(Please note that this is an early draft and subject to change. Any comments, compliments, suggestions and constructive criticisms are welcome.)
Thunder crashed, and rain poured in torrents upon the figure crossing the boundary between the city of the living and the great mass of crypts and mausoleums. Shrouded in a gentleman’s greatcoat and top hat, hunched against the wind and rain; all a passerby could discern of the entity within was the single hand, seeming too small for the glove it was encased in, clutching an ornamental cane. Of course, at this particular time any passersby were purely speculative; all living things having sought shelter hours before.
From under the top hat, eyes pierced the darkness and thick rain with inhuman perception; taking in the extravagant monuments to mortality. The entity snorted in derision. The human vermin were so desperate for some significance in their short, pointless, lives that they wasted effort and resources just to maintain the illusion that part of them remained behind after death. It amused him to note the disparity between the luxurious mausoleums and the paupers’ section in a far corner of the cemetery; the inhabitants of the former actually making the claim that even in death they were above all others.
The figure paused to take in one sculpture; a large, stone angel weeping over the dead. It was a beautiful piece; a slender, nude woman hunched over in grief, her wide, feathered wings spread and her long hair shrouding her face. The entity smirked in contempt. He had encountered the beings men called angels before, and they were nothing like the statue. Even before his current, diminished, state, the creature had found them alien and intimidating. He chuckled contemptuously thinking of the reaction of the mortals who commissioned the statue coming face to, figurative, face with a real angel. The statue more resembled one of the forms Mother’s incarnations commonly took when they moved openly amongst the mortals.
Thoughts of Mother immediately raised the familiar old emotions; rage, hatred, fear; and swept away any sense of amusement or appreciation. Briefly, his eyes flared in a hellish, red light that was visible in the storm. “One day,” he reminded himself out loud; one day he would make Mother suffer, as he would all who had crossed him. Suddenly filled with a desire to get the meeting over with, the entity stomped off among the crypts to find his contact.
His inhuman senses probed the darkness for a few minutes until they detected the other individual lurking in the graveyard. They led him to an area enclosed by the roofs of neighboring crypts, keeping it dry from the rain. He tried, not entirely successfully, to suppress a surge of irritation when the sound of an infernal being struck made him jump despite his caution and natural gifts. The match lit a cigarette before falling to the ground and getting stamped out. A man stepped out of the shadows.
“Lord Richard Thurbin,” the voice spoke Albin with just the slightest trace of a Deutschen accent, “that’s what you’re calling yourself these days, isn’t it?” The entity that called himself Lord Richard hated that voice. It was almost always tinged with an amused irony, as if the speaker was appreciating an obscene joke that nobody else got. It reminded him too much of Mother and her consort. Lord Richard inhaled and reminded himself that he needed the man’s help for the time being. There would be plenty of time to indulge his irritation later.
“Doctor Malachai Lewin.” Lord Thurbin paused before spitting out the next eight words. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” Dr. Lewin stepped from the shadows, a lit cigarette in hand and a smirk on his lips.
He wore a professional class suit, bowler and greatcoat; all of which were clearly well used and well cared for. Dark eyes glittered from underneath the hat brim, and a neatly trimmed beard curled around the smirking mouth. A short distance away sat the black bag, never far from his grasp, where the doctor kept most of his tools. In his other hand he clutched his cane. Lord Thurbin particularly hated that cane.
It bore a slightly unusual, almost exotic, appearance; a shaft of a smooth, whitish substance which resembled ivory or bone, that ended in a point. Its handle was a small, perfectly reproduced skull carved out of onyx. The entirety of the cane and handle were intricately carved with elaborate designs; beautiful but meaningless abstracts to most. However, Lord Thurbin knew that the etchings were occult symbols and powerful wards, the latter made specifically to affect beings like him. He had been on the wrong end of that cane many times, and could feel the power from the wards where he stood, a good seven feet away. Dr. Lewin smirked and took a drag on his cigarette.
“Your proposition intrigues me. I’ve heard rumors of Raven’s Eyre and Cairns mound; and if just a small portion of them are true then there are valuable secrets to be learned. Also, that you asked me, of all people, for help is equally intriguing. We’ve never been on the... best, of terms.” Richard carefully considered his answer.
