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What started as a thin rain quickly turns into a deluge, thick sheets of rain sending you scurrying into the shelter of the dilapidated manor. Even here, the rain still manages to slip through the occasional hole in the ceiling as if the damn stuff is following you. Still, it’s an improvement – not that that’s an especially high bar to clear.
The three of you all collapse down into one of the larger, more intact rooms. Despite your fatigue, the thoughts racing through your mind warn that sleep will be slow to arrive. When she notices how restless you seem, Elle pulls some papers out of her coat pocket and carefully checks them for any water damage. “Miss Phalaris left these with us,” she explains, “I hope you don’t mind, but we read them over while we were waiting.”
“There was not much else to do,” Alina adds, with a faintly defensive note in her voice, “It was boring.”
You take the notes, listlessly skimming down the words. You can hear Yulia’s voice in your head as you read, her tone somehow both gloating and whining. After a moment, you toss the note down and sigh. “What do we think?” you ask, “About the notes, I mean. Be specific.”
Elle bites her lip as she thinks, trying to find the right words. “I’m not sure how helpful any of this is,” she admits eventually, “Especially since our only source of this is Yulia herself. She’s not exactly what I would consider… reliable. I think it might be best if we stick to what we know.”
Slowly, you nod as a silence falls. It’s clear from the look on her face that Alina has something to say, but she’s even more reticent than Elle. You fix the Galsean with a firm stare, holding her gaze until she becomes too uncomfortable to stay silent. “It troubles me,” she mutters, “Our Deus Pater, our guardian spirit. Is there no place for Him, in this world the Phalaris describes?”
That’s a question that none of you can answer.
-
The journey back to the estate is long, arduous, tedious, but ultimately safe and uneventful. As much as you’d like to say that there’s something meditative about the unceasing slog, that would be a lie. The walk does little to free your thoughts and unburden your mind, and nothing to inspire grand new ideas. Instead, you’re left with the lingering poison of futility. Is there truly nothing you can do to stop what’s coming?
It’s late when you get back home, too late to do anything more than go to bed. Tomorrow, you’ll figure something out. Maybe. Hopefully.
“I think we’ve missed the last train. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get you home,” you tell Alina, “Still, I figured you might appreciate a comfortable night after all that camping out.”
“It was no hardship,” she replies with a shrug, “Not so different from life back in the home islands.”
A pause.
“But yes,” she admits, “I will not complain about a soft bed.”
[1/2]
