Immortality Of Emotion - Part 2 Of 2 free porn video

Chapter 10 - Terror "We can't let Heather take the chance," Brennus said, restating his view in case no one heard him the first ten times. Halloween morning found them in the lounge beyond Tess's apartment, now converted into a war room. Analysts occupied the kitchen, while others handled communication with Diva and Boii agents in the field. Agents who appeared in the moment as police and left no memories amongst those with whom they spoke. Still Ken felt all alone. The prior night, after receiving the rose and message, Tess proved unwilling to trust a cab. Instead the two made their way to a late night pizzeria, which did a brisk after bar close business. While Ken ordered two slices of whatever, she started making calls. One of which led to a car ride home, two untouched slices of pizza left behind. Back at Tess's apartment, they answered Ilina's barrage of questions. Did you notice who left the rose? Did anybody seem suspicious? Do you go to school with an Eric? Remember any Erics? But they didn't and couldn't remember anything of help. By this point the prior night's short sleep, combined with the stress and fear inundating his mind since the end of the party, left Ken wiped out. Ilina finally gave up and ordered him to use Tess's spare room. After a fitful sleep that barely refreshed, he now sat, wearing sweatshirt and sweats, logoed with his temporary university's markings, arms wrapped around legs in an armchair while Brennus presented his case and Ilina offered counter arguments. Although the responses from the normally confident woman lacked conviction. Ken asked, "Is there a Debra or Sarah among your thirty eight candidates, Ilina?" "Yes, one of each. Unfortunately, they are among those who seemed the most unlikely choices and are no longer under our watch. I've dispatched teams to track them down, but..." "...this Eric probably chose those names as a distraction, neither will prove his real target if not me. He will go after one of the other choices or someone you don't even know about. Then again, maybe that's what he wants us to think. Arrrg, I'm suddenly feeling sympathy for Vizzini from Princess Bride. There's no way to protect them all, even if we know where they are, is there?" "No, we don't have the resources with the needed skills." "Besides he wants Heather? Me?" "That is our belief," said one of the analysts, a brunette in glasses who looked like Hollywood's template for the pretty but smart girl. Ilina asked, "Are you sure it is not misdirection, Leeza?" "Misdirection is a distinct possibility, but as Heather said, until we know more, determining this Eric's exact plan is a no-win exercise." "Has the name Eric led anywhere helpful?" Brice asked. "It is middling popular name in the US, but that still leaves hundreds of thousands men who use it as there first or second name. Besides, we all know how well magic users hide their tracks. Right now our data miners are excluding those too young or too whatever, but that takes time." "And how do we know if it's an alias or his real name?" "Exactly, which is why I can't wait to get my hands on the Melon Ball's surveillance videos. We've already obtained it, now we just need it delivered." Utilizing the pathways available, a thumb drive arrived posthaste. Soon Leeza's team watched each each camera's video, the files opened on different computers, the best shot of their prior night's table also displaying on the flat screen TV of the sitting room. After fast forwarding to their last visit to the table before the rose appeared, Ken and his party watched the video in double time. When the two of them appeared on the screen Ken could hardly believe his eyes. Since the transformation, his daily allotment in front of mirrors seemed much greater than required by his old self, so he knew he looked like Heather, that he inhabited the body of the girl in the sexy wizard costume. Yet seeing her smile, the glow of happiness and health, a gloriously alive presence who belonged within that energetic crowd, he struggled to believe the memories did not number amongst those Gary implanted. It made him regret life choices made long before he ever met Ilina Borisova. Did he really need to hide from the world? Why shrink away from all contact out of fear that some would be negative? How could he forgot the non-magical rewards of joy? And joy is what he remembered feeling for most of the prior night. Which may explain why he felt so angry that this Eric asshole tarnished the experience. "Slow it down," Brice said, his command pulling Ken's attention back to the video. No need for him to point out the man who grabbed his attention. Probably because the man's demeanor somehow differentiated him from the wealthy dilettantes and their friends. True, he wore a costume, but he walked with a purpose that set him apart, even more than the servers. Not that it left him ignored, men stepped aside from respect and women followed with their eyes. All along Ken unconsciously thought of him as a loser, not this confident, powerful man. It made the killer's actions seem even worse, to reap when unnecessary. Near their table he stopped and looked around. Not in a furtive manner, just curious until he spotted what he sought. The camera from which they would watch his approach. A smile, neither cruel nor overly pleased, appeared beneath his mask as he flicked his wrist and the rose appeared. A parlor trick to those who saw it in the moment, but something else to those in the lounge the next day. True magic, semi-powerful magic to precisely teleport something so delicate into his hand. "Fucking Zorro," Ash said, venom in his voice. As perfect a costume for a villain on Halloween Eve as for a wealthy Spaniard hiding his identity from corrupt officials in colonial California. The mask worked surprisingly well to hide his face and the gloves ensured no finger prints. Turning from the camera he placed the rose and its note upon the table and, with the same saunter, he moved out of the camera's view. Ilina said, "Find the rest of the footage of Zorro." While the analysts compiled the footage, Brice asked, "Why would he show himself? It makes no sense." Ken needed no explanation, though Leeza offered one to those who listened. Five or so years earlier, he found himself on an A&E true crime kick and remembered how often serial killers taunted the police. They wanted to show their brilliance and prove they controlled the situation. For a moment, this mundane action made him feel better. Until he realized the killer did control the situation. It took about fifteen minutes to gather all the film that featured Zorro, from his arrival in a cab, until his departure in the same fashion. Of course he used two cab companies with separate dispatches, further splitting their dwindling resources ordered to follow up with both places. But even more they needed to search for a platinum blonde, whose Emma Frost costume pushed Tess's in second place during the costume contest and who left the nightclub with Zorro. Those searches underway, they watched Zorro's entire appearance, cut together from multiple cameras, over and over in the hope he would give something more away. They could guess at his height and his weight, 6'1" and 200 lbs, but the hat left them unsure if he wore a wig and the mask hid most of his face. "I think that's a real sword." "What does that matter, Ash?" Ilina asked. "Ever walked through a crowded room with a sword at your waist?" "No." "It's a real nuisance, if you don't know what you're doing. It bangs into people, tables, chairs, what have you. But he's having no problem, which makes me think he once lived with a sword on his belt. What era do you guys think the sword is from?" "The hilt doesn't look like it belongs on a sword that Don Diego de la Vega or his alter ego would use." Brice said. "What do you think, Bren, you're the collector?" Jolted from his brooding, Brennus