“I’m in need of your expertise,” he finally replied. “As you have probably surmised on your own, Cairnsmound is the possession of a great Power. I intend to bind it to my use.” Doctor Lewin sucked in a mouthful of smoke and exhaled.
“That much I guessed, but what is my role in it?” Lord Thurbin gritted his teeth. He hated to admit weakness, especially to a potential, and several times proven, enemy; but there was no helping it.
“The crux of my plan is a ritual to be performed at my wedding. I need you to help perform the ritual, and, more importantly, to gather all the specifics of Cairnsmound needed to set it up.” Dr. Lewin laughed out loud.
“So the rumors are true! You, of all creatures, are getting married. I never thought I’d see the day.” Lord Richard surpressed the urge to snarl. He’d long nursed a hatred for necromancers, sorcerers, magicians, or whatever idiotic titles mortals gave to those of their number who messed with knowledge and power that was not meant for them. While he wouldn’t admit it to anybody, particularly himself, this was entirely due to jealousy and fear. He found the necessary studies and work beneath him, and therefore had trouble comprehending all the simplest of rituals and incantations. Or maybe it was the other way around. The idea that a mere mortal could wield power denied him made him seethe, and the possibility that it could be used against him made him tremble. The fact that that it had been a mortal sorcerer who had trapped Lord Thurbin in his current, diminished, state; and that said sorcerer was beyond any possible vengeance that he could inflict, did not in any way improve his opinion.
“The girl in question is the key to the power we seek,” Lord Richard replied through gritted teeth, “to possess it, I must possess her. A marriage is just the most expedient way to do it.”
“And how does she feel about her impending nuptials?” Lord Richard shrugged dismissively.
“When has that ever mattered? What do you say to my offer?” Doctor Lewin pondered silently for a few minutes, Lord Richard twitching impatiently. Finally, he replied.
“I will, of course, need the specifics for the ritual. I will also need time to examine the site itself, if you want the ritual to go as planned.”
“I will have the materials sent to you tomorrow. A week from today is when we leave for Raven’s Eyre. When we arrive, you will have a month to prepare. Anything else?”
“Yes, a concern.” Even though Lord Richard’s face was hidden in the shadows, Malachai could sense his eyebrows rise. “You have a knack for making enemies. Should we worry about possible trouble from one or more of them?” Lord Thurbin’s eyes flared red with anger.
“Do you really think I have anything to fear from some insects? I am mightier than anything that could possibly...”
“You’re not very good at hiding your tracks,” Malachai interjected, “and this ritual leaves us vulnerable to whoever might have an interest in disrupting it, however weak they might otherwise be. I’m particularly concerned about the aristocrat and the ex-priest who have sworn your destruction. I’ve clashed with those two on several occasions, and they are not to be underestimated. Not if you have any sense.” Lord Richard’s eyes dimmed a little, but still smoldered.
“I have arranged for a distraction on the Continent to throw them off my scent. You have nothing to fear, necromancer, so long as you fulfill your end of our deal.”
“Just make sure you keep your end, incubus.” Smoldering, red eyes stared into dark, irreverent ones. The two pairs of eyes held each other for a moment, then Lord Thurbin turned around and stomped toward the cemetery gates.
“What’s the Power we’re seeking to bind?” Malachai yelled at his back.
“An old enemy,” Lord Richard growled, his voice somehow managing to cut through the noises of the storm, “that’s all you need to know.” His anger was up, as were several off his vile appetites. The foul being stormed into the narrow alleyways of the city, seeking a suitable victim.
Malachai cursed at the incubus’ back, then stubbed out his cigarette and turned to retrieve his tool bag. He had preparations to make.
***
Intimidating and, paradoxically, comforting; the towering roofs of Blackwood Hall rose over the hills like a beacon in the setting sun. As the carriage followed the road to the great hall, the only sounds came from the horses and from the contraption, itself. The two passengers were content to gaze out the window and silently dwell on their lonely thoughts.
While otherwise a study in contrasts, the two men bore identical haggard facial expressions and mannerisms of bone-deep weariness. It wasn’t mere physical exhaustion, although that was very much present; but rather the soul-fatigue of somebody who had experienced far mor loss, hardship, pain and horror than a certain measurement of time should logically allow for.
