\nHe might be joking. You're not sure. \n\n'I've a bit of a reputation round these parts. The mad old captain, lost his eyes and wits to boot. Well, I've still got those at least.' \n\n[[He was a captain|Captain Godfrey]]?|\n[[You have other questions for him|Godfrey the soldier]].|\n[[Leave him alone in the shadow|The Undercroft]].|

You sink into shadow and watch. \n\nThe old lady, in between ladles of gin, glances continually towards the stairs leading further in, as though listening to some secret music only she can hear. \n\nThe professional gentleman hums to himself most irritatingly. It sounds as though he has put one of the metaphysical poets to music. Why he would torture himself so, to say nothing of the other patrons, is quite beyond you. He rubs his hand continually. Or rather, the wrist. Metal glints within his white sleeve. <<set $sawDrFarthingsBand = "yes">>\n\nThe young lad is singing a dirge, most mournful like. He sings of a smuggler singing from the gallows to his left-behind lass, her hair rosy down and her eyes glass with unspilt tears. A heart broken, you think. Potentially delicious. \n\n[[Approach the singer. His song plucks at the heartstrings ever so tender|Singing Jack]].|\n[[Approach the old lady. What is she looking for|Mrs Lamprey]]?|\n[[Approach the older man. Why is he here|Dr Farthing]]?|\n[[There are other distractions in the Bell's Toll. Pursue those instead|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<if $Lights eq 5>> Light all around you. Something adamatine behind you. A door opens ahead. Figures wait within, black shadows before the gathering light. You stand a foot between both. \n\n[[Walk through the door|Drake at last]]. <<else>>You stumble forwards. The air is earthly cold here. This chamber must be vast. You grope blindly forwards, feeling your way. Your hands touch a barred gate. It rattles like the damned in Hell, shrieking at their chains. \n\nAfter some force, it gives way. You crash forwards, too aware of the noise echoing in your wake.\n\n[[Walk forwards|End of the line]].<<endif>>\n\n

Lassal turns at your approach. His mouth is slick with wine, a fact you are made very aware of as he rises to press his lips to your cheek. \n\nHe makes introductions to his hearthfire companions. Far from the cream of high society you'd fancied Lassal associated with, this looks to be a veritable gallery of rogues. Black teeth, unwashed hair, wretched clothing, and pervaded with the sour reek of bad wine. One, a tall gentleman with greasy black hair that runs like a muddy brook over his unwashed face, who has an eerie glass eye, clouded like the windows of this filthy place, rises and mock bows to you. \n\nYou don't think you like his tone. \n\nLassal beams from ear to ear. He seems almost discomfited. \n<<if $WentToThePubFirst is "yes">>'I'm thrilled you came here first. After my own heart.' He winks, and places your hand at his breast. One heart beats alone. 'This establishment' he draws out the word, like a prisoner on a rack, 'beneath its grubby surface hides many curiosities, if you're willing to spend a little time with the duster.' <<set $LassalTrusts += "2">><<else>>He wrinkles his nose. 'God, I can smell noble endeavor on you. The whiff of rifling through papers and honest labour.' He sighs, and draws snuff from his slightly dishevelled coat. His eyes, you note, are ringed with red. 'My friends and I have been here some time. This place has its certain decrepit charm, though it's not much to look at. But I shall hold that against neither it nor you.'<<set $LassalTrusts -= "2">><<endif>>\n\n[[Confront the gentleman with the broken eye. He has insulted you in public|Confront the eyeless man]].|\n[[Ask Lassal about your mission|Lassal mission]].|\n[[Ask Lassal about his friends. Not his usual company, you think|Lassal friends]].|\n[[Leave Lassal for now|The Bell's Toll]].|

Helena mutters darkly as she pours the brandy. It glints a pale fire in the weak light, but burns like a saint as it goes down your throat. \n\nIn a mirror behind the bar, your eyes gleam with it.\n\n'Bit rich for my taste,' Helena says, moving to refill your cup, helping herself to more of the coinsfrom the purse you placed on the wood. \n\n[[Attempt to make conversation. She may know something|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Perhaps not. There is more to explore|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Request another drink|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|

'You see, friend, it was all my fault.' \n\nThus begins one of the more tedious confessions you've ever been forced to sit through. There are digressions, multiple. It transpires Mr Withmass tipped off a 'gentleman in red, military like', about the location of William that eve. 'There'd be more commissions he says!' \n\nThe heart within beats a drumbeat of outrage. \n\n[[Who was this gentleman in red|The gentleman in red]]?|\n[[You've heard enough. There is rough justice to be done|Goodbye Mr Withmass]].|\n[[Something doesn't add up. He said he didn't know why William was above|Mr Withmass lies]].|\n[[Leave the blubbering fool to his self-indulgent penitential performance|The Forge]].|

Helena folds her arms. 'No,' She says, 'No chat without you spending some of your riches on my humble stock. You can think of it as charity if you like.' \n\nShe returns to washing cups in a grimy faucet built into the stones, surprisingly clear water spilling out. Perhaps there is an underground spring nearby. \n\n[[Request the wine. The colour is comforting|Wine at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The green liquid. What is life without adventure|Chantreuse at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The whisky. It's honest, at least|Whisky at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The brandy. Not everyone in Riverside has to go without cofmort|Brandy at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The port. In its rich, heavy, heady sweetness it's the closest you can get to what you truly crave|Port at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Perhaps not now. There is more to see|The Bell's Toll]].|

The murals are confusing in content. A woman bearing a pomegranate in one hand, and corn which she scatters behind her, walks down a long dark stair. A wolf devours the sun. A race of giants face a gate, a young hero stands beyond. A scarab opens its mandibles to swallow flame. A man is tied to a rock, and a bird eats more than just his insides. A man is crucified and there is darkness. There is a long winter. A woman strips herself of seven scraps of cloth. A man stands at the apex of a pyramid, arms outstretched to greet the darkening sun.\n\n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>The room is growing gloomy. Shadows lengthen. You look up again, to find the mural almost entirely lost in shroud. <<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolOpenDoor is "yes">>The designs encompass a vast panorama of mythology and religion, following the classifications of the learned Dr Frazer. This is true. But the hand who painted them is singular. There is no variation in the somewhat flat, opaque paint-strokes, the figures that seem more like abject representations of themselves. The same hand, though in a less accomplished style, you realise, painted the frescoes below.<<endif>>\n[[You tear yourself from the murals, and return to exploring the chapel|Chapel]].|

Before his eyes close forever, and all that remains is a single beating heart. \n\nA heart beating fast, remembering better things, so close you could taste it. Just a taste, and then a gulp, and then a swallow, and then you would be so full of him ... \n[[Devour his heart. His hope is spent|Eat William Grey]].|\n\nBefore his eyes close forever you see him, wearing that armour, stretched to fit his chest, gleaming gold under the light of the moon. He is in a ship out to harbour, a ship he has built himself, and about him are a collection of waifs and strays, female mostly, with one small, dark man. He has bedded them all and now he keeps them safe. Onto a further horizon, beyond the stars of above. \n\nHe will keep them safe.\n\n[[This was the last hope of William Gray the smith|William Grey]].|

