"Well, it's high time you showed..." But Percilla stopped in mid-tantrum, at the sight of the appartition - there was no other word for it - at the door.
Before her stood a man, of an age she could not guess. He was dressed in a long-length greatcoat, which might have been fine leather once, now travel-stained and worn, battering his gaunt frame in the breeze. Gaunt, though, only began to describe him. The face was drawn, with an angular point to the jawline, almost a wedge. The skin was not sallow, but gave the illusion of humanity, more of the pallor of the night workers or the mines. But it was the eyes that were the most arresting feature of this stranger: not sunken or starting, but vague and distant, as if not seeing anything near, but riveted on the opposite wall, or the horizon, or some distant phantasm that only they could see. The man had no baggage visible, no traps or satchels; only his coat, beating like bound bats' wings in the wuthering blow.
Percilla was startled, her voice catching in her throat as she tied to form even a simple question. But the man spoke first, breaking the silence with a high, nasal, patrician voice.
"Percilla? It is Percilla, is it not?"
Percilla's haughtiness returned at the familiarity. "And who, my man, might you be, at a doorstep on a night such as this?"
The man laughed, sqeaking through his nose. "Why, how so like you mother, as well! I was told to expect that. Now, Cilla, why don't you let me in, and greet your uncle properly?"
Percilla was shocked, for a moment, then composed, answered, "Uncle, is it! And how dare you take liberties, calling me that! You're who, just exactly?"
The nose-laugh again. "Ah, yes, your father's suspicion, in equal measure, I see that now. Yes, Cilla, your mother's brother, Edgar. Surely, your vaguest childhood stories recall that name?"
"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?'"
The nose-laugh again. "Ah, yes, your father's suspicion, in equal measure, I see that now. Yes, Cilla, your mother's brother, Edgar. Surely, your vaguest childhood stories recall that name?"
Edgar? She flung her hand to her milky white neck, grasped the locket that her mother had, on her death bed, given her and swooned.
This austere man, who had the trials of life etched on his world weary face, straddling the doorway whilst the storm swirled around him.
Edgar? Her breasts heaved as she grasped for air. Was is that Edgar, the one her family talked about in dark rooms in whispered tones?
The one, her nubile mind sought to affirm, the one who was confined to the . . . . asylum?
“I come for the locket,” he said tersely.
“Or more precisely, the small key the locket contains”