asked the operator to zoom in, studied the image, and said, "Definitely not a fencing rapier. Nor does it look like a saber, so guessing something used by a foot soldier. And since we're in the States, I would guess the U.S. model 1850. Not the 1860, which used a different shape for its grip and pommel. I hope it has a CS marking on it?" Leeza asked, ""Which means?" "Confederate States. With the size of the US army in the 1850s, odds are this dickhead wore the sword during the American Civil War. And since we fought for the Union during that war, I hope he fought for the Confederates. I don't like killing someone I may have fought beside, particularly if it was for a good cause." "Kill him?" Tess asked. "I think he deserves more than that." "He does. But dead is done, while revenge places you on this dickhead's path." Brice said, "Having walked it for centuries in the past, I can tell it's a terrible place that saps your soul. Better to bring it to a clean end." "Well first we need to catch him," Ilina said. "And if your guess about the sword is correct, then he is older, smarter, and probably more powerful than we suspected. Leeza, will..." "...that make my job even harder? Actually, you know, maybe not. With more data points it may be possible to spot a trend. And maybe he was not as smart or able when young." "You may want to talk to my family, we already spread across the United States by the time of the Civil War." Ken said. "If necessary." Politer than a blatant refusal, but the same result. Damn secrecy, magic users would not even give it up for the common good, in this case to save his life. It made Ken feel tired beyond a lack of sleep, more-so he felt his years. For the first time he felt old. Nor did the rest of the morning and early afternoon bring any succor. Yet with speed that would stun most police forces, Ilina's agents tracked down the two cab drivers, both who remembered Zorro, though the second mostly because of Emma Frost, and told them Zorro came from and returned to the downtown Westin. There they learned he checked in the evening prior, dressed already in his costume, used the name Donald Diego, booked the room for two nights, and left the building, sight unseen, that morning. While those back at the base checked into the obviously fake id and credit card, a Boii's triad joined the Diva agents at the hotel to visit Eric's room. However, they only found the blond, hungover and still in bed, who remembered little about her night's lover other than his rocking her world. Ken said, "He's playing us. Burning out our resources while we chase shadows." "What else are we supposed to do?" Ilina asked. "I guess I need to play along, continue as the bait." Nobody jumped in to argue, proving they all thought the same thing. Instead they looked towards Brennus, frustration on his face as reality warred with wishes. "Damn, I hate it, but can't think of anything else. However, I'm going as your date." "That goes without saying," Ken said, unbothered that the second date of his life, the first not driven by Heather, involved the same man. The same strong, scary, good man. "And Tess, maybe you can go with Ash?" Ash said, "Thanks Heather, make me out as a charity case. For your edification, I not only understand the meaning of certain big words, but am housebroken, can now use utensils, and know all the steps to the newest dances, as long as they are either the Lindy Hop or the Electric Boogaloo." Tess said, "Those will definitely be a real hit at a university dance, but I'd love to see you two in costumes" "Can we go as musketeers?" "Doesn't really match our costumes. Why do you want to dress like a musketeer, Ash?" Brice asked, "He has this theory about how musketeers started the whole women digging a man in uniform phenomena?" "How else do you explain how you ended up with Duchess Daphne? Besides, it will allow us to wear swords, which means, if given a chance, we can skewer this fucker's heart." "And you speak such fluent French." Tess said, "But it is rather late to be picky, just rent a costume that fits." "We keep hundreds of years of uniforms and clothing stored away at Pythia's Retreat, all maintained by the constructs as if we wear them every day." Brennus said, "And since it takes some time to get to the Retreat, Ash and I better head out so we're back in time. Ilina, watch over Heather until I'm back." "Of course." Their departure coincided with a general lull in activity, the analysts busily working away on their magically enhanced computers and network. In the quiet, Ken allowed himself to think only of sleep rather than his alternative problems. Soon he could barely keep his eyes closed. "Heather, why don't cross back and try to get some sleep?" Ilina asked. "I'm sure you can use Tess's spare room again?" Tess offered her agreement in answer, "Go for it" "Thank you for the offer, Tess. But I was wondering if I could use Heather's, I mean my bed? I prefer a firmer mattress." Ken asked. This request, which Ilina almost denied, took some time to arrange. First Tess, along with a couple of her sisters checked Heather's apartment for recently cast magic. Today, like every other time since she helped Heather rent in this building, she sought the creation of a new door, which required so much energy a skilled magic user would notice it weeks later. Even to use a door left lingering effects. With nothing discovered, Ken and the two Diva agents walked from Tess's to Heather's. Trying to ignore the agents, who dragged chairs into the bedroom while he changed, Ken attempted to fall asleep in the bed Heather's grandma bought her when she left home. However no sooner did he lay down than he felt himself falling, accompanied by a shouted, "Heather!" Not the first time he dreamed of falling. When his father forced pretend death upon him, he found it too common. Something that surprised none he knew who studied dream theory, as they said such dreams occurred because of a loss of control over his own life. This understanding once helped him take most of that control back into his own hands, something not given up until he involved himself in this insanity. But never before did he dream of falling while awake nor land on an airbag that collapsed beneath his weight, the sound of air escaping from side baffles and the smell of rubber assaulting his nose. Eyes open, he the bottom of Heather's bed above him, a trap door magicked into his mattress and secured against his Diva watcher. She could only stare in dismay. For a moment Ken felt awe at the man's preparedness. Then came the terror, as a figure wearing a gas mask appeared and sprayed a mist into his face, which pushed him into unconsciousness. Chapter 11 - Weak Upon regaining consciousness Ken found no reason to delve into memory, he immediately remembered falling into danger. Yet that did not make him ready to face it. So he kept his eyes closed, relying on other sensations to tell him how deep the depth of the current danger. No pain! That offered a spark of hope, dashed when he realized his tormentor might want him awake for that. But some discomfort. A potential headache from the knockout gas niggled away in the back of his brain. It left him exasperated by bright sunlight sprayed across his eyelids, sunlight without warmth. Not surprising, they always expected Eric used a pocket world for his twisted enjoyment. At least the bed met his and Amanda's firmness expectations. Not that it meant he felt particularly comfortable, a restriction about his torso saw to that. Careful to not allow his blankets to ripple and signal his awareness, he let a hand creep up to feel the reinforced satin of a sleeping corset through his nightgown. Of course Zorro would like a bit of kink, though at the moment Ken felt no other restraints. That gave him just enough confidence to consider opening his eyes. But first he listened for someone's breath, footsteps, anything. Hearing nothing and unable to bear more