She raises an eyebrow, and puts the paper down. 'You're full of questions.' There is that familiar irony to her words. \n\nShe picks up a glass of water from the table and drinks it, her white throat pulsing as she quenches her thirst. 'Things thought lost may be found again. That pool was thought long buried by the London Association of Classicists, but I knew better. Stuffy men in stuffed suits rarely know much, and understand less.'\n\nShe looks you in the eye 'It is the pool of Hyperion. Used by farmers, long ago, to determine the date of the Solstice. Now it shows our connection to our ancient star, distant but evidently present.' \n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>She gives you a piercing stare. 'Though your poor choice of words to the Countess may have altered that. You may wish to check the pool, if you find the time in all this darkness.'<<endif>>\n\n'I don't know what it means, or how it works, but I intend to. I won't like, it makes me unpopular in these dismal halls.' She laughs, unexpectedly, 'Who would have through we remnant had so much in common with the London Association of Classicists.' \n\n[[Do you have further questions for Tanova|Tanova in the Drawing Room]]?|\n[[Take your leave of Tanova|Drawing room]].|

<<set $HasKey = "yes">>The key is warm in your hand. Held recently, you think. \n\n[[You could head straight to the mausoleum|Black Mausoleum entrance]].|\n[[Continue to explore the kirkyard|Lower Greyfriars]].|

The woman looks you up and down. She sighs. 'Bit too fancy for these climes, my darling. Climb a bit higher for your sort.' \n\nYou are insistent. If you wished to be elsewhere, you would be. At last she relents.\n\n'What'll it be? My name's Helena, same as she who beheld the Cross and brought it back west, for all the good it did us. I'll ask for yours when I care to learn it.' She unlocks a cabinet built into a high alcove that might once have held the icon of a martyr. \n\nSeveral bottles, newly cleaned and almost entirely bereft of dust, gleam in the candlelight, which is thickest here. \n\nThere is a bottle of ruby-tinted wine, a greener liquid you don't recognise, whisky, brandy, and port. There is [[no ale|No Ale]]. None looks particularly palatable. \n\n[[Request the wine. The colour is comforting|Wine at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The green liquid. What is life without adventure|Chantreuse at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The whisky. It's honest, at least|Whisky at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The brandy. Not everyone in Riverside has to go without cofmort|Brandy at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[The port. In its rich, heavy, heady sweetness it's the closest you can get to what you truly crave|Port at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Make conversation with Helena. She may have known Drake|Helena is Not Amused]].|\n[[Perhaps not now. There is more to see|The Bell's Toll]].|

'Aye. Only thing I does that isn't fucking blades.' He winces, and stretches his arms. \n\nHe points behind him to an upturned bronze bell, fitted with a tongue. A length of rope coils around it. \n\n'Going to waste. Been done a sixmonth, and no-one's come to claim it.' \n\n[[Make him an offer. You know a place in need of a bell|Andrew's offer]].|\n[[You have other questions|Talking to Andrew]].|\n[[Who commissioned it|Woman in gold]].|

The room is spartan, to put it kindly. A single ironbedstead - the ashes of bedding in dark clumps around it. A window, curtains drawn. A desk, ransacked and emptied. \n\nThere is a wardrobe, hanging open, a scrap of red on the inside of the door. A mirror, bisected by a single crack. \n\nThe man who lived here left little of himself. A life if not unexamined then at least little displayed. \n\n<<if $MrWytheCoffin is "yes">>There is no sign of the man's coffin - unless. Ah! A thought strikes you. There is rather a lot of space under that bed...\n[[Search beneath the bedsteading and floating piles of ash|Mr Wythe's Coffin]].|<<endif>>\n\n<<if $AteMrsHeichmann is "yes">>The infernal chatter of the landlady in your belly stops here. As though the heart witnessing this site of its body's demise has felt it fitting to follow suit.<<endif>>\n\n[[Examine the mirror. It's not vanity, you swear|Wythe's Mirror]].|\n[[Open the curtains. It is awful stuffy in here|Open Wythe's curtains]].|\n[[Examine the wardrobe. Perhaps there is more to it|Wythe's Wardrobe]].|\n[[Leave this place. It is miserable here|Cloister Tenement]].|

The water fills the chalice and freezes your hands. You can still feel, then, and this thought, appropriately enough, warms you. \n\nEnlivened, you pour down the dark water down your throat, feeling it rush like a frigid fall inside you. \n\n[[Behind your eyes, you are suddenly filled with stars|What the water said]]|.

The key turns in the lock, like the crunch of a breaking bone. The door is opened. Dust long trapped rises to greet you.\n\n[[You step through the open door|Mr Wythe's room]].|

'Greyfriars. The cemetery in the Old Town above.' He looks suddenly haunted. 'If you are followed, make sure you know by whom.' \n\nThe fire flickers and dies. Your blood is spent on the cold hearth. \n\n[[You know where Drake has gone, if not quite why. Travel to Greyfriars Kirk|Greyfriars]].|\n[[There is more to be learnt here in the Cloister. Continue your investigation here|Explore the Cloister]].|

'Officially, the Countess wished a spy in the dark places above. There was, perhaps still is, strange buisness at the forge yonder.' His eyes, magnified in weird fire, meet yours. They are full and dark with huge pupils, like ripe plums, dripping with juice.\n\n'Off the ledger, I wished to be away. I feared I would bring calamity. And now I have.' \n\nThe fire flickers and dies. Your blood is spent on the cold hearth. \n\n[[You know where Drake has gone, if not quite why. Travel to Greyfriars Kirk|Greyfriars]].|\n[[There is more to be learnt here in the Cloister. Continue your investigation here|Explore the Cloister]].|

'Ah, yes. This is Mr Sycamore. A more auspicious gentleman, you are not like to meet in this fallen world.' Lassal forces you to shake the gentleman's hand. \n\n'Yes, indeed. He is leader of this merry band of friends, I chanced to meet beneath the Tron Kirk, all on a day.'\n\nLassal looks at you with something akin to quiet desperation. Sweat beads like a headdress on his brow. 'Mr Sycamore is most fascinated by our state, as I am with him. In time you shall be friends. We shall all be friends.'\n\nMr Sycamore glowers at you whilst Lassal grins. Neither seems to have anything more to say. \n\n[[You have further questions of Lassal|Lassal in the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[You are done with this, whatever it is |The Bell's Toll]].|

You force your way past. A curious lightness has come over you. You can no longer feel the hunger. Your nape itches. You look down. The figure on your throar dances. \n\nYou look past you - the others are running through the opened door, back into the darkness. The adamant light is fading. Dr Farthing is gone.\n\nSoon so shall you. \n\nYou spread your arms, and stand head raised, eyes upwards to the devouring swirling down. Like death in Homer. \n\nSo like death. \n\nYou close your eyes, as the yawning void opens mouth and shadow to claim you. \n\nYou know no more. Where you walk now, no-one might follow. \n\nYou have saved Drake and Isaac from the doom that came after. Perhaps they will remember you.\n\nYou know not. \nYou are not.\nNothing.