The older of the two men was large; tall and built like an oak. Though in his early sixties, the lines of grief and hardship on his face made him look much older. His body appeared to have aged well, but for the disfiguring marks of tragedy; rugged and muscular, with the remnants of a soldier’s bearing that hadn’t quite faded with time and disuse. Over a thick, bushy, grey mustache, hard, blue-grey eyes glared into the distance.
The younger man was smaller and thinner, practically waifish when compared to his companion; but something in his stance belayed an iron core that completely destroyed any appearance of delicacy or weakness. He possessed the black hair and sun-darkened skin of the southern Continent, and his face was normally clean-shaven; though the two men had recently been neglecting their hygiene. Dark eyes, usually kind and open, but now shadowed by grief, stared out the window while he played with a set of prayer beads; seemingly without any conscious knowledge of the item.
The carriage drove through the impressive, though wide open, gates and to the front door. Awaiting it was the house’s elderly butler and three boys from the village. When the carriage stopped, the boys rushed to handle the luggage while the butler approached the two passengers.
“My Lord Blackwood, it’s so good to have you back home!” The larger man nodded politely.
“Thank you, Jenkins,” he said wearily, but with no real emotion. The butler turned to the second man.
“And Mr. Silvestre, it is an honor to have you with us again!” Dario Silvestre managed a weary, but sincere, smile.
“Thank you, Jenkins,” he replied in an accent of the Taliano States, “it’s good to be back.” Jenkins smiled politely.
“Dinner is almost ready and the rooms are prepared. The boys can handle your luggage.”
“I’m going to take care of the equipment, first,” Lord Blackwood replied.
“Ambrose…” Dario began, but Ambrose just talked over him.
“Please take care of Father Silvestre, I’ll take my dinner later.” A small part of Dario was tempted to remind his friend that it had been a long time since he was eligible to be called ‘Father’, but he knew it wouldn’t make and difference. He tried not to sigh loudly as he followed Jenkins into Blackwood hall.
The great house remained impressive despite the years of benign neglect. The stone lions at the front door, the enormous front hall with its ornaments and portraits, the chandeliers and wallpaper and other details; all declared power, wealth and legacy worthy of a member of the landed gentry. But a closer look told another story.
The first thing Dario always noticed on visits to Blackwood Hall was the near silence. After the tragedy, Lord Ambrose had dismissed all but a small handful of the servants. He seldom visited, himself, and never hosted anymore. The few times Dario had been to the hall, it always seemed to him that the few human inhabitants rattled about the place like pebbles blown around a large system of caves. He found the effect both sad and eerie.
A closer look revealed the true state of Blackwood Hall. Jenkins did the best he could, periodically rounding up locals from the village to clean and do maintenance. However, the dust and cobwebs never completely disappeared. Nor did the ever-growing count of cracks and peeling paint. It was as if, Dario often thought, the hall, like its master, was slowly disappearing a piece at a time.
Once the two men were out of earshot of everyone else, Jenkins allowed his mask of formality to slip a little. “How bad is it this time?” he asked, concern creeping into his voice. Dario sighed.
“We tracked the creature to a convent in Galt, one with a large number of young girls in residence. It turned out to be a distraction, but a particularly nasty one. He left behind… something; an ally, a servant, maybe even one of his offspring. I know not what. Whatever it was, it had the ability to posses the women and control them, to force them to…” Dario shuddered. Jenkins put a hand on his shoulder, then quickly removed it again. “We were able to put it down, but the collateral damage it did was horrible.”
“I can only imagine,” Jenkins murmured.
“No,” replied Dario, “you can’t. And you should give thanks to God for that small mercy.”
There was a moment of silence before Jenkins asked, “what about the incubus?” Dario sighed again.
“It took a while, but we picked up his trail. He took a boat across the Channel to Laudan. We got in touch with our contacts there, but it will take them a few days to figure out where he went.” Jenkins nodded, then his mask of formality returned.
“I had Cook prepare dinner; it’s ready in the kitchen. His Lordship will probably be taking his in the study, later.”
“I’ll help you force-feed him if he refuses to eat,” replied Dario. The corner of Jenkin’s mouth quirked briefly.
“I do hope it won’t come to that. I have also arranged for a bath and toiletries so that you can get cleaned up. Finally,” again, Jenkin’s formal mask briefly dropped, “today I had the chapel cleaned and fresh candles put in.” Dario felt a warmth that he felt so rarely these days.
