Wednesday. Morning.

The Lovecraft Mansion.

THE sun shone brightly in the sky. Its rays lapped at the dew that stuck on the cotyledons of the leaves – the leaves that swayed to the lull of the morning breeze. The leaves that tilted their tender stems to the drums of the soothing wind. The leaves whose whooshing sounds rewrote the hymnals of the morning mist. The same leaves who twisted their tiny frames to the sonorous call of the whispering wind ushering in the fringe breath of the new day.

Be that as it may, the breeze was gentler this morning – compared to the ambience of the previous night. There was nothing eerie about the atmosphere. It was temperate. Just about the right dose of coolth that humans needed. But even more, the perfect dose – however diddlysquat – of bliss and temperateness that the superbeings craved.

It was just another beautiful, luminous day, just like any other that had preceded it. But this was a Wednesday. And like every being on the face of the earth, the Lovecrafts too had some business to attend to. They were eager beavers who wasted no time in seeing to that what needed to be done was done at the right time – as and when due, if one were to put it in much pellucid terms.

But, no thanks to the spate of recent events – especially one that had hit them the most as of late – one didn’t have to be told that something was amiss.

Moriaty was usually supposed to be effervescent today. Perhaps, it had something to do with the favourable weather or it had something, in its entirety, to do with the stranger-and-enemy-turned-acquaintance that she had run into, as fate would have it, the second time, in just about so many days. But today, she wasn’t as ebullient as she used to be every other day of the week.

She waltzed to the giant door of her father’s room, humming some new song to herself that she had picked up on one of her many sojourns being careful enough not to spill her beloved father’s breakfast. Even though she had travelled various countries in Europe, she hadn’t come across such an invigorating and enchanting melody all her life.

And there was something else about the singer then that had all but caught her attention – the way she moved in sync to the melody was so euphonious and mesmeric that she wished she could just remain languid and subject to the hypnotism of the unknown woman’s muse. She had never seen anyone – not a superbeing and definitely not a human – sing so dazzling. She had believed it brought happiness to the singer then. And now, for no just cause, she hummed the song and sashayed lazily toward her father’s chambers, hoping it would lift her own enervated soul. Her visage was glum. Her spirit was morbid. Her bodily movements suggested she was all but in a joyless mood.

Definitely not the right mood to start a new day and go about her diurnal activities. The only thing that kept her sane and on her feet was the lyrics of the song she hummed to herself.

She knocked softly on the door of the master room, her knuckles were light, yet they carried her message inward to the earlobes of her father. Just then, her mien changed as she recalled the message that had been brought to her father the previous day. She remembered the demise of her father’s right-hand man – his favourite among his soldiers. Her shoulders sank. Her spirit sank. Her voice sank, even deeper.

She balanced the tray of food in one hand to her side, clasping the tray under her elbow, as elegant as she could, while she stretched out the other to knock on the door.

She could expect that her father had been the most hit by the untoward news of his death. Her feet dragged on the cold terrace. Her footfalls slapping against the surface of the floor, even silently as she moved. Her fingers lost the spark with which she had knocked the first time. Moriaty even wished she could take her first knock back. She didn’t know how else to act around her father who seemed too downcast to show his face in the mansion. It just occurred to her that he might not have managed to get any sleep all through the night, no thanks to the same ill-fated happenstance. Perhaps, it would be her first duty – not to her family but directly to her father – to bring the murderer of Brock to justice, soon, by all standards and every means necessary.

There was no audible response the first time she had knocked. She wasn’t too expectant anything else was going to come out of her unyielding mentality if she kept at it.

But she did, nevertheless. This time around, the knocks were gentler. Softer even, like they were projecting a smell reeking of sorrow and acute sadness. There was no response again. The knocks came freely and repeatedly now. Her face lost the glow altogether. She feared her father might have done something untenable to himself behind closed doors. Her face roamed down the hall as she contemplated whether she should scream out her lungs for help or just knock down the door with only a swift kick.

“Father,” she cried, repeatedly, her voice breaking already. The hall – even the mansion – was as still as a cemetery.

“Father, you have to open up.” She rammed her knuckles against the door, mindless of the hurt she brought to herself. She cared not; so long as it would get Marimbo to open up right away. He was indeed taking too long. And she could only be patient for so long.

Marimbo was distressed. Dejected even. He was broken by the death of his henchman. He could hear his lovely daughter’s voice right across the door. But he dared not open up. Heck, he couldn’t bear that anyone should see him in his crestfallen state. It was best he remain secluded from the rest of the family. It was best he spared them the shame of his cowardly demeanour to act when called upon, without hesitation, absent prejudice, devoid of nepotism.

He sobbed quietly as he buried his face in the fluffy pillows on his palatial bed.

“Father…” she cried out again. This time, she was a lot more bothered than she was the previous time. Different thoughts wafted through her mind. He wouldn’t be extreme to do the unthinkable to himself. But, judging from the kind of bond the two men shared while Brock was alive, it might not be too far-fetched that he might not recover from the effect of the news.

Well, who was she to give up hope? She thought to herself.

With shaky fingers, poised to find out the unknown that was shrouded in a thick cloud of mystery, she crouched and gently placed the tray of food down at the door, just so she could have the strength and space to use both her hands.

She banged her fists hard on the door this time around, the sounds resonating through the hall as her shrieking voice mixed with the knocks on the large oak door. “Father! I know you’re in there open up, it’s your daughter.”

“It’s no use…” Salerius whispered, spooking her. Moriaty jumped at the voice for she was insentient to his presence.

“I’m sorry to sneak up on you like that,” Salerius apologised.

She quickly dried the tears on her face with the back of her hand while she tried to pull herself together. As Salerius tried to provide comfort, Moriaty replied instantly.

“It’s nothing,” she lied.

Salerius could feel her pain even though he was caught in the same shadow as well. He placed his hands on her shoulder as he admonished her. “Don’t worry yourself, Moriaty. He’ll be all right. He has to be for all of us. And when he’s ready, I’m sure he’d see us, okay?”

Moriaty looked up at his face which seemed to be bereft of any form of emotion. She couldn’t tell whether he was mourning the loss of his friend like her father was too or if he was just keeping everything buried from sight. Her eyes filled with tears once more. She lowered her gaze from his face just before the first drop trickled off down her smooth, fair rosy cheeks.

“And when do you think that would be, huh? When?” Moriaty’s face was gloomier than it had been all day and the words of Salerius didn’t seem to cheer her up one bit. He sighed, unable to determine what he could tell her just to convince her all would be hunky-dory. To get through the tragedy was just going to take time.

“Who is going to lead if he fails to come out? Are we going to leave the matters of the household untended to while he languishes in his melancholia?” Moriaty spurred.