You pass through the door. It closes behind on a growing corona of light. \n\nDrake, pale and trembling, stands waiting. Isaac beside him, tears in his scarlet eyes. \n\n'I have tried to escape the doom the Countess wrought on me too long. All my sins have risen here to claim me. You don't have much time - I have less.' \n\n[[What doom|Meaning of the symbols]]?\n[[Why did he flee|Drake's Flight]]?\n[[Who is after you|Adamant Court]]?\n[[Why the Mausoleum|Why Mausoleum]]?\n<<if $AmamantComes eq 4>>[[There is time for a final question. Has he betrayed you all|Betrayer]]?<<endif>>

'That's what I said, or weren't you listening?'\n\nHis brows furrow over the hollows of his eyes. He scratches thoughtfully at his spectacularly wild beard. White flecked with pepper, amongst other less savoury substances. \n\n'I fought the Blownapart on the banks of Leith. I were but a lad, and I'm pleased to see you think I couldn't possibly be that old, but I was, and I did my bit. I did my bit when we tore up the castle-side and unveiled every piece of cannon, red and roaring for French blood. Like wine they drunk it and drunk it deep as it flowed to them down from the new river. Not so new now, of course. \n\nAfter that, I enlisted in the navvy. Did my tour of the dark sea, saw Constantinople, Bombay, fabled Cathay - never did make it to the Americas, more's the pity. It's said a man can still make his fortune out there.' \n\nHe shakes his head. 'I'm an old man, reliving past glories of darker times.' \n\n[[You have further questions for him|Godfrey the soldier]].|\n[[Leave him to his aged memories|The Undercroft]].|

<<if $Lights eq 5>> Light all around you. Something adamatine behind you. A door opens ahead. Figures wait within, black shadows before the gathering light. You stand a foot between both. \n\n[[Walk through the door|Drake at last]]. <<else>>Footsteps, just ahead! \n\nThere is a long darkness waiting. A corridor or hallway, down which Isaac you presume alone runs. \n\n[[Run after|Long dark]].<<endif>>\n

You are guided by silent wardens to what you are told is to be your chamber. \n\nWhen the bar is lifted, with a heavy clang like a dropping bell, you are relieved to find the room rather pleasant. \n\nAn over-emphasis on velvet, certainly. A preponderance of mirrored glass, a bed far larger than even the most decadent sultan might need, and a taste for shuttered lanterns in coloured glass is evident. \n\nBut it is comfortable, warm due to the sheer volume of hangings upon the bed. There is a vanity, and a writing desk. \n\nThis would appear to be first of the 'tangible' benefits to your new life that Tanova had promised. \n\nThe door shuts behind you. You listen, but the bar is not shut from the outside. You are, at last, utterly alone. \n\nYour time is, at least for now, your own. \n\n[[Explore this, your room|Explore chamber]].|\n[[Leave to explore the catacomb|All Souls]].|\n<<if $CharlottesRuby gte 1>>There is also, of course, the gift given up to you by the Countess.\n[[Examine the Countess' gift|Ruby]].| <<endif>>\n\n

You uncurl your hand, marked with her nails and still cold from her touch, to find clenched within a ring similar to her sapphires, but comprising a stone redder than dawn after a fire. \n\nThe ruby glints, lit by the rich lantern-light, illuminating every flawless facet of the gem. The ring is a simple band of copper, cool as the stone is warm. \n<<if $survivor eq "yes">>The gem seems to be watching you. You think you see eyes, briefly, swim up against the surface. \n[[Cover the ruby. You won't be watched|Hidden ruby]].|\n[[Leave it uncovered. Two can play at this game|The ruby watches]]|.<<endif>>\n\n<<if $embrace eq "yes">>The gem seems to be watching you. You think you see eyes, briefly, swim up against the surface. \n[[Cover the ruby. You won't be watched|Hidden ruby]].|\n[[Leave it uncovered. Two can play at this game|The ruby watches]]|.<<endif>>\nIt is [[inscribed|ruby inscription]]|. Your knowledge of the jewel trade tells you this is a rare piece. Rare to the point of uniqueness. \n[[You may choose to display the ruby, if you wish|Ruby displayed]].|\n[[Perhaps a gift such as this is best kept close to the chest|Ruby concealed]].|\n

You leave All Souls through the small wrought-iron sepulchral gate at the western apse, bearing nothing but your clothing, [[the Countess' letter|Countess' Instructions]]| a name, and an address. \n\nDrake, lodging at Wayside Court, in the great hollow slums of Riverside. \n\nThe stair is before you. Despite the name, this far below it is but a sliver of stone, a narrow spiral hanging like a stalactite in the gloom. The last, or first, depending on your perspective, stairs are little more than grooves, shadowed into the rocks of the cavern floor. \n\nYou walk [[alone|Stair Alone]]| for a long while, listening to the haunting murmurs of bats on the cavern roof, sighng their secrets to each other in the hallways of night. As you rise higher, through the old tombs forgotten by the above, the cavernous necropoli, family vaults, and doomed Egyptian imitations, the stair widens a little, becomes choked with old footprints in the dust. Voices, like whispers, begin to float down from the stairwell ahead of you. \n\nAfter what seems like an hour, you emerge in the lowest echelons of Riverside, the slum Edinburgh largely built over and almost entirely forgot. The amnesia would be total, were it not for the Riversiders themeslves demanding the old city take notice, by means usually more foul than fair. \n\n[[You emerge in the Cloister district, the oldest and lowest vault of Riverside|Cloister]].|\n\n

'Dr F's a decent man. Not many of those down here. Takes in the waifs and strays here, like Jenny over yonder.' He inclines his head to the small woman sat in the front pew.\n\n'Gives anyone who'll ask a world-class education, University of Edinburgh standard. Can't ask fairer than that. For my part, I make sure Dr F's able to use these premises whenever he likes, and his people can stay here if they like. I've been sightless a long time. The ears compensate. I'd wager I'm as good a shot as I ever was. The couple I had to throw down the Stair the other night'd attest to that if they still had mouths to speak.\n\nNow, don't be so horrified. I'm assuming you are - maybe you're made of hardier stuff than that. They broke in to murder Dr F, get their filthy thieving hands on his books and his things. Didn't see me in the shadows, and I didn't see them. Was the last thing they didn't see all the same.'\n\nHe finishes and his empty eyes remain affixed to yours.\n\n[[Leave him. He is unsettling|The Undercroft]].|\n[[You have other questions for him|Godfrey the soldier]].|