“Thank you, Jenkins, for everything. I really appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it.” Jenkins, completely formal again, gestured to the kitchen. The smell of beef-barley stew made Dario’s stomach rumble. For a short while, he was able to forget his troubles. Mostly.
Lord Ambrose Blackwood collapsed into an armchair in front of his study fireplace, a lit pipe in one hand and a glass of port in the other. He stared into the flames, desperately trying to blot out hundreds of painful memories and horrible images. It didn’t work.
Fresh on his mind were the most recent series of atrocities. Just by closing his eyes he could see the possessed nuns; the leering faces, the mouths laughing and screaming obscenities even as the eyes begged for help and release. And the worst part of it was that it was only the latest series of horrors he had been forced to bear witness to.
Lord Blackwood’s world had ended nearly two decades ago with the visit of a mysterious stranger. The stranger had robbed him of his wife and daughter, and revelation of the fiend’s true nature robbed him of nearly all his comfortable assumptions about the world. His long quest for vengeance on the incubus had divested him of the rest of said assumptions; forcibly confronting him with the existence of things long relegated to myth and superstition, and the true nature of humanity and its institutions. In many ways the latter revelations were the worst; even the military campaigns he fought in the Ind colonies in his youth couldn’t prepare him for the horrors lurking just under his nose in the “civilized” nations.
A knock at the door interrupted his dark musings. “Go away, Jenkins. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“It’s Dario, I have your dinner.”
“Go away, Dario. I’m not hungry.” Dario opened the door and stepped into the room.
“Tough,” he said, closing the door behind him. Dario walked over to Ambrose and set down a bowl of stew and a spoon on the small table beside him. Dario sat in the opposite armchair and looked his friend in the eye. “Now, will you eat? Or will I have to force-feed you like they do puppies?”
After seventeen years Ambrose knew his friend, and that the threat of force-feeding was not an idle one. He also knew from experience that despite his current lack of appetite, starving himself would only ensure that he would be even more miserable later. With a sigh, he picked up the bowl and started to eat.
“I still can’t figure out how they were able to excommunicate you. Your parishioners must have been terrified into subservience, and one would think that your superiors would be too afraid to try.” Dario chuckled.
“I think it’s because my superiors feared me that they forced me out. And you know I only resort to crude threats out of compassion.” Ambrose grumbled something in response, but Dario couldn’t make out the words. Probably just as well, he could guess what they were. There was a period of silence as Ambrose ate his stew and Dario settled into his chair. Ambrose finished and set down his bowl and spoon.
“We lost him. Again.” Dario nodded wearily.
“We’ll find him. Again. The bastardo is never able to escape from us for long.
“He has so far. How long have we been chasing him? How many years?”
“And how many times have we caught him? What’s more, he only pulls stunts like the one on the Continent when he’s trying to distract us from what he’s really up to.” Ambrose perked up.
“What’s he really up to?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it, he thinks we’re a threat to it. That means we probably are.” Dario stood up. “Now, we’re only a few days behind him. We’ve had worse delays than that. What’s more, we know he went through Laudan; and he’s very bad about covering his tracks. When our contacts in Laudan pick up his trail, you need to rested and attentive. That means you can’t be starved and hung-over.” Ambrose’s full attention was on his friend.
“The Church of Reme suffered a major loss when they kicked you out.” Dario gave a small smile.
“God just had a higher calling for me. Now, I’m going to the chapel to pray before bed. As always, you are welcome to join me should you so desire. If not, I suggest you get some sleep and I will see you in the morning.” Ambrose shook his head.
“Good night, old friend.”
“Good night.” Dario closed the door and headed for the chapel. He hoped he would be able to sooth some of his own doubts.
***
The clouds began to clear, enough so that it was possible to catch glimpses of the star-flecked sky. Occasionally, the waning moon was able to break through and illuminate the lonely road that wound beneath. Upon the road traveled a carriage, currently the only source of sound and motion in the empty lands it moved through.
Suddenly, the scenery changed. Like an oasis in the middle of the empty moors, the carriage entered a region of trees and fields. Even here, despite the recent storm, there was no sound or movement but what came from the carriage. Not a leaf moved, not a breeze blew. It was as if the land itself held its breath in anticipation.