suspense he gave in. Whoever decorated the room liked the colour blue. An old fashioned, sky blue quilt matched the canopy overhead, onto which a cartoon-like sun and clouds were skillfully embroidered. A dark blue wallpaper, accented by small, golden fleurs-de-lis covered the walls in harmony with curtains, thick and heavy like the you rarely see anymore, and the cushions of the antique chairs scattered about the room. Even on the large table against wall at the foot of his bed Ken noticed the markings on the ceramic toiletries, which brought to mind the blue of the Williams' Royal Doulton china. Everywhere else he saw a dark, stained wood. The furniture, frames of the two windows, three doors, and even the floor. Although a Persian carpet of blue, gold, and red spread out around the bed. In general the room struck him as something out of the past. A link that usually caused Ken the desire to explore, but today he only wished for escape. So with a thought towards his cousin, 'Dalton don't fail me now or I'll haunt you until the day you die', he cast the beacon spell. And nothing happened. How could it when he could not access any magic? Not unusual for a pocket world to control access to external magical energy. But what about...he raised right hand to an ear and left to neck. The first found stud instead of golden rings and the latter felt nothing. Devastating, terrifying, but ridiculous as well. Of course Zorro would take away his jewelry, the number one foci for both male and female magic users. Comically stupid for them to allow such a simple thing to foil their plan. Only his captor would offer him the needed energy, because Ken suspected he shared the world only with constructs. Nothing left but exploration. Foiled in his attempt to roll out of bed by the corset, Ken slid over and swung his legs over the side. Ignoring slippers, the lucite soles appearing forlorn without marabou feathers, he looked out a window. It offered a view of mostly grass, as far as he could see, broken only by a gravel driveway that circled a garden and stretched outwards almost as if it offered escape. The scene only lacked gardeners caring for lawn and garden, but while magic created, it did not allow growth or death. Through the nearest door he found a bathroom, its modern decor at odds with the antiquey feel of the bedroom. While using the facilities, Ken looked over at the mirror and realized though he could see most of his torso, the end of his loose braid hung out of sight. Apparently long hair went with heels and a corset. Thinking of which. Ken moved to the mirror, lifted the short nightgown to examine and untie the corset lacing. The reach proved no problem, his body's flexibility allowed a good grip on the knot, but it fended off all attempts to untie. This led him to search the vanity, which contained brand new tubes, jars, and boxes of everything he remembered Heather purchasing for her own vanity, but did not contain anything to help with the knot. Returned to the bedroom, he checked the next door and found a walk in closet full of dresses straight from Gone with the Wind. Therefore, when he opened the last door, a sitting room in which waited a construct, he felt no surprise she was a light skinned though black construct, dressed almost like Mammy in the movie. "Miss Amelia, your breakfast is on the table." Her appearance made him remember constructs made good watchdogs. Single minded in fulfilling their assignments, usually stronger than a comparable person, unable to feel pain, and immune to magical tampering, prison worlds used them as guard rogue magicians. With this knowledge and with hunger pangs making their presence known, Ken settled down at the table to eat the oatmeal, fruit, and milk. Fed and assisted from the sleeping corset, Ken returned to the bathroom to bathe and plan escape. He succeeded at the first, but failed at the second. Beck, he learned the construct's name from how she referred to herself, firmly quelled any hint at rebellion while she dressed him to exacting standards. Again a mix of the new and old. Only Ken's dress matched the fashion of the era, though probably of recent construction, based on how well it fit. In colour, the silk of the dress made him think of celeste, the turquoise blue of the Bianchi Rekord bicycle he owned in the early 80s. The skirts used decorative pleats to ensure they hung smoothly over petticoats that offered width without the insanity of hoops, though their length required heels nearly as high as the trashy slippers. A ruffled neckline left his shoulders and arms mostly bare, while the bodice followed the not quite suffocating boning of another corset. His waist further accented by a wide, sapphire ribbon wrapped twice about and tied it in a pretty bow at the back In truth, dressing went faster than curling his twice lengthened hair. Which Beck tied into a ponytail with more sapphire coloured ribbon. Rather elaborate costuming for murder. Though if Zorro kept his victims imprisoned for a year, hopefully he held off mistreating them until the final act. Apparently a shapeless orange jumpsuit would not do and Ken could not deny his inherited form looked rather spectacular in the get up. At least when standing still, walking in the skirt, shoes, and floppy brimmed hat left him less than graceful. Ken guessed past victims experienced similar problems, since the construct turned into a drill sergeant. Lessons that did not leave him moving as elegant or ladylike as he looked, but at least he would not fall flat on his face. A belief he questioned when released from the rooms into a hallway that lead to a wide staircase to the first floor of the house. Fortunately the wide tread and a low riser of the stairs, combined with a hand on the banister and the other managing his skirts, allowed him to slowly descend without accident. Another construct waited for him, an older man who dressed in fine quality clothes and watched the descent with pride in his eyes. "Ahhh, Amelia, if only your mother was alive to see you. You're beautiful." The triviality of Ken's discomfort around constructs suddenly paled in comparison to a fear of those who created them. Yet while he expected they might provide more welcome company than his captor, he knew not to confuse them with good company. Better to view them as amusement parks guides, specifically those in a haunted house, tasked with ensuring visitors did not walk through forbidden doors. So how to respond? With no desire to return pleasantries, Ken settled upon the question at the forefront of his mind. "What is going to happen to me?" As expected, he did not receive an answer, but like pressing any key in an old school MUD, the question initiated the next bit of dialog. "Amelia, though your beau will understand the delay when he sees you, we should hurry." With no magical sword, hunk of cheese, or skin of wine in sight to help on his adventure against that beau, Ken followed the man outside to a cabriolet harnessed to a horse no more real than his companion. Helped aboard, they soon trotted along the driveway, Amelia's make believe father chattering away about neighbors and crops. It almost made him seem real. Content to let the man, for that is how Ken found himself thinking of his companion, carry the conversation; he asked himself some silent questions. Why the Antebellum period? Did his kidnapper actually live during the time? He guessed so, which boosted the number of Zorro's transformations across the years and once more implied the man's power. And what role did Amelia play in his life? Why would he still seek repeated revenge, one hundred and fifty plus years later. Incomprehensible in the moment, but answers would surely come. Would they come in time? A question that struck too close to his barely controlled fears, best to ignore it for the moment. Maybe the world through which they traveled would offer a clue. The road traveled along a bay as they passed three