The shelves, you note, are made of long planks of old, knotted wood, curiously stained. You note a profusion of ancient, rusted nails has been hammered into the wood. \n\nYou wonder idly if the Saviour was hanged thus, or perhaps an apostle, turned upside down to meet his maker all the faster. \n\n[[Return your attention to the shelves|Shelves]].|

<<if $MissDelilahsFootsteps gte 2>>You have not escaped. The old woman is back. From her white dress she brings forth a siver key, and presses it into your palm. 'I was argent,' She says, by way of explanation. 'Needless to say, I am no longer. Take a look, dearie, and mind how you go.' She inclines her head to a door you hadn't noticed before, just at the bottom of the stairs leading to the turret room. It is illuminated in a strange pale light. \n[[You take the key, and enter the door. Her eyes like the twin moons of Mars, gazing down upon a scarlet waste|The hidden room]].|\n[[No. You will not be pushed about by alarming old women.You push past - or perhaps through her - and descend|Cloister Tenement]].|<<else>>You follow her footsteps and that fading halo of light up a narrow passageway, while behind you can almost imagine the darkness, breathing coldly upon the back of your neck.\n\nYou stop in what might once have been a fine dining room. A long table, splintered, chairs fragile with age, as though too long standing has left their joints brittle. Two portraits on the wall, of women identical in aspect, one framed in silver, the other gold. \n\nTwo statues stand against the mantle - grotesques or gargoyles that would look more at home at Notre Dame or Fontrevault. \n\nA small archway, gothic-pointed, looms into darkness beyond. Perhaps she fled there. \n\n[[Examine the portraits|Aureate and Argent]].|\n[[Examine the statues. They are monstrous|Gog and Magog]].|\n[[The table catches your eye|The table Argent]].|\n[[Follow her through the arch|Argent arch]].|\n[[Head back down the stair. You won't be led further|Struck match]].|<<endif>>\n\n

<<set $Murderer = "yes">>You are on him faster than he can blink, a knife in your hand, on his throat. His adam's apple swells, but he does not plead. He was right. You are stronger.\n\nYou are spattered with him in an instant. It is done. The heart within you beats a little slower. There are tears on your face. They are not your own. \n\n[[Leave this dismal place|Explore the Cloister]].|

Elaborate vaults line the walls. Sheltered by arches and ornaments of stone. Frozen effigies preserving for eternity the likeness of the flesh that now withers below them. \n\nThe air is practically frigid here. You are forced to don gloves. Your teeth chatter like the rattling of chains. \n\nThis is a long square yard, hemmed in by stone walls, peopled with the dead. You think unhappy dead at that, judging by the lingering misery that pervades the atmosphere, and washes over you like the tides of the North Sea. \n\nThere is a strange depression, rounded, ahead. There is a pole, long and sturdy, leaning against a long tomb - a pillared archwaybuilt over it, like an antechamber to death. As though a hallway to visiting the one interred therein. But any visitors who might come now shall meet only with silence. \n\n[[Examine the depression. It is curiously formed|Depression]].|\n[[Go towards the pole. That looks like it might come in handy|The pole]].|\n[[Return to the upper kirkyard, away from this dreary haunt|Upper Greyfriars]].|

You see yourself reflected in the shrouded glass. \n\nWho do you see looking back? \n\n[[A man watches from the mirror|Male]].|\n[[A woman spies you in the glass|Female]].|\n[[What does gender matter, especially now|Other]].|

Your arms are taut, with muscle and sweat and flame. A hammer in your hands. Your foot on the bellows. Your leather apron clings to your exposed flesh, and your chest swells as you breathe in more soot. Your heart pounds within your breast. \n\nThere is a piece of armour on the anvil. A breastplate - too small for your broad form, but intended for an officer. You forget his name. He had a pretty daughter, you remember. Master Withmass glowers from his place at the forge, sat in a rocking chair, lame since his accident last winter. \n\nThe forge is alight with candles. You can't afford lamps, and Master Withmass has you paying for tallow out of pocket. This commission, secret apparently, might solve all that.\n\n<<if $SymbolHeart is "yes">>[[This heart swells with love, and desire. A potent combination|William's Heart]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>[[This is the day he died, you're sure of it. Follow the trail of that shroud to its source|William's Death]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>[[This heart had hopes, before it lost them to death. Trace those|William's Hope]].|<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolHangedMan is "yes">>[[There is a loneliness here. You sympathise|William's Alone]].|<<endif>>\n[[This is the heart of William Gray the blacksmith's apprentice, who died so his heart might feed you. Leave it for now|Affair of the Heart]].|\n[[This is the heart of William Gray the blacksmith's apprentice, who died so his heart might feed you. So feed|Eat William Grey]].|

This door opens upon a warm study, with high, narrow windows topped with pointed arches, several well-proportioned desks, chained to the ground and made of solid mahogany, and a great bookcase built into the wall spanning the length of it. \n\nThe room is unoccupied, though books and ink-pots litter several of the desks. A great glass clock, in the shape of a grandfather, gently slices at the hours on the far wall. A fire crackles in the hearth. \n\n[[Examine the desks - you may learn something|Desks]].|\n[[Examine the shelves - you imagine many treasures lay buried there|Shelves]].|\n[[Examine the ethereal clock|Clock]].|\n[[Leave the study for now|All Souls]].|

'Wait!' A voice calls out across the graves. \n\nA young man crosses the kirkyard, his fair hair pale beneath the light of an indifferent moon.\n\n<<if $embrace is "yes">>There is, you realise, no sign of Tanova. Even though she said she'd be here.<<endif>>\n\nThe youth stands in front of you. He is clad all in matte-black. It is, you realise, Isaac, of All Souls. \n\n'I must be better than I thought.' He says, by way of greeting. 'I've followed you all the way.' He looks at you, as though expecting praise. When none is forthcoming, he folds his arms. 'I'm coming with you. I won't be denied that.' \n\n[[Enter the mausoleum. He can follow, if he wishes|The Black Mausoleum]].|\n<<if $embrace is "yes">>[[Call out to Tanova. Something is wrong|Call Tanova]].|<<endif>>\n[[All the way? From when|How long has Isaac followed]]?|\n[[Why is he here|Why is Isaac here]]?|\n[[Send him away. There are enough pieces on the board as it is|Attempt to send Isaac away]].|

That damnable tolling is coming from up here. You race up the stairs, as the bell calls over and over again, as though dredged up from your first heart. Your head aches with the weight of it - though from this ache comes not Wisdom but confusion. \n\nThe patrons below seem unaffected. Only you. \n\nUpstairs is as before - \n\nNo. The locked door at the end is open. The bell chimes midnight in your heart. \n\n[[Run to the locked room, locked no longer|Locked room]].|\n[[No. Leave this|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<set $MissDelilahsFootsteps += "1">>You pass through the arch, as though through a veil. A whisper brushes the settled dust from your shoulders, raises the hair on your neck. \n\nThis room is dark. It is empty. She is not here. \n\nThe window looks out, a perfect view of the forge, the apartment's below, and the winding paths of the Long Stair, rising Above. \n\n[[You leave the room. There is nothing and nobody here|Chasing Miss Delilah]].|

