Three wards, wards three,
The light, the serpent and the creed.
Three sunders, sunders three.
The dark, the road and the free.

The long room was dim and the air stagnant. Tables and chairs sat scattered about, some with evidence of recent occupation where unfinished meat and drink had been left to sit in their dingy wooden plates and cups. Above, the vaulted ceiling was held up by dingy, narrow beams, and in between the rafters hung dingy iron lamps. Very little light would have filled the space even if the sky hadn’t gone prematurely dark—the room had no windows.

At the far end of the hall stood a large fireplace built of stacked stone. The grate was filled with a day or two worth of ash, and the remains of the most recent fire smoldered there. A figure sat at the table closest to the fire, leaning back in his chair to observe the occasional tongue of flame lick tentatively at the air. The glow from the embers cast strange shadows across the black mask beneath his hood and caused the silver and gold details that ran along its edges to gleam eerily. On the table before him sat a small pile of coins. He played aimlessly with one of them, twirling it upon the table and between his gloved fingers as he patiently waited to be served. His eyes, ice blue, never left the fire.

To Bide, to thee,
Every seven days
Men of the families three.
Men of the families three.

The only sound in the hall, other than the crackling of the embers, was a low murmuring. The dark figure appeared to be talking to himself, repeating the words he had heard a number of times since arriving in Brinkwen—apparently a mere children’s song. He had heard it in years past but had never been aware of the history behind it or the meaning it held. Now, it seemed his best hope for obtaining the object he sought.

“The light” had been the first of three tasks or obstacles. The clever spell had fooled him at first and sent him wandering aimlessly in the marsh around the lake for a day, but he had quickly discovered its secret. The magic contained in the lamp was ancient and profoundly intricate, but he had managed to undo it in a matter of hours. Of course, he had expected there to be some kind of response when the spell was undone, so the darkness in daylight was not entirely a surprise—though perhaps a mite more dramatic than he would have wanted. He had hoped that his efforts would not be so visible to the village people, but, if the lack of service at the tavern was any indication, they were all well aware of what had occurred.

He blinked and fell silent for some moments, his eyes suddenly refocusing as if he had just awakened from a trance. He turned his head very slightly and, lifting a gloved hand, he made a small gesture at the fireplace. There occurred in the grate something like a small explosion of blue flames and the dying embers suddenly roared into life; the room was filled with brilliant light as the fire gained energy. The figure shifted slightly in his chair before resuming his rhythmic murmurings.

“The serpent” was the next obstacle. He was attempting to discern if the song was referring to a literal serpent—perhaps a beast that lived in the lake and guarded a hidden road? He had wandered the banks of the lake over the past few days but had found no sign of any such road; neither had he witnessed any sign that a large monster lurked beneath the surface of the water. The second stanza of the rhyme gave him reason to believe that perhaps the serpent and the road only appeared on certain days. He resigned himself to the fact that he would simply have to patrol the bank until one or the other appeared to him. “Seven days” wouldn’t be too long of a wait.

The Graves family came out of Charleston some ten years ago.

That was all most people needed to know, but of course anyone who happened to be discussing the family Graves typically included mention of their extensive wealth, as well as their ownership of a number of very nice morgues all across the Southeast. "Graves Mortuary," read their signs, "Everyone ends up in Graves." The older members of the Fairhope community had never been particularly fond of the senior Graves' sense of humor. He had passed away some five or six years prior to the events in this story, though, so, as one can imagine, he cared very little for the opinions of the "common folk" as he jokingly referred to his neighbors.

The Mrs. Graves was even less popular with the locals. Cold and as standoffish as they come, they say she was a Yankee come down from New York City to marry the Mr. Graves--her senior by a good fifteen years--for his money. She rarely left the comfort and seclusion of their renovated antebellum mansion, though, so very little else was known about her. She died several years before her husband and was said to have been a great beauty in her youth. Her looks had clearly carried over to their only son, Luther.

Luther was his own kind of enigma. Tall and handsome and smart as a whip, he was a fixture of the little town of Fairhope despite the general consensus that he was very much an outsider. His calculated generosity warmed his neighbors to him somewhat, but his tendency toward rages and drunken benders frayed the patience he had been so careful to buy. People were careful to greet him warmly, but rarely spoke to him beyond small talk. At least until it was time for him to send out invitations to one of his famous get-togethers. Luther was known for spending lavishly on the parties he hosted in his parents' old mansion and everybody who was anybody was eager to join in the festivities. For about a week before each event, you'd have thought Luther was the most popular man in the town.