At the edge of the fields, the road wound through a small village. All slept at this late hour, not a spark of light shone in any of the dark windows. The village ended at a tall hill, the only one for miles around, but the road continued to the top. At the summit was the building that was the carriage’s destination.
Ravens’ Eyrie loomed over the village from the top of the hill. An enormous, uneven, mass of additions and architectural styles from several centuries, in the darkness the great hall resembled an organism more than a building. As the carriage pulled up to the front door, the passenger looked to the eastern tower and saw the eerie, blue flame, subject of hundreds of local ghost stories and fearful whispers, that periodically appeared in its top window.
Three men, an elderly butler and two yawning stable boys, approached the carriage. The butler raised a lantern. The driver hastened to open the passenger door, but it was wasted effort. The door already swung open, and the passenger stepped out without any hesitation.
“My Lady Cairnsmound, welcome home! It’s wonderful to have you back.” The butler spoke with the calm, formal demeaner he always wore in public. Lady Ursa Radcliffe, Duchess of Cairnsmound, gave the house and its environs a brief look around before turning back to the butler and nodding politely.
“Thank you, Carlson. It’s good to be home.” She hid her distaste for the man with the ease of long practice. While Carlson had never showed her anything but the deference owed her station, Ursa always felt a sense of wrongness around him. The sensation had not diminished any after her long period of absence. The terror Ursa long ago noticed that the other servants held Carlson in did not help her opinion of him.
“Your room has been prepared and is ready for you.” Carson turned back toward the hall as the stable boys rushed to get Ursa’s trunks. “If you’re hungry, have something prepared for you.”
“We stopped to eat earlier,” replied Ursa, trudging as far behind Carlson as propriety would allow, “all I want right now is my bed.”
“But of course, of course. The next few weeks are going to be awfully busy. Your Uncle Michael will be here in the next day or two, and your betrothed arrives at the end of the week. I have heard many good things about Lord Richard Thurbin…”
Ursa let the butler natter on, barely listening as she took in her home. The entrance, apart from the wooden door, was part of the original building. Ursa was well versed in her family’s history. She knew that Raven’s Eyrie had been built as a convent several centuries before King Harry had broken with the Church of Reme, and confiscated all pontiffist holdings. However, persistent rumors claimed that the convent, in turn, was built over an even older building; a pagan temple constructed long before Reme went anywhere near Alban’s shores.
Despite the additions, remodels, and centuries of attempts to efface signs of its previous owners, Raven’s Eyrie remained somehow pagan; ancient and primeval in appearance. Mysterious, archaic, pre-Joshuen carvings remained on the stone lintels. Above the door, a remnant from the convent, hovered a stone archangel -nobody had ever been able to agree which one it was supposed to represent- its wings outstretched.
Through the looming portal, Carson’s lantern cast myriad bizarre, misshapen shadows on the floor and walls. The flickering light was insufficient to grant more than glimpses of the entry hall’s contents, but Ursa could see well in darkness and knew it all from memory: portraits, suits of armor, statues, crests and carpets; the majority of which had been there generations, if not centuries. Past the hall was the foyer with its strange columns, sculpted into odd, humanoid, shapes. A remnant of when the building was a convent, if not earlier, most people who aware of the columns said they were supposed to represent saints. However, a sizable minority countered that they did not resemble Joshuan saints from anywhere in the religion’s history.
As Ursa moved through the house, many details that she had consciously forgotten in her absence came back to her: The many unseen presences she sensed around the edges of her consciousness. The figures she caught out of the corner of her eye. The long, winding halls and staircases that Ursa knew for a fact occasionally shifted when one’s attention was elsewhere. Most of all, the house, itself, as a living, aware, omnipresent entity; one that absorbed all who dwelled there into the complex set of structures and systems that was its body. Over, under, behind and beside it all was a presence; a ubiquitous sentience that was beyond the concerns of the innumerable lesser individuals who lived in its shadow, but was aware of them when it chose to be. Ursa had sensed it her entire life at Raven’s Eyrie, but never been able to make any kind of contact despite multiple attempts.
Finally, they arrived at her bedchamber. Carlson opened the thick, wooden door, which allowed the glow from the fireplace to spill into the hall.