other estates, the carriage traveling towards a forest in the distance. Before reaching the trees, they came upon a yard with multiple stone warehouses and wooden piers, with a sign at the entrance that read Hambley Piers. They turned at the next entrance, a three story house made from the same stone. Unlike the prior plantations, Ken found it reminded him of a country manor in England. Somehow more functional, less frivolous. Yet frivolity existed in the yard at its front, the colours of the flowers competing with the dresses of the female constructs who strolled along its manicured paths. Into this gathering Amelia's father ventured and curiosity made Ken follow. To give Zorro his due, Ken recognized the skill and effort that went into creating the world in general and this scene specifically. Almost seventy five constructs moved about, seemingly at random. Each time a pair or group came together a different conversation would ensue. Sometimes they discussed similar topics as his guide's soliloquy during the carriage ride, but two other topics took predominance. The bombardment, surrender, and potential aftermath of Fort Sumter and the relationship between Eric Hambley and Amelia Walker. This last made him a focal point for these groupings, guests asking him about the big announcement. Not that his actual answers mattered, be it his stating the Eric had kidnapped he or that Eric had tasked me with procuring him the prettiest sheep I can find. They always just smiled and said they could not wait to hear the announcement. It seemed the only way to escape these encounters was to ensconce himself in a group of girls, created to appear near Heather and, probably, Amelia's age. Probably not Zorro's favourite people in real life, because no other constructs appeared more vain or inane; an attitude that worked like a force field to keep all, except the surprisingly non-African American servants, away. Amongst them, Ken almost felt himself. Old hat for him to disappear into his own mind when in the midst of the popular. He found himself thinking that he now knw what it would feel like to fall through a looking glass. It made him wonder if he walked into the forest, would he find a mad hatter hosting a more entertaining tea party. However, before temptation led him in that direction, the vain and inane grew quiet. Impossible not to recognize that walk. Or the smiling lips, the sturdy jaw as the man came closer. The size, the build, the masculinity as obvious in period wear as in Zorro's costume. Less handsome than all the Boiis Ken met, but like them he wore an aura of health and strength that left him more handsome, to his Heather enhanced criteria, than the boys at the Halloween Eve party. And definitely more real than the almost pretty construct at his side. "My dearest Amelia, you are radiant enough to seem a new person." Eric, for who else could it be, said, ignoring what his words implied he gestured to his companion. "Please allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Barnabus Hambley, who is visiting from the old country. Barnabus, my lovely fianc?, Miss Amelia Walker." "Enchanted, Amelia." Barnabus said, with a bow and in an accent that made the most vain and the second most inane simper. Ken just stared. "Barnabus, be a good fellow and keep the rest of these ladies company, while I speak with my intended." Ken ignored the offered arm, but he did follow alongside. Unworried about who may overhear, he asked, "Who are you? Really? "Most usually ask what I am going to do to them? Or where am I?" "I know the answers to those." "Not surprising. You should also know it does not matter who I pretend I am in the real world, instead let me say that first, last, and always I am Eric Hambley. Now I would ask the same of you." "Your prisoner and intended victim." "No, my intended victim is Heather Theis, you are not her. Who are you really? You're not going to answer are you? This is twice in a row, a curious man would wonder about his opponents. While a confident man would realise it does not matter." "Which are you?" Ken asked, as expected. "I am not yet sure. Probably a bit of both. After all, I am curious who will end my game, while confidant someone will. Maybe your allies? But will they be in time for your benefit. You know about the time limit?" "So it's a game to you? And you still intend to play it out to the end, despite knowing you are now hunted." "That does not matter. Only the game matters for the two of us. And for a game to be enjoyed, its rules must be followed. Why else set up the board if not for enjoyment." Eric said with a smile. And like the one captured at the Melon Ball, the smile held no rancor. In fact it held no depth of feeling, nor did the man himself. He offered nothing for his magic using prisoner. Unlike what Ken towards his magic using captor. For Eric surely benefited from Ken's fear. Chapter 12 - Hopeless Supper with the family. A farcical affair where three dimensional constructs displayed their one dimensional personalities. From Mr. Hambley, Amelia learned more about the cotton industry of the 1850s than she would ever need to know. Also more than Mrs. Hambley wanted to hear, as she ignored her husband and Eric's younger siblings in favour of Barnabus, who fed her dream of one day moving to London. This offered Amelia her lone relief from Barnabus' presence. Each day he followed her about, praising what she did and how she looked. Rather comical, but Amelia suspected the real man cut a less humorous figure. Handsome and dressed in the height of fashion, his accent and worldliness would doubtless seem exotic to a young woman pulled away from her family and home to her husband's, just when he left to go off to war. Easy to guess the original Amelia proved susceptible to the cousin's charm, doubtlessly proving the catalyst for Eric's ongoing need for vengeance. If not a hollow shell of person, she would hate construct, instead she used him to drive her around in a buggy. After all, any plan worth following required lackeys. And during her first family meal, one blossomed in Amelia's mind. The catalyst came from a comparison of the contents on her plate with those of her dining companions. As usual, despite Eric's ultimate intention, Amelia's meal would warm the heart of any dietician. Completely unlike the constructs' meal of pork roast, potatoes, gravy, and vegetables soaked in butter. After days of foods meant for good health, with only a nod in enjoyment's direction, the smell of hearty deliciousness almost made her drool. Yet, magicked into an existence as fake as those who ate it, she knew it offered zero nutritional value. Boring though she found them, her salad, fresh vegetables, and grilled chicken provided actual sustenance. That reminded her how fresh food accounted for the number one problem when living in a pocket world. To grow crops it took someone who understood agronomy and optics, and who could perform dexterous magic in the creation of real soil and sunlight. A rare skill set that made it easier to source food from the real world. However, nothing ruined the fantasy of escape into a magical world quite like grocery shopping in the real world. An inconvenience managed, like so many others, by specialists. Entire families and clans earned their wealth and power through contracts to supply magic worlds. They provided goods and food via dual sided pantries. One side accessible from the client world and the other from the supplier's hub. With minimum forays by Eric into the world in which he held her, while still receiving fresh food, it seemed he must use such a service. Which meant a pantry door existed, one through which Amelia might pass. Not like the door she discovered earlier that day in the sitting room of her suite, its existence confirmed with a bit of her precious magical energy. The door Eric used, the door through which she suspected he first carried her into this world. Though now, probably