On this occasion, Luther was hosting his fourth annual Graves Halloween Masquerade. The old Barrett mansion was decorated with all manner of autumnal spangles--black chandeliers in every room draped with spider webs and painted leaves, intricate center pieces made to look like ghosts and witches, carved jack-o-lanterns in every corner. He'd even parked a Graves Mortuary hearse in the front yard with actors posing as a corpse and driver. Not a single stop was left un-pulled.

Luther, himself, was busily greeting guests as they entered through the intricately carved front doors. He had spared no expense on his costume--a Roman gladiator, complete with a sword and shield. The get up suited his rugged looks quite well, as many of the women noted in their whispered conversations.

Mrs. Barnett, an old widow from a few doors down and dressed as a 1920s flapper, greeted Luther warmly as she hobbled up onto his front porch, "Oh honey, ya outdid yourself this year." She beamed up at the man, clearly unaware of his social standing with the other Fairhopers.

Luther bowed to her and took her wrinkled hand in his, grinning broadly beneath his helmet, "Thank you, Mrs. Barnett. I do try." His drawl was a little pronounced, given that he was already a drink or three in.

Mrs. Barnett nodded to him, "Is Miss Daisy going to be joining us this evening? Perhaps dressed as a Roman goddess?"

Luther's grin faded ever so slightly at the mention of his "girlfriend," but he recovered quickly, "Oh she'll be along any minute, ma'am. I have a surprise for her, anyway, so she'd best hurry up." He winked at the old woman and pulled a little ring box out of the pouch he wore on his belt.

Mrs. Barnett nodded approvingly and gave him an encouraging squeeze of the hand before entering his house to join the rest of the party goers.

Luther watched her go and let out a sharp exhale. The thought of proposing to Daisy filled him with the smallest amount of dread. But surely it was time? Surely they had reached the point in their relationship when they needed to consider the next steps? He hadn't even thought to ask the question of whether or not he even /liked/ the woman, let alone if he could spend the rest of his life with her. The memories of his first marriage were still etched on the inside of his skull and he felt like a new commitment might wash away the sins of the old as well as a baptismal font.

The production of Ernani was still in its early stages, but Erik could already see that it would likely be a complete disaster. The casting was dismal at best, given that the Populaire had lost its one best hope for greatness in Christine Daae--now long gone from Paris, if Erik had to guess. His beloved pupil had been gifted both by God and himself with the splendid voice that surely would have carried her far had she not chosen to forsake fame for fortune (and love, he grudgingly amended). His gifts of music had touched her soul, but not her heart, it seemed. With her rushed departure, he had once more been plunged back into the dark loneliness that settled in the belly of the Opera House. He had watched the place burn and had been certain of his own demise--but the universe had different designs for him.

At this moment he sat concealed within the blessed darkness of Box Five for the sole purpose of witnessing the depths to which the accursed managers would sink to help fund the rebuilding of the Opera House. In one hand he clutched his mask, and in the other a drink. He had never been particularly keen on alcohol, but found he could not eat with Christine's absence weighing so heavily upon his heart. Even the news of the Populaire's imminent rebirth could not raise him from the depths of his despair and that was months ago. Still he suffered, unable to create beauty as he once had done, unable to groom the members of the Opera, to guide them as the good shepherd he once believed himself to be. His muse had left him for another, better man, and he was entirely crushed by the fact. He frequently found himself wondering if she was happy wherever she was, and if she ever thought of him.

Erik was not a small man. Tall and broad in the shoulders, he barely fit comfortably in the plush seats of his box. He wore a black wig to conceal his thin, wispy white hair, but he might have been very handsome were it not for the matter of his shocking deformity. The entire right side of his face was horribly disfigured and seemed to resemble a skull. His skin was pale almost to the point of translucency, giving him still more the appearance of a ghost or dead man. His eyes, however, were golden and glittering like twin flames. If one could bring herself to look past his decided ugliness, one would find that his eyes held a tremendous amount of intelligence. The were eyes that had seen all manner of horrors, but also beauty in its purest form.

He gazed down at the stage where the players were gathered and reviewing their scenes, and could only roll his eyes. Why had he left the comfort and seclusion of his home by the lake for this nonsense? What had he hoped to gain except to infuriate himself with the inadequacy of the Opera's remaining singers and dancers? He had neither the strength nor the desire to correct them, but the imperfections still bothered him greatly. He downed the last of his drink and stifled a cough as the bitter taste ran down the back of his throat and into his empty, waiting stomach.

Allegedly the new patron was to make an appearance today. Perhaps he had thought to catch a glimpse of the Populaire's "new hope."