The air is full of hunger. A howling shrieks from the long vault above. Your allies move to the door. Dr Farthing bows, and moves into the shadows.\n\nDrake looks up, and roars at you to stand back. He pushes you towards the door. Isaac tightens his grip on Drake's hand, even as Drake struggles to release him.\n\nYou feel as though you are starving - as though death woke from a long torpor within your stomach, ready to devour the world. You double over with the aching hollow pain of it. \n\nThere is a shadow hanging like a scythe over Drake. Like that of a man, but as you look you see it is made up of hundred of men, smaller shadows. Devouring each other. Devouring themselves. \n\nAnd this room so full of life, such as it is. Drake's neck is bared. He screams at you to grab Isaac. Isaac pleads with you for Drake's life. They stand beneath the shadow of the yawning hunger, hand in hand. \n\n[[Reach for Drake. Complete your mission|Saved Drake]].\n[[Take Isaac. He is innocent in this|Saved Isaac]].\n<<if $SymbolHangedMan is "yes">>[[The symbol at your throat burns. You could save both and in doing so make your own destiny. You will not survive this|Sacrifice]].<<endif>>\n<<if $SymbolDeath is "yes">>[[The symbol at your throat burns. You could save both and in doing so make your own destiny. You will not survive this|Sacrifice]].<<endif>>

The door opens with a pleasant jingle, chimes ringing as you push your way inside, bringing the wind and the cold and the dark with you. \n\nInside is dank, cobwebbed with gloom. The few candles lit serving only to display the vast unlit spaces of the long common room. There is a hearth, ringed by sitting shadows. Each window is decked out with dust, hung like banners to meet a returning army. \n\nThere is, against, all odds a singer. A handsome young man, though judging by the state of his stomach, exposed through his threadbare shirt, long-sleeved, more starving than artist. He sings some maudlin dirge of a mother's loss and a son's vengeance, out on the black sea. \n\nThere is a tired looking woman, her poor sleep weighted beneath her eyes, behind the sunken plank that serves for a bar. She is serving a patron - a sailor, judging by his tattoos and the stench of lime - without much enthusiasm. \n\n[[Order a drink. You can still enjoy the demon drink|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Sit and watch the crowd. It's been sometime since you've been surrounded by so much life. Such as it is|Watch the patrons]].|\n[[Speak to the singer. He seems the most lively soul in here|Singing Jack]].|\n[[Explore the Bell's Toll. There must be some diversion here, surely|Explore the Bell's Toll]].|

The front door opens on a long corridor winding serpentine through the stone hallways. Walls bisected by clapboard, doors nailed in wherever there happened to be space. Pools of noisome water drip and collect, as though the building had a perpetual cold. The sounds of children's wailing and father's hands disciplining hands echo as you duck through archways, draw back rotting curtains, and ascend an almost entirely worn stone stair. \n\nThe stone gives way, almost literally, to a rambling haunt of wooden passageways, bolted onto the top of the tumbled stone below. You are aware the moment you step foot on the creaking walkway that you have left sanctified ground behind. \n\n[[You strike a match. It is dark here, and the footing far from sure|Struck match]].|

<<set $MissDelilahsFootsteps += "1">>As you press your face against the pane, each window is briefly lit by a shock of lightning, striking from above on down below. The skies a blast of white, the world in negative. \n\nIn each pane a face, the face of the old biddy. She smiles a wide smile that cracks her face, as though the moon opened to reveal some terrible secret to the bounded terrestial below. Beneath her bonnet, she unlaces, a wound. A bullet-hole. She presses a finger to her lips, shakes her head unearthing curled white tresses, and giggles behind her hand. Then she is gone.\n\nThe world is dark once more. This high up above the Cloister, the turret peeks out on the world, a place not built over with failed modernity and then too buried. The air is crisp in the after-shock of the storm. Rain patters on the windows. The lights of gloomy Edinburgh in the distance, fog-dampened. Almost peaceful if not for moments before.\n\n[[You turn your attention from the window|The lonely turret]].|

The door opens. A mild-mannered gentleman walks through. His hair is greying, his aspect portly. He is bespectacled. He is Adamant. \n\n'Hello,' He says cheerfully to the assembled gathering, 'I am Dr Farthing.' \n\nThere is a terrible hunger in the air. \n\nHe looks you up and down and tuts to himself. 'Ah, the fledgling. There is no real reason for you - for any of you - to be involved in all of this yet. I have not made the offer of Salvation yet. In time. It has been made and betrayed by Drake. My visitation is for he alone. Do stand aside.'\n\n[[Stand aside as the good doctor asks|Stood aside]].\n[[Refuse. You have not brought Drake home yet|Refused the Doctor]].

<<set $SolvingArgentMurder += "1">>The door opens with a hush, as forgotten air rushes out from behind the stone. \n\nThe air is cold. There is a great casement window, built into the wood that still stands open. A piece of torn red cloth flutters in the breeze, caught on the set catch.\n\nThe window was left on the catch. The door shut, the tell-tale cold was trapped. \n\nThe room was a dressing room, you think. Wardrobes line the walls, lined with burgundy velvet. Whatever was stored here has been taken. \n\n[[You return to the antechamber|The hidden room]].|

<<set $HelpedGog = "yes">>She beams. 'Oh, good shot! Better, than his, that's for certain. It's not quite right, but a commmendable effort nontheless.' She draws a shining key from beneath her argent folds. 'He dropped this on his way out. Silly devil. Not sure what good it'll do you, but better out than in, I say.' \n\n<<if $TakenWytheGun is "yes">>'Oh, you have the gun? Pity. I shan't be able to stop him coming after it, you know, if you take it from here. But perhaps it might do more use in your hands than his.' She looks at you for a long moment. All is silence in the room, and in both your breath.\n\n[[Give up the gun|Give her the gun]].|\n[[Keep the gun. It is yours, now|Kept gun]].|<<endif>>\n\nShe presses it into your palms. 'Now. There is, I am afraid work to be done. You'll show yourself out, yes? We may see each other again. Or maybe not. I really don't know how long this will take.' She frowns, before smiling again. She begins to hum. She seems, somehow, more corporeal than before. \n\n[[The door is behind you.|Explore the Cloister]].|

'Drake? Queer name. One of your sort, I suppose? I'd remember if someone with your tastes came in here, I'm sure of it.'\n\n[[She seems disinclined to speak more of this man she's doesn't know|Quizzing Helena]].|

<<set $SolvingArgentMurder += "1">>The door shrieks as you force it open. Tortured hinges wail their protestations, but you are merciless. \n\nThe room beyond is a study, ransacked. The air is thick with charcoal. A cloying scent, almost overpowering. \n\nA single piece of paper on the desk, bolted to the floorboards. 'I am adamant. She is no longer. So we go to it.' \n\nWhoever has looted this room of its contents have been impossibly thorough. Not a shred of ownership anywhere. Identification torn out. A room that has had anonymity forced upon it. \n\n[[You leave the curiously absent room|The hidden room]].|

