Helen opened the door to Mrs. Blatand's room. "Are you allright, mum?" She ventered timidly. The mistress of the house stirred, calming Helen's nerves. While it was not uncommon for the mistress to stay up all hours in the library, last night had been different. The household had listened to Mrs. Blantand's pleadings for mercy, her cries of 'the blood, the blood!' and her long unsteady moans. Helen could not get a wink of sleep, once the carryings on began.

In the morning, Mr. Cormac had recomended letting Mrs. B sleep late, saying he was certain she was OK, because the wolf would have it no other way. Helen was puzzled by the remark, but let her sleep. But now that the post had arrived, Helen knew she must check on the Mistress. "I brought you a bit to eat then, mum. Do you some good it will. You've got an egg poached on a bit of toast to settle you, and a nice cup of tea." Helen breezed in, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. She set the tray on the bedside table. "Oh, and here's the post, mum. You will be wanting to read the letter from London, I shouldn't wonder."

The older woman sat up. "Thank you, dear. Now would you be so kind as to go to the library and bring me my journal. It should be on the desk." Mrs. Blatand said, as she picked up her tea. "Do we have any of the ground willow bark Mr. Silures always used? My head is pounding dreadfuly." She asked. "I'll be seeing to it right away." Helen said briskly, as she opened the curtains and raised the sash. "The air will be doing you good, mum, after that fuss last night." Helen said as she breezed out of the room. As she closed the door she heard Mrs. B exclaime "My Goodness, the Post? How late have I slept?" Helen smiled, and retruned to the kitchen. She found a bit of Mr. Silures' willow bark tea and brewed a cup. Cup in hand, she headed for the library. She knocked on the door of the bedroom and entered without waiting for an answer. "Here will be that cup o'tea you'll be wanting for your head, mum, and your journal." Helen was picking up the tray as Mrs. B opened her journal. She turned when she heard the older woman gasp.

Mrs. Blatand was sitting straight up in bed, "Helen, find young master Silures and have him ready the tram! Oh, and see if Mr. Cormac is about, would you? We have buisness at Drakesheath Hall!" Helen hurried out of the room to find the new gardener. He was Mr. Silures' cousin, Cadno. He was not all that good a gardener, but he was handy to have around, and a bit more charming, to Helen's way of thinking.

Upstairs, the post lay forgotten on the bedside table, Noreen's letter from London unread, as Mrs. Blatand hurried about, dressing herself. On the bed the journal lay open to last night's entry. The usual scribble of Mrs. Blatand's mother Anna was absent. Instead was the neat, crisp penmenship of Lizabet's dear husband, William:

'Dearest Lizabet, You must prepare. The evil that brought blood and death to London, that released me from my torment, now draws close to you, my darling. Your beloved William.'

Lizabet could not get the dreams of blood and death out of her mind. They had been so horrific, banished by the howling of a wolf. She recognised that wolf, she thought. She and Helen would be going to Drakesheath Hall to speak with the groundskeeper.
Mr. Silures would know what to do.