with a strand of her hair plucked from her unconscious head, secured against her use. Yet a pantry door would rarely be locked. The best services offered contracts that allowed customers to secure their accounts against the world being fed, which required the ability to repossess. Hopefully Eric used such a service. At that first supper, Amelia assigned herself a task. She would find the door. Only the question as to how the constructs would react, stopped her leaving the table immediately to search the kitchen. So she finished her tasteless meal, pretended to read for a few hours and met Beck in her rooms, where they performed the now familiar nighttime ritual before she climbed into bed. But rather than attempt to sleep, she silently counted to thirty-six hundred and slipped from the covers. Via moonlight lit hallways she snuck down to the kitchen at the back of the house. There, with the light gone, her sight adjusted enough to create a murky gloom of shadowy objects. Fighting primal fears of monsters in the dark, she shuffled around the large room, tapping at walls. A tense circumnavigation discovered nothing, but how much did the dark conceal and cause her to miss? No choice but to try again in the morning, with the light of day. Hopefully the constructs would permit her search or maybe they would not realize what she sought. Just as carefully, she travelled back to her room. Where, with a goal in mind, sleep came fast and held her long after she normally woke. This positivity continued. Nobody cared if Amelia spent her day knocking on walls, tapping the floor, or exploring closets. In fact, she convinced four members of the staff to walk into the wall, at the point she'd found Eric's door, to ensure it did not serve as the pantry. Finished with the inside, she spent three days exploring the outbuildings and the warehouses at the pier. Again nothing, but Eric would understand the risk of such a door and hide it. She needed to search further afield and felt rather clever when she convinced Barnabus to take her for a visit with her father. Though less so upon learning he would happily drive her wherever she wished to visit, be it the next plantation, farm, or village along the road. In the initial days, she discovered only one item that did not belong. A link, but not a portal to the world to which she desperately wanted to return. Stuffed behind a Bible, in a rack on the back of a pew of the church where she became Mrs. Eric Hambley, Amelia found an old spiral notebook, a picture of The Police on the cover, complete with pencil stuck in its spiral. For who knows how long, she looked at the notebook, afraid to reach out, take it, and find anything written inside. Finally she replaced the Bible and tried to ignore the notebook's existence. An impossible expectation, as each attempted return to her search soon ended with the distracted realization that she could not pay attention to her task. Morbid curiosity barged into her mind and demanded recognition. To fight it, she fled, before normal, returning to the manor and a sleepless night. During that night Amelia realized she would give in the next day and when she did, found herself unsure about how she should feel. When her eyes finally lifted away from words written with a flowing, neat hand, they settled upon the cross at the front of the church. Yet neither it nor he who it represented provided answers. Not that Amelia expected any from that direction, but Jan McDermitt, the writer of those words, once believed. Maybe that is what made the three sheets of flowing script, the rest of the notebook remained blank, so heart rending. Rather than question why me, it documented the demise of belief. Even worse, while she read, Amelia could not shake two of Ken's memories. One night, after Dannikka freed him from her molding, he allowed curiosity to override common sense. Wondering if he could notice something missed by the professional data miners, he read through sixteen police folders and found nothing beyond nightmares. From that evaluation, two pictures appeared in his mind. One, taken on a Saturday afternoon, football day in Norman, Oklahoma, captured a vivacious sophomore surrounded by friends. The second, taken by a police photographer on Halloween Day in 1982, showed no life at all. But more than the remembered pictures, more than the read words, just sitting where Jan once sat, caught in the same ordeal she experienced, formed a kinship. Through this Jan seemed to speak, to ask Amelia not to accept a bitter lesson from the cross on the wall. To not demand something from it, but to recognize it stood for faith. And she found faith in herself as powerful as faith in some omnipotent being, one probably too distracted to pay attention to her woes. Carefully she tore the pages from the notebook, each loop of the spiral popping free of its circle, tenuously wrapped around a thin coil of wire, like a sign of how she hoped to break free from Eric's grip. Folding the pages once and then twice, Amelia placed them once more behind the Bible. If she failed and if someone else sat where she now sat, maybe that successor would benefit from the same lesson. The rest of notebook she could use. Rather silly to randomly go somewhere and search, time for a plan. And a plan needed information, she would map out Eric's world. Though not at the moment, for a time she needed to sit and remember. It gave her a moment to hope and trust in faith. Well she did. Like George Lucas with his Star Wars galaxy, she guessed Eric would never be satisfied with his world. For in fifty plus years, with his skills and supply of magic, he filled a small county with dwellings and structures. She needed a talisman of faith to combat her own awe, felt towards her captor. Sting, Stewart, and Andy supplied this, guarding her maps and notes that tracked her progress. Almost two months into her search, three months into her captivity, Amelia now worked her way through the the second village on her map. Because of the longer trips, to and from, she found herself with less time to search before Barnabus demanded they return for supper. So the next morning, earlier than normal, she stood at the front door of Hambley Manor, basket holding lunch in one hand, the parasol she used for poking things in the other, and waited for his arrival with the horse and buggy. Fully prepared for everything the day could offer except to see Eric holding the reins. Surprised, the least of her indignities boiled to the top, as she exclaimed, "You're not dressed right!" Hopping from the buggy he stopped, momentarily confused. Realizing the cause of her anger, he looked at himself, dressed in a tight black t- shirt, jeans, and a belt from which hung a sword and holstered revolver. So different from Amelia, looking pretty in a cream coloured and brown accented walking dress, complete with a matching bow with which Beck tied her ponytail in place. "My apologies, I decided at the last minute to visit. It will not happen again." "Where have you been? Why are you here? You know about my search, don't you? You can't stop me from looking." "Caught in a real life gong show, calming panicked clients and organizing confused employees across two continents. I'm here because I sold the business, time for a new identity anyway, and they are no longer my clients or employees. Yes I know about your search, Barnabus is a dumb but useful watcher. And no, I don't intend to stop you, since the possibility of your escape adds some missing spice to our affair." "Is there truly a door to find?" Amelia asked. "Of course, if not, you would not have survived my absence, particularly so marveously well. But it's very well hidden, I doubt someone who took a month to think about looking will discover its location." "Very funny. So what happens when I find it? Will I be able to pass through? Are there guards on the other side who will stop me?" Eric said, "Aren't you the suspicious one? Yes you can pass through. And don't worry about the guards. I use Benburgs, so they will feel outraged at my actions, if you run into any of their people." No surprise he used one of the oldest and best grocer services still in use, with a reputation for protecting their client's identities in a fashion unknown even by the top Swiss banks. A secrecy accepted by the top magical cliques, because Benburgs subscribed to the regular set of cardinal sins of the magical community and never hesitated to out a client committing such a crime. The most egregious of which Eric broke with his murderous reaping. Amelia knew she could trust them, just as he would know they would help bring him down if she escaped. 