"Uncle Edgar? Why, of course I remember stories about him, but how do I know it's you? I mean, honestly, after all..."
Edgar laughed again. "Yes, Raymond's suspicion again. How would it be, if I told you I only met you once in your entire life? When you were eleven years of age? Your father, and your mother, Chelsea, oh, they tried and tried to prevent me, but I wanted to see you, and see you I did! And remember, now, dear grown-up niece of mine, how we talked in the gazebo behind this very house? How you hated your governess, Mrs. Keenewick, when she wouldn't tell you much about me? Do you remember?"
Percilla most certainly did. An afternoon over fifteen years past, long before the demise of both her parents, and her assumption of the manor and the estate. An uncle, a mystery and a phantom, who told her his story...
"The ships, and the castles, and the mountains," Percilla said, "and all the places you saw on adventure..."
"Ye-eess, Cilla, you DO remember," Edgar replied softly. "Not only a traveler, but a hunter, as well. Do you remember what it is, that I told you I hunted? Do you! Or should I refresh your memory?"
"No, that's not necessary..."
"Because you were afraid, weren't you, Cilla?" Edgar hissed. "And you called for old Keenewick, and your mother came, too, and forbade me to come back here again. Oh, your mother protected you, and your father, like a lioness she did. I knew better than to cross her in her own den, that day. And you listened at the drawing room door, didn't you, lilttle scamp that you are. What did you hear, eh?"
Percilla answered, her voice no longer patrician, but small, frightened. "Papa said your business didn't concern me, but you said it did - you said that 'if the blood ever awoke, you'd return, and take up the family order'. I never forgot that." She stared at Edgar, searching for answers of dread. "What did you mean? Mama and Papa forbade me to ask about the 'family order'. What did they mean? And about 'the blood awakening?'"
Edgar gave a sinister smile, his facial lines confirming his desire.
Though her spirit was weakened by the sudden rush of nefarious memories, she managed a meager whisper, “Locket? Order? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do,” Edgar hissed,” in a way that made her blue blood run cold. “Now please give me the locket.”
Oh, this was going much, much too fast. Her mind flashed to Thurgood and Eason, hoping beyond hope that they would suddenly appear, the duel Dandies as she had on countless times teasingly called them, with their perfumed continence, manner and speak, two who would pluck her from this nightmare and bring her back to her sheltered existence as she had known since her privileged birth.
Eason’s abrupt “ahem” broke her gossamer wishes.
“The locket,” he said, with impatience in his gravely voice. “Now.”