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Wild things grow freely in Drakesheath. Nowhere is this truer than at the family manse. The gardens can hardly be called a part of the estate. They are the estate, and I suspect there are secret gazebos, stairwells, and ivy-walled corridors hidden within the thick foliage since the last century.
From within the manor, the most direct entrance into the gardens is through the atrium. From there, one may explore its expanse in any direction. Cobbled walkways guide the explorer, if he is able to defeat the overgrowth. These days, the gardens are a veritable jungle. Just the sort of place a wild creature like Beran might call home. I wonder what's become of Godwine's sire; I've not seen him since last winter.
Continuing in a westerly direction, from the brittle and broken troughs of dead sage, one will come to what was once a beautiful vineyard. There, the entrance to the wine cellar winds its way by way of a well of crooked stone steps. Fielding's Frieze appears to have made its way all the way out here. A chronicle of the carnival is already etched into this very tangible, edifice of time. Though the events were less than a year ago, the stone relief is weather-worn and shallow. Still, its details can be made out clearly enough. Doctor Hellebore's wickedly stylised walking stick is unmistakable. So is that funny little harlequin acrobat. And what is this? It appears to be one of the maids - Salomé - dancing with a troupe of garish and haggard harlots.
My cousin and I have tried to not trouble our minds with thoughts of the carnival, but our dreams are still haunted by its disturbing images. Wyvern Tower always looms in the background, with my son Edmund leading an army of serpents. Roundabout animals come to life through the enchantment of evil spirits, and the young and pure are made undead. Perhaps the most disturbing thought to me is that we escaped the carnival by an unknown means. We were helpless to the power of Professor Henbane's Midnight Carnival, and yet we were delivered safely from that dark fate, with only our ill memories.
My Welsh groundskeeper keeps to recovering roots while I clear away dense brambles of blackberries. I'm dressed in my world-wandering attire, including my hessian boots, leather topcoat, and shoulder bag. I sustain the protests of several angry thorns before Amalie and her ghostly valet arrive. I'm glad to see her up and about. Sabine and Cosgrove try to keep her abed, with nary a sliver of sunlight entering her bedroom. I prescribe different medicine. The best cure is always the outdoors. The air is cold and wet, but I have noticed that we are both stronger when we are together - the power of our familial bond.
Famished, I am glad to see that Amalie has brought kippers, sausages, muffins, teacake, and a bottle of wine fermented from the Drakesheath grape. While Cosgrove and Cidwm serve us, Amalie and I have supper at the wrought iron table in the vineyard arbor. Because my eating companion cannot speak, we dine in comfortable silence. That silence is broken when we hear inhuman snarls coming from below us.
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