Her sharp eyes, brown like a barnowl's, narrow. \n\n'Look here, mate. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to be saved.' \n\nShe smiles, revealing blood-flecked teeth. 'And you needn't worry. I'm told it's passed the contagion stage.' \n\nShe returns her attention to the pulpit.\n\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|\n[[You have other questions|Jenny the acolyte]].|

<<set $HareishanTrusts += "2">>She breaks the manacles, letting the iron clatter like a hammer on a hot forge, echoing around the silent chamber. She broke the metal using only her hands, which though calloused, are slight. \n\nThe words snake through you, like links on a chain, being wound to rising under your skin. 'On the third day, will come again, when the hound eats, and the sun, the sun, the sun...'\n\nBut they are growing dimmer. Like lights under water, in the shallows under the flickering light of the moon, you feel them charting strange courses within you, but in symbiosis rather than opposition. \n\nHareishan nods. 'Good. You may draw on this, whenever a reminder is needed of what you are. What you have lost, but also what you have gained. It is the greatest gift I could give to one under my instruction.'\n\n[[Continue your conversation|Hareishan in the chapel]].|\n[[Take your leave of her|Chapel]].|

With a sudden motion, she tears off the manacles about your wrists, so light and small you'd barely noticed them.\n\nTheir absence you assuredly do note. The words, the dark and that promise, crawl and slide beneath your skin. Your nails long to itch, to tear, your eyes wish to inspect. You are written on yourself, and your body longs to open itself to itself, so that it may discover what it is becoming. \n\nSweat running down your face, you meet Hareishan's cool, implacable stare. \n\n'When the world was young, this was the curse writ on the bodies of our kind, before they were entombed. So even waking, they would know what they are. A punishment that brings truth. Self-knowledge is the greatest instrument I can give a charge. Know this and be found not wanting.' \n\nShe watches you struggle a little longer, before raising the manacles once more. 'Do you wish to be shackled again?'\n\n[[Yes, for the love of Christ and all the Saints, yes|Shackled]]!|\n[[No. This you will endure|Endurance]].|

<<set $Murderer = "yes">><<set $KilledMrWithmass = "yes">>The hammer is hot and heavy as is the heart beating in your belly. \n\nThe first blow shatters the spine, the second has him on the stones, the third sprays his brains to fry in the fires. \n\nYour arm aches. He did not see it coming. Both hearts are beating fast. \n\nAll that remains lies quivering before you. \n\n[[Flee, murderer|Explore the Cloister]].|\n[[Look around - it's not as though you'll be stopped now|The Forge]].|

Some of the portraits are odd indeed. Dark shapes crowd in the frames - or perhaps at the edges of your vision.\n\nAnd then, like after a good brandy after a spell of dizzyness, the portraits are where they were. Exactly as they should be. \n\n[[Everything is eminently satisfactory. All is well and shall continue to be well|Drawing room]].|

<<set $HareishanTrusts += "2">>She smiles, like a crocodile rising from deep waters to survey its thrashing prey, as you outline your theory. Drake has not broken with All Souls - at least not completely. You surmise that he was asked - or otherwise compelled to - and broke communion with all parties. Isaac is likely the heart of the matter. \n\nHareishan nods carefully. 'Interesting. I disagree - naturally. He has betrayed All Souls - broken with us in word if not in his secret heart. But his motives remain murky. And we still don't know where he has gone.' She looks about the long chamber, her grey hand tracing the outline of the eerie chalk figures. 'Perhaps there is something here that we have missed.'\n\n[[Search for further answers|Drake's boudoir]].|\n[[You have further questions for her|Hareishan in Drake's rooms]].|

There was once a fountain here. Now, only a dismal empty piece of statuary, birthing forth manticore and mandrake in tortured white stone stands in the courtyard, around which the tall slaums of Wayside Court gather. \n\nThis must once have been the novice's dormitories, arrayed above the long cloister. Below the rib-vaulted cellars. Above the rookery. \n\nThe address from your [[letter|Countess' Instructions]] looms before you out of the long dark that pervades this dim and lonesome place. Up a long flight of stairs, of wooden make, the number No.44a emblazoned in red paint, that lingers on the old door like spilt blood, lies your destination. \n\n[[Investigate 44a Wayside Court. It is, after all what you were sent to do|44a Wayside Court]].|\n[[Return to the Cloister. There are other diversions|Cloister]].|

Taking the long, winding stair by instinct, that descends between tall buildings, like a drunken bride led home by stern chaperones, it is a short walk through the quiet haunts of the Old Town to reach the kirkyard. \n\nBuilt just off the streetside, that must once have been a city limit, now limited by the city sprung up around it. Old graves tumbled in the lower reaches, whilst stately slabs of marble and granite austerely process about the upper echelons. The gates are not locked, not now the anatomist's trade is legal, performed in the light of day. As it were. \n\nYou close the gate behind you. It rings like a bell in the sleeping dark. \n\nDrake is here. Somewhere.\n\n[[Search the upper cemetery first|Upper Greyfriars]].|\n[[Search the lower cemetery first|Lower Greyfriars]].|

The cycle is hard to make out, though it becomes apparent it was definitely intended to be viewed from below rather than above. \n\nIt depicts a wolf, chasing a burning orb across the sky. From the other side, a chariot charges, with a couple swabbed in linen at its helm, in pursuit of the same. \n\nBelow this celestial drama, the seven greatest cities of the old world look up, each in varying stages of night. Presumably this once served as a sort of sundial. \n\n<<if $SymbolSunset is "yes">>The orb is a dull black. Whatever they chase has already escaped them. All the cities are shrouded in darkness.<<endif>>\n\n[[You turn your attention from the upturned fresco|Chapel]].|

You hurry downstairs to grab the sheaf of letters, trailing droplests of blood after you like a particularly morbid Pied Piper of your own mortality. \n\nYou tear away the binding, and open the first letter. 'To my darling jackdaw, I write in earnest of your first visitation below. You will find it quite alienating, but also intriguing, I think. I am so pleased to have found a friend in thee - \n\nThen the first drop from your opened wrist hits the paper, like the first call of thunder before a deluge. You spatter the page with yourself. The writing begins to shift, as the blood mingles with the ink, seducing it into strange forms: \n\n'Clever. If you seek me, I have gone to Greyfriars, to lay me down in garden green. Make sure to walk, the penny farthing is most reliable, and however might it manage the stair. \n\nOf course, if you're reading this, so is Isaac. Reach me first.' \n\nYou feel faint. You bind your wrist, leaving only mulch and a bloody trail. \n\n[[You know where Drake has gone, if not quite why. Travel to Greyfriars Kirk|Greyfriars]].|\n[[There is more to be learnt here in the Cloister. Continue your investigation here|Explore the Cloister]].|

<<set $Lights += 1>>You stand halfway up a spiral staircase. The roof has collapsed, a casecade of fallen stone blocking your way forwards.\n\n[[Go back. Find another way|Undercroft]].