'If you're not here to stop me, why are you here?" "Maybe I just want to spend some time with my pretty wife?" Eric asked, to which he only received a glare in response. "Well I do, though I guess my pretty wife does not feel the same. However, maybe I could change her mind if I took her somewhere my idiot, though fake, cousin cannot." "The forest, you'll take me to the forest?" If she turned right, after exiting the gates of Hambley Manor, she soon came to a foreboding wall of trees. The one place into which Barnabus refused to go, telling her stories of desperate deserters and wild monsters. Immediately Hambley Woods jumped to the top of her search list and despite his pleas, she walked to it with the intent to explore, one day early in her search. Unfortunately his warnings proved true. Barely did she enter the woods before a pair of men appeared, dressed like scarecrows, knives in hand, leers on their faces. Reminded of how many watchers of myth, who guarded a treasure or door, were actual constructs, she felt no doubt about the intent or ability of the two manufactured Confederate deserters. Amelia's waning athleticism proved valuable as she ran all the way back to the manor, deciding not to attempt another incursion until she checked all other locations. "Should I change my clothes first?" "No, let's go." Amelia said, eager to explore the forbidden and not give him a chance to back out. "Are you sure, I wouldn't want you to feel awkward." "I won't." "Is there be enough lunch for both of us?" "Yes." "Let me check." Taking the basket from her, he lifted the lid, looked inside, and turned a dubious look towards her. Finding the glare still in place, he said, "Very well, let's go." Chapter 13 - Hopeful Supper with the family. A farcical affair where three dimensional constructs displayed their one dimensional personalities. From Mr. Hambley, Amelia learned more about the cotton industry of the 1850s than she would ever need to know. Also more than Mrs. Hambley wanted to hear, as she ignored her husband and Eric's younger siblings in favour of Barnabus, who fed her dream of one day moving to London. This offered Amelia her lone relief from Barnabus's presence. Each day he followed her about, praising what she did and how she looked. Rather comical, but Amelia suspected the real man cut a less humorous figure. Handsome and dressed in the height of fashion, his accent and worldliness would doubtless seem exotic to a young woman pulled away from her family and home to her husband's, just when he left to go off to war. Easy to guess the original Amelia proved susceptible to the cousin's charm, doubtlessly proving the catalyst for Eric's ongoing need for vengeance. If not a hollow shell of person, she would hate construct, instead she used him to drive her around in a buggy. After all, any plan worth following required lackeys. And during her first family meal, one blossomed in Amelia's mind. The catalyst came from a comparison of the contents on her plate with those of her dining companions. As usual, despite Eric's ultimate intention, Amelia's meal would warm the heart of any dietician. Completely unlike the constructs's meal of pork roast, potatoes, gravy, and vegetables soaked in butter. After days of foods meant for good health, with only a nod in enjoyment's direction, the smell of hearty deliciousness almost made her drool. Yet, magicked into an existence as fake as those who ate it, she knew it offered zero nutritional value. Boring though she found them, her salad, fresh vegetables, and grilled chicken provided actual sustenance. That reminded her how fresh food accounted for the number one problem when living in a pocket world. To grow crops it took someone who understood agronomy and optics, and who could perform dexterous magic in the creation of real soil and sunlight. A rare skill set that made it easier to source food from the real world. However, nothing ruined the fantasy of escape into a magical world quite like grocery shopping in the real world. An inconvenience managed, like so many others, by specialists. Entire families and clans earned their wealth and power through contracts to supply magic worlds. They provided goods and food via dual sided pantries. One side accessible from the client world and the other from the supplier's hub. With minimum forays by Eric into the world in which he held her, while still receiving fresh food, it seemed he must use such a service. Which meant a pantry door existed, one through which Amelia might pass. Not like the door she discovered earlier that day in the sitting room of her suite, its existence confirmed with a bit of her precious magical energy. The door Eric used, the door through which she suspected he first carried her into this world. Though now, probably with a strand of her hair plucked from her unconscious head, secured against her use. Yet a pantry door would rarely be locked. The best services offered contracts that allowed customers to secure their accounts against the world being fed, which required the ability to repossess. Hopefully Eric used such a service. At that first supper, Amelia assigned herself a task. She would find the door. Only the question as to how the constructs would react, stopped her leaving the table immediately to search the kitchen. So she finished her tasteless meal, pretended to read for a few hours and met Beck in her rooms, where they performed the now familiar nighttime ritual before she climbed into bed. But rather than attempt to sleep, she silently counted to thirty-six hundred and slipped from the covers. Via moonlight lit hallways she snuck down to the kitchen at the back of the house. There, with the light gone, her sight adjusted enough to create a murky gloom of shadowy objects. Fighting primal fears of monsters in the dark, she shuffled around the large room, tapping at walls. A tense circumnavigation discovered nothing, but how much did the dark conceal and cause her to miss? No choice but to try again in the morning, with the light of day. Hopefully the constructs would permit her search or maybe they would not realize what she sought. Just as carefully, she traveled back to her room. Where, with a goal in mind, sleep came fast and held her long after she normally woke. This positivity continued. Nobody cared if Amelia spent her day knocking on walls, tapping the floor, or exploring closets. In fact, she convinced four members of the staff to walk into the wall, at the point she'd found Eric's door, to ensure it did not serve as the pantry. Finished with the inside, she spent three days exploring the outbuildings and the warehouses at the pier. Again nothing, but Eric would understand the risk of such a door and hide it. She needed to search further afield and felt rather clever when she convinced Barnabus to take her for a visit with her father. Though less so upon learning he would happily drive her wherever she wished to visit, be it the next plantation, farm, or village along the road. In the initial days, she discovered only one item that did not belong. A link, but not a portal to the world to which she desperately wanted to return. Stuffed behind a Bible, in a rack on the back of a pew of the church where she became Mrs. Eric Hambley, Amelia