“You have a new maid assigned to you,” the butler told Ursa, “I can’t recall her name. She has set your room up for you. She is in the maids’ room next to yours, so just pull the rope when you need her.” Sounds of physical exertion reached their ears, and the stable boys appeared with Ursa’s trunks. They brought them into the bedchamber, then left to seek their own beds. Carlson turned to Ursa before following them. “Goodnight, my lady.” Ursa closed her door behind the butler, relieved to finally be away from him.
Her room was exactly as she remembered it. It was a large, stone, chamber insulated from the cold by the heavy curtains over the window, carpet on the floor, and ancient tapestries on the walls. The many furnishings, old and baroque, remained exactly as they had been months before. The one exception, Ursa noticed without surprise, was that someone had removed the more “inappropriate” of the books she remembered placing on her shelf.
Ursa took a small lantern from her bedside table and lit it from the huge fireplace; its stony hearth carved into fantastic beasts and its iron screen comprised of strange, abstract shapes that put curious notions at the edge of one’s thoughts if scrutinized for too long. The new maid had done well building the fire, Ursa noticed; she doubted it would need any refueling before morning. Pulling the curtains on the four-poster aside, Ursa noticed that the maid had also laid out a nightgown and placed a warming pan. She glanced at the pull-rope and decided to leave the poor girl to her rest. Ursa was more than capable of handling her bedtime preparations without help, and she knew the following weeks would be exhausting for all of them.
Ursa undressed and carefully placed her clothes so that the servants could easily fetch them in the morning. Then she slipped the nightgown on and sat down at the vanity. Ursa’s hands went to her hairpins, and auburn locks flowed down to her shoulder blades. As Ursa took the brush to them, she studied her face in the mirror.
It was a pretty face that leaned a bit toward striking. Large, hazel eyes flecked with green sparkled with wit and intelligence. They gleamed out of an oval shape, just over a prominent nose. The cheeks were a little high, and her features had a slight sharpness.
Ursa stood, still brushing her hair, and studied her figure in the nearby full-length mirror. While Ursa lacked the idealized curves she knew gentlemen wanted, she was no waif, either. Likewise, she was without the “hour-glass” waist proper ladies were supposed to possess; her whole life having fought viciously not to allow her corsets to be tightened beyond her comfort. For her twenty-one years of life she had been able to pass of her refusal to conform to uncomfortable fashions as merely one of the “eccentricities” that were reputed to come with her bloodline. Now, she found herself a little worried.
What would Lord Thurbin think? Ursa had never met the man, never even heard of him before she received the letter from her Uncle Michael about their betrothal. She’d had no say in the matter, of course, which she greatly resented. All Ursa’s life it had been difficult to work around her myriad guardians -her parents, when they were alive; her uncle, when they were not; numerous nannies and governesses; the boarding school- and pursue her “unladylike” interests. Now she would have a husband to placate.
Ursa knew that, should she fail to please her husband, he had recourse to other outlets once she bore him an heir. In fact, she knew more about those outlets, and the desires they satiated, than most would consider healthy for her. She was also entirely too aware of the fact that, as a woman, she could not legally own any property. Everything would go to her husband, and he was well within his legal rights to divorce her and throw her out without anything should he so choose.
Ursa finished brushing her hair and tied it up, sighing. It was late and she had traveled far this day. These were concerns for tomorrow. Ursa extinguished her lamp and lay down in bed.
After an uncounted amount of time trying to quiet her mind enough to drift off, Ursa opened her eyes and noticed a shape forming in the flickering shadows. At first she dismissed it as her imagination, but the shape became more solid and strode toward her. Frisian overtook Ursa as recognition came: it was the Bleeding Nun, the most feared and infamous specter of a notoriously haunted dwelling.
Initially, the figure seemed shrouded completely in its midnight black habit and wimple. A closer look revealed numerous tears in the fabric; each covering a gash or stab wound that poured rivulets of crimson blood. The blood gathered in ghastly puddles on the floor which disappeared after a few minutes.
When the specter stood over Ursa’s bed, she could see the Nun’s face. Her left temple had been crushed, and nearly the entire left side of her face was darkened with bruising. The Nun’s jaw had been dislocated, and when she opened her mouth to speak Ursa could see a great many missing and broken teeth. The Nun’s voice was completely unaffected by the deformity of her mouth.
“You have returned to us.” Ursa smiled for the first time that night.
“How I have missed you.