<<set $TanovaTrusts += "2">>She looks surprised at your concern, and smiles. \n\n'Looks worse than it is. Always the way. My own fault. Also usually the way. Aren't you glad you picked me?'\n\nShe must have seen something in your expression, for she sighs. 'Figure of speech. I do know you didn't actually pick me. The scars will heal, with time. Which is what we don't really have.'\n\nShe extends a hand. 'Come with me. Please?'\n\n[[Take her hand|Follow Tanova]].|\n[[No. You still have questions of her|Questioning Tanova]].|

<<if $WentToThePubFirst is "yes">><<set $HareishanTrusts -= "2">>Her eyes darken, though her expression remains as cool and unknowable as Coleridge's white sea. 'I am glad you have found time for diversion.'<<else>>\nShe nods curtly. 'I have been here barely longer than you. I imagine we have found much the same.'<<set $HareishanTrusts += "2">><<endif>>\n\n'As I understand it, Drake has broken ties with All Souls - there was an unfortunate relationship with a novitiate. I intend only slight offence. Our hierarchy is in place for good reason. Contravention rarely leads the contravenor to useful purpose. He was perhaps blackmailed, and has since fled somewhere above of here. Have I the right of it, novitiate?'\n\nShe stares at you, as though daring you to contradict her. \n\n[[Ask her about the hierarchy of All Souls|HareishanHierarchy]].|\n[[Ask her about Drake and Isaac|HareishanDrakeIsaac]].|\n[[Challenge her interpretation. The facts point elsewhere|DisagreeHareishan]].|\n[[Accept her interpretation. She has the right of it]].|\n[[Ignore Hareishan for now. There are more pressing matters|Drake's boudoir]].|

You inch your way gingerly along the walkway, which creaks like a fat corpse stuffed into a cheap coffin, expelling gas on its way to interment. You almost choke in cobwebs at the apex. \n\nBeyond, several doorways on a corridoor with a ceiling that narrows, so that surely only dwarfs might dwell in the furthest rooms. \n\nYou push open doors, to find each room empty, but for a dismal bed of the most spartan arrangement and an empty washing stand. There is a room near the last window, looking out on the empty night in which the Cloister drowns, that is locked. The innkeep's room, you presume.\n\n[[Finding nothing, you return downstairs|The Bell's Toll]].|

<<set $SuspiciousOfSalvation = "yes">>She tuts. 'Fancy asking such a question. Look around the Cloister, friend. There's a thousand degradations visited on us daily. And nightly. Oh, nightly. There's always something worse waiting in the dark, friend.' \n\nShe turns her attention back to the pulpit.\n\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

A young man, tanned and ink-eyed, with the red crown of a pharoah of the Old Nile, and the sun in his eyes. \n\nHe looks upwards, he at his vantage point far from Charlotte and far from the flame, his eyes you note full of not the sun, but sunsets. \n\n[[The symbol at your throat begins to crawl and burn, like a scarab pressed at your vein. You look away|Drawing room]].|

<<if $HareishanTrusts gte "2">>She surveys you carefully, like an archaeologist at a digsite otherwise dull to the untrained eye. She clacks the various rings and bands at her wrists together in a series of swift motions, like joints being popped. \n\n'I think,' She says at last, her voice soft like winds blowing through an ancient tomb, newly exposed, 'That there may be promise. We shall have to see.'\n<<else>>She stares at you in this silent place, long enough that you begin to feel uncomfortable for asking. At last, she exhales and speaks. 'I don't know what to make of you yet. I will find a purpose, of that have no fear.'<<endif>>\n\nShe sighs, like the exhumation of a sainted corpse. 'The Countess will have a task for you - in that fetid swamp they name Riverside. I will have to accompany you there, and find things useful to my own purpose to occupy you with. You will learn from me, and I will guide you in your first steps here.'\n\n[[Continue your conversation. She knows much|Hareishan in the chapel]].|\n[[Take your leave of her|Chapel]].|

It was on the seventh night, after the seventh bell had been rung, as we were encamped by the Black Sea, and the Khan rode out, and wept into that black sea which gazed back at him and shed no tears of its own and he wept all the more \n\nIt was after this, while the winds dropped, as though afraid, and the sands stirred, and the black sea blanched to behold her that she came. \n\nShe had red hair like the blood of Christ, and 'zounds, I said, 'sblood', what devil is this?'\n\nAnd she said she had not the blood of old Eve, but was of the seventh race of the seraphim that the Creator made from his winged throne, and I saw burning wheels in the sky behind her, and I longed to taste her flesh but she forbade it whilst the sun lay guarding the sky.\n\nAnd so I waited till nightfall, and my belly groaned for her, but she was far on the shore, and there were so many pebbles, and oh she heard me, and she raised me up and 'zounds' I said, and 'sblood' and she bled me until I was hers and I promised to reveal the truth, as St Thomas had, even though she told me that all that waited was the Pit and she had come to tell us and the sun must not be allowed to set or the pit will come as it has before \n\n[[The rest is incomprehensible rambling|The Fall]].|

He wipes sweat and stuck hair from his forehead. \n\n'Not much to tell. Bastard born and bastard raised. Lived in tenement across the way. Apprenticed to this fuck.' He spits. 'I 'ate him. He knows it. I'm the only one left - only one who could stick it out. Even William left - one way or another.'\n\nHe glares at you, defiant. \n\n<<if $AteWilliamGrey is "yes">>[[You remember. Reassure him of William's love|Touch Andrew]].|<<endif>>\n[[You have other questions|Talking to Andrew]].|

'For one who shows promise.'\n\nYou recognise the quote. Carrick, a late 16th century playwright. His plays were little performed, though well remembered. One of the few commoners who rose to status at court, like Thomas Cromwell, and like Cromwell he died in chains. \n\nYour knowledge of the jewel trade tells you this is a rare piece. Rare to the point of uniqueness. \n[[You may choose to display the ruby, if you wish|Ruby displayed]].|\n[[Perhaps a gift such as this is best kept close to the chest|Ruby concealed]].|

The wire has drunk deep. The neck has been sliced through, like a mouldy piece of cheese cut at Christmas. \n\nThis was done quietly, with the victim unsuspecting until his life washed out from below his chin. \n\nThere is a piece of paper in the man's soaked breast-pocket. Notice of eviction and a lease agreement, both of Mr Thomas Wythe, formerly of Spitalfields, London. \n\nHis referee - a promiment cabinet minister.\n\nCurious.\n\n[[You pocket the deeds and leave the body to cool|Mrs Heichmann's rooms]].|

<<set $IsaacTrusts -= "1">>Isaac rolls his eyes, and mutters something beneath his breath. It sounds like 'gelare.'\n\nEvery muscle in your form constricts for an agonising moment. Every piece of your wreteched flesh locks, frozen in place, whilst he walks past you, into the Mausoleum. \n\n'Sorry,' He says, waiting from inside, 'You'd do the same in my place. Besides, I do love him after all.' As though that ever excuses anything. \n\n[[You follow him in|The Black Mausoleum]].|