found an old spiral notebook, a picture of The Police on the cover, complete with pencil stuck in its spiral. For who knows how long, she looked at the notebook, afraid to reach out, take it, and find anything written inside. Finally she replaced the Bible and tried to ignore the notebook's existence. An impossible expectation, as each attempted return to her search soon ended with the distracted realization that she could not pay attention to her task. Morbid curiosity barged into her mind and demanded recognition. To fight it, she fled, before normal, returning to the manor and a sleepless night. During that night Amelia realized she would give in the next day and when she did, found herself unsure about how she should feel. When her eyes finally lifted away from words written with a flowing, neat hand, they settled upon the cross at the front of the church. Yet neither it nor he who it represented provided answers. Not that Amelia expected any from that direction, but Jan McDermitt, the writer of those words, once believed. Maybe that is what made the three sheets of flowing script, the rest of the notebook remained blank, so heart rending. Rather than question why me, it documented the demise of belief. Even worse, while she read, Amelia could not shake two of Ken's memories. One night, after Dannika freed him from her molding, he allowed curiosity to override common sense. Wondering if he could notice something missed by the professional data miners, he read through sixteen police folders and found nothing beyond nightmares. From that evaluation, two pictures appeared in his mind. One, taken on a Saturday afternoon, football day in Norman, Oklahoma, captured a vivacious sophomore surrounded by friends. The second, taken by a police photographer on Halloween Day in 1982, showed no life at all. But more than the remembered pictures, more than the read words, just sitting where Jan once sat, caught in the same ordeal she experienced, formed a kinship. Through this Jan seemed to speak, to ask Amelia not to accept a bitter lesson from the cross on the wall. To not demand something from it, but to recognize it stood for faith. And she found faith in herself as powerful as faith in some omnipotent being, one probably too distracted to pay attention to her woes. Carefully she tore the pages from the notebook, each loop of the spiral popping free of its circle, tenuously wrapped around a thin coil of wire, like a sign of how she hoped to break free from Eric's grip. Folding the pages once and then twice, Amelia placed them once more behind the Bible. If she failed and if someone else sat where she now sat, maybe that successor would benefit from the same lesson. The rest of notebook she could use. Rather silly to randomly go somewhere and search, time for a plan. And a plan needed information, she would map out Eric's world. Though not at the moment, for a time she needed to sit and remember. It gave her a moment to hope and trust in faith. Well she did. Like George Lucas with his Star Wars galaxy, she guessed Eric would never be satisfied with his world. For in fifty plus years, with his skills and supply of magic, he filled a small county with dwellings and structures. She needed a talisman of faith to combat her own awe, felt towards her captor. Sting, Stewart, and Andy supplied this, guarding her maps and notes that tracked her progress. Almost two months into her search, three months into her captivity, Amelia now worked her way through the second village on her map. Because of the longer trips, to and from, she found herself with less time to search before Barnabus demanded they return for supper. So the next morning, earlier than normal, she stood at the front door of Hambley Manor, basket holding lunch in one hand, the parasol she used for poking things in the other, and waited for his arrival with the horse and buggy. Fully prepared for everything the day could offer except to see Eric holding the reins. Surprised, the least of her indignities boiled to the top, as she exclaimed, "You're not dressed right!" Hopping from the buggy he stopped, momentarily confused. Realizing the cause of her anger, he looked at himself, dressed in a tight black t- shirt, jeans, and a belt from which hung a sword and holstered revolver. So different from Amelia, looking pretty in a cream coloured and brown accented walking dress, complete with a matching bow with which Beck tied her ponytail in place. "My apologies, I decided at the last minute to visit. It will not happen again." "Where have you been? Why are you here? You know about my search, don't you? You can't stop me from looking." "Caught in a real life gong show, calming panicked clients and organizing confused employees across two continents. I'm here because I sold the business, time for a new identity anyway, and they are no longer my clients or employees. Yes I know about your search, Barnabus is a dumb but useful watcher. And no, I don't intend to stop you, since the possibility of your escape adds some missing spice to our affair." "Is there truly a door to find?" Amelia asked. "Of course, if not, you would not have survived my absence, particularly so marvelously well. But it's very well hidden, I doubt someone who took a month to think about looking will discover its location." "Very funny. So what happens when I find it? Will I be able to pass through? Are there guards on the other side who will stop me?" Eric said, "Aren't you the suspicious one? Yes you can pass through. And don't worry about the guards. I use Benburgs, so they will feel outraged at my actions, if you run into any of their people." No surprise he used one of the oldest and best grocer services still in use, with a reputation for protecting their client's identities in a fashion unknown even by the top Swiss banks. A secrecy accepted by the top magical cliques, because Benburgs subscribed to the regular set of cardinal sins of the magical community and never hesitated to out a client committing such a crime. The most egregious of which Eric broke with his murderous reaping. Amelia knew she could trust them, just as he would know they would help bring him down if she escaped. 'If you're not here to stop me, why are you here?" "Maybe I just want to spend some time with my pretty wife?" Eric asked, to which he only received a glare in response. "Well I do, though I guess my pretty wife does not feel the same. However, maybe I could change her mind if I took her somewhere my idiot, though fake, cousin cannot." "The forest, you'll take me to the forest?" If she turned right, after exiting the gates of Hambley Manor, she soon came to a foreboding wall of trees. The one place into which Barnabus refused to go, telling her stories of desperate deserters and wild monsters. Immediately Hambley Woods jumped to the top of her search list and despite his pleas, she walked to it with the intent to explore, one day early in her search. Unfortunately his warnings proved true. Barely did she enter the woods before a pair of men appeared, dressed like scarecrows, knives in hand, leers on their faces. Reminded of how many watchers of myth, who guarded a treasure or door, were actual constructs, she felt no doubt about the intent or ability of the two manufactured Confederate deserters. Amelia's waning athleticism proved valuable as she ran all the way back to the manor, deciding not to attempt another incursion until she checked all other locations. "Should I change my clothes first?" "No, let's go." Amelia said, eager to explore the forbidden and not give him a chance to back out. "Are you sure, I wouldn't want you to feel awkward." "I won't." "Is there be enough lunch for both of us?" "Yes." "Let me check." Taking the basket from her, he lifted the lid, looked inside, and turned a dubious look towards her. Finding the glare still in place, he said, "Very well, let's go." Chapter 14 - Elated fucked up did your life need to become in order