The great bookshelf does indeed contain a panoply of wonders. A litany of religious texts, biographies, bestiaries, breviaries, histories, the collected works of English literature from Kyd to Clare. Despite the sagging of the shelf, and its fine, [[pierced|nails]] wood, it is remarkably free of dust unlike everywhere else in this sunken, twilit place. \n\nSeveral volumes catch your attention as you peruse the shelf. \n[[A copy of Stoker's Dracula. Ironic|Dracula]].|\n[[A beautifully illustrated copy of Goblin Market|Goblin Market]].|\n[[A History of the Fall|The Fall]].|\n[[Return your attention back to the study|The study]].|\n

She frowns. 'Oh, the half-traitor? Yes he's been creeping hereabouts, though not lately. Caught between two worlds, unable to do what's right for fear of doing wrong.' She tuts sympathetically. A breeze billows through her old silver gown.\n\n'No, not he. Ah, well. You did your best. What more can one expect from a fledgling, and one from below to boot? I shall just have to try something else.'\n\nAnd with that, and a chill breeze rattling from all doors, she is gone, leaving you alone in the now silent hallways of this nested labyrinth above the ruined dormitory. \n\n[[Less enlightened than you were, you depart|Explore the Cloister]].|

The whisky looks like misery shot from the barrel of a gun. Splendidly, it tastes as it looks, and you grimace as it burnishes the inside of your oesophagus with a fiery tar. \n\nHelena grimaces in sympathy, and waits a respectable few seconds before refilling your glass. \n\n[[Attempt to make conversation. She may know something|Quizzing Helena]].|\n[[Perhaps not. There is more to explore|The Bell's Toll]].|\n[[Request another drink|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|

<<if $TanovaToDrake is "yes">>Tanova places her hand on the door, her sun-scorched dress haloed with eerie silver light. She presses her lips to the door. Briefly, she is a vessel, a column of light, before the darkness in her spills out to consume the bright.\n\nDrake breathes a little. \n\n[[You have more questions|Drake at last]].\n<<else>>The door opens of it's own accord. Light, terrible and merciless, enters the room. Drake falls to his knees, full of trembling. Isaac stands over him.\n\n[[You are between light and dark|The Choice]].<<endif>>

<<if $MissDelilahsFootsteps gte 2>>You have not escaped. The old woman is back. From her white dress she brings forth a siver key, and presses it into your palm. 'I was argent,' She says, by way of explanation. 'Needless to say, I am no longer. Take a look, dearie, and mind how you go.' She inclines her head to a door you hadn't noticed before, just at the bottom of the stairs leading to the turret room. It is illuminated in a strange pale light. \n[[You take the key, and enter the door. Her eyes like the twin moons of Mars, gazing down upon a scarlet waste|The hidden room]].|\n[[No. You will not be pushed about by alarming old women.You push past - or perhaps through her - and descend|Cloister Tenement]].|<<else>>You sneak up the wooden stair, which creaks alarmingly. There is a hanging at the top, which jangles as you push it aside. Made of hung rope and strung with bells - and bones? \n\nBehind, an octagonal room, in the guise of a turret room. The woodcarver has even included crenellations. Fine work, once, before rot and damp worried it to ruin. \n\nThere is a great bed, four poster in the centre of the room. How can it hold the weight? \n\nThere is a gun, nailed to the wall, pointing it seems at the bed. \n\nThere are windows all around, open to the darkling sky. \n\n[[Examine the bed. How in the world|Miss Delilah's bed]].|\n[[Go to a window. How long since you've seen the night|Night from the turret]].|\n[[Examine the gun. It is of a curious make|The gun what done it]].|\n[[Leave the room. There are other ghosts to pursue|Struck match]].|<<endif>>\n

'Making fucking swords for soldiers who don't have need of 'em. Fools work, and we're all fools down here. \n\nFancy man in a red uniform pays him by the forge well for it, and what he gets paid for I does.'\n\n[[Fancy man|Fancy man in red]]?|\n[[You have other questions|Talking to Andrew]].|\n[[Not used? Then why make them|Why make weapons]].|

The moon still shines here. No-one seems to know why. \n\n<<display 'Lassal'>>\n

You speak your mind. <<set $AngeredDrFarthing = "yes">>\n\n*\n\nYou wake in the Cloister, your head bruised. You cannot remember what just happened. Wait.\n\nThere were words spoken. They were in no language living. \n\nYou stand up. Not much time seems to have passed. The lights remain on within the Bell's Toll, all else in shadow. \n\n[[Continue your investigation|Explore the Cloister]].|

<<set $IWantToBeSaved = "yes">>Her eyes, like Pallas Athena's you think, those ox-eyes Homer spoke of, widen. She touches your throat, her hand tracing the veins down to your breast. \n\n'Forgive me for being forward, but your answer demands a response I can't put in words.' She leaves her hand at your heart a moment, before withdrawing. 'I wish you all the salvation in the world.' \n\nHer attention returns to the pulpit.\n\n[[Leave her to her raptured attention|The Undercroft]].|

Curious. The body is bloated, the skin waxen. Like someone squeezed a puffer-fish too hard. Blight and rot discolours the flesh.\n\nIt clashes with the couch something awful. \n\nIs that a piece of wire about the throat? \n\nThe heart in you spits bile about your belly. You think it might signify glee. \n\n[[Examine the wire. It didn't get there by itself|Wire in the blood]].|\n[[Leave the corpse to putrefy in peace|Mrs Heichmann's rooms]].|

Ale and beer can no longer be brewed. Though vegetation, like mortal life, inexplicably endures under the lightless skies of modernity, corn and wheat are some of the only species to have died out. \n\nReports from 1799 record the eerie spectacle of vast fields of corn withering and dying as the midday sun sank one last time. Browning stalks dropping like sick cattle in the fields, left long fallow under the darkening sky. \n\n[[No, there is no ale here|Drink at the Bell's Toll]].|

The Countess looks at you. Boredom briefly disturbs that blank mirror. \n\n'Another heart lost. Such is our lot. Love above and below is not for us. If you see this person again, it will not be the same. Though as you yourself are emblematic of, we have uses even for broken hearts.'\n\nShe suddenly flies from her throne, and the full weight of her is upon you. With one sapphire-strung hand she holds your throat, with the other she tears open your collar. On the nape of your neck, she carves a symbol of your flesh, as you spasm beneath her. There is little blood. This does not lessen the pain.\n\nIn a moment, she is done, and situated once more upon the white seat of her majesty. She beckons for a mirror to be brought to you. \n\nYou see in the dark glass what she has made of you. A heart, cloven in twain, bleeds upon your flesh. <<set $SymbolHeart = "yes">>\n\n[[She claps her hands. You are taken away, into the dark|Your chamber]].|\n