to feel more comfortable going into a dark, foreboding forest, with the man who planned to kill you, rather than entering all alone? One of many questions that filled Amelia's mind, but the only one she answered while riding beside Eric on their way to the forest. It came down to a matter of immediacy. Whatever lurked inside Eric, he tended to follow a time line. While whatever lurked in the woods might not care. She also found herself enjoying the presence of an actual human, even him. To sense the warmth of a live body, to hear words not mapped out by a decision tree. It stirred the social aspect provided by the Heather part of her amalgamation, something withered almost to nothing under the burden of loneliness. While the Ken part, the Richelieu to Amelia's Louis XIII, filled her mind with questions to ask, answers to obtain, and plots to scheme. "I believe I went overboard." Eric said, as the buggy rocked its way along the path. "Pardon?" "Hambley Woods. My Grandfather turned it into a mystical place with his stories. But since he was a gloomy old bastard, a mystical place filled with evil rather than wondrous creatures." "Barnabus told me similar stories." "I'm glad you believed them. Just as Grandfather used them to keep me away as a child, when it was just wilderness, I also wanted you to stay away, now that it is something worse." "Because that's where you hid the door?" Amelia asked, surprised he did her one attempt. Away from his constructs, she maybe could do whatever she wanted. "Because I made it into the place my Grandfather described." "A shrink would have a field day with you." "If I could only find my very own Dr. Melfi, I would happily submit. However, in this, I don't need psychological help to understand myself. The truth is I need nightmares to conquer. And what better place than here to create my own, real life video game, full of villains and monsters for me to kill. Speaking of which, if I give you a command, follow it. It won't be because I'm interfering with your search, it's because I'm trying to stop something else from doing so." Unwilling to trust him, she first studied his face. When he did not look away and she found it clear of the normal wry grin or any hint of menace she nodded agreement. "In particular, be prepared to get down and stay out of my way. It would be a ridiculous waste of effort to accidentally shoot you instead of whatever I am targeting." "Is it really that dangerous?" "Of course it's dangerous. They're my nightmares and as you pointed out, I'm messed up." Amelia asked, "Then shouldn't I have a gun?" While he ignored the question, she turned her attention to the approaching stand of trees. Eric's warnings, his need to make the forest dangerous, having convinced her it held escape. "How big is it?" "Just under seven sections," Eric answered. "Umm?" "You must be a city girl? Each section equals a square mile." Larger than she hoped. Too big to expect her to find escape in one search, which allowed her to banish the worry of how Eric would react if she did find the gate. Thus when they reached their destination, she ignored him while trying to decide how to proceed. When no stroke of genius bonked her upside the head, she decided to head straight for the center. That's where heroes in a book would need to go. Relying on Eric's dubious protection, Amelia picked a space between two trees and entered. Almost immediately she grew uneasy. She could draw upon multiple forays, by both her predecessors, into a wide variety of forests. From childhood romps with friends through neighborhood thickets too treks along trails carved for tourists through the great rain forests on the West coast. Yet none reminded her of Hambley Woods. Despite the vibrant colours, it felt dead. Mere steps underneath the trees and she wanted to leave. Yet though Amelia regularly looked over her shoulder to check on Eric, she continued deeper. The fields beyond him, disappearing from the gaps between the trees. Soon, only the lack of trampled underbrush or broken branches implied she did not lead them in circles. By the same token, this did not imply they walked in a straight path. "Eric, how long does your forest take to regenerate itself?" "It depends on the damage done. Days if you ran through with no care, four or five hours to hide our passage, and much less for my lurking denizens. Is tracking one of your hidden skills?" "Hidden skills?" "I'm impressed with how elegantly you move, particularly with the way you are dressed. The way you part the underbrush with your parasol is particularly clever. All-in-all, amazingly ladylike...umm, that is your cue to curse at me to prove you're not a lady. Don't you watch movies? Myself, I'm a huge film buff." Unwilling to present herself as the audience for his attempt to disguise his true self, she continued onwards. Again she focused on the wrong. How, instead of rays of sunlight filtering through branches to create a speckling of bright and dark, the light permeated everything, almost like floor lighting. Or how she felt no temperature change, neither cooling from shade nor heat from unmoving air. But the silence stood out the most. Not even the sound of insects. She realized how much she dreaded what the return of sound might reveal. Thus Amelia found herself crouched, head turned questioningly towards her captor, before she fully processed the sound of a breaking branch. In turn, he spared her only a gesture to stay, his eyes flickering momentarily in the direction of the sound, before he allowed them to roam away from possible distraction. At the same time each hand moved through a motion as familiar as if he scratched his nose. Then, with a revolver, right out of a Spaghetti Western, in his left hand and sword in his right, Eric moved to put the bole of a tree at his back And on his face she saw the same smile worn under the Zorro mask when he made the rose appear. Every time his gaze momentarily settled, Amelia would turn to look in the same direction, wondering what he saw, imagining what he sensed. Then she no longer needed to imagine. Amelia recognized the two figures immediately, the scarecrows she'd seen the first time she ventured here. However, this time they did not leer in her direction, but warily watched her companion. It sapped them of much of their power, turning them from frightening monsters into the deserters they emulated, the cloth of their uniforms more brown than grey, more torn than whole. Yet neither their appearance nor their hesitation removed all the danger they represented. Danger grew when two identical pairs, on each flank, appeared. In the next moment, she learned what it meant to exist as a true predator. As soon as he knew what he faced, Eric acted. Raising his left hand, his finger squeezed the trigger, once and twice. Unable to look away, Amelia saw blossoms of red appear at the chest's of the two men on their right, those closest to their location, before one crumpled and the other fell backwards. The rest she only heard, two more shots, shouts, and the sound of running, underbrush and twigs snapping to mark the fleeing passage of the two who escaped. During those brief moments, her attention remained on the two bodies. So still. And though she tried to convince herself constructs did not live, she could not. They reminded her of what she found while reviewing those sixteen police folders. Made her fear what may, one day, be found in the seventeenth. She also sensed her companion's excitement. Apparently Eric did feel, he just kept his emotions under firm control. And those he felt strongest allowed her to label him, if not a psychopath, at least as a selfish, murderous prick. One could say evil, but that required her to accept he could not stop himself from committing such heinous acts. Amelia would not give him that out. He liked killing. Even just constructs. However, those emotions offered her hope. Did they offer enough to cast the beacon spell? In