The pretense of food always warms the soul to new experiences. The promise of companionship brings down the guard one should never have let up.

Drawn with a curious passion to Kairie Felling's presence, Iyan found that he could not refuse her anything. Whatever she asked of him, be it a simple question or a small favour, he found himself rushing to complete without hesitation. After their small lunch, she requested of him to show her around the "haunted abbey" she had heard about some time before her arrival, presumably from the captain of the ship she had boarded to reach Saint Ivry. Initially, this request filled Iyan with such a swell of dread as he had known only in his dreams and states of confusion, post sleepwalking episodes, but the flutter of her eyelashes, the swirling of her elvish hair, and the tender excitement in her breaths broke him before he could contemplate too many ways to refuse her.

So it was, a few minutes after their lunch was complete (Kairie now in possession of a hand-crafted thermos, filled with a fruity and aromatic tea), that Iyan led her towards the dreaded Kenton Abbey. He wished bitterly that the post office had been open today. It was a rare day indeed that its doors were barred to guests, but if he had known its unavailability would result in him traipsing around the dark halls of the abbey, he would have gladly taken an extra shift to hold the office open.

"Watch your step," he warned, guiding her foot over the threshold of the abbey, once they had made their way inside, "for any number of rodents and the like roam around now."

"I'm not bothered much by critters," came the unfazed response. Bravery is all fine and well, Iyan thought to himself, until you find a rat has taken an unhealthy fancy to the soles of your feet...

Upon walking up to the abbey, the sky appeared to grow darker, and the wind felt keenly as though it had gained in velocity. The sun was but a faint memory, though, Iyan wondered if this wasn't merely some dramatic response to his extreme unwillingness to explore the place of his nightmares. What if, perhaps, the bath of reaching limbs was down here, waiting patiently for his return? How terrible he would feel, then, if Kairie had perished to the supernatural grasp of death in a place he alone had led her to! There was nothing to do, however. She was headfast and seemed unconcerned. Was she somehow aware that what lay within was nothing to fear? Was she better equipped for the mysteries of abandoned old buildings?

Regardless of what Kairie was thinking, Iyan had pushed the front doors open, and now they were descending the steps into the darkness. He at least had the sense to light a candle from the altar in the worship room, though his light trembled as they made their way onward. He revealed and described the various rooms they passed, voice dropping to a whisper the further in they walked.

"The bedrooms, ma'am, unused in some forty-odd years." Pushing past him, Kairie stuck her head into one of these rooms, squinting into the heavily cloaked sleeping arrangements as though suspicious of the choice of sheets.

"From what I've gathered of your excitable beliefs," she said, once the candle had been snatched from Iyan and waved about the curtains, "whoever it was that lived here last... they seemed to have a drab taste in palette!" She giggled in her high voice and turned back to Iyan. "Do you not agree? Should the inhabitants of so important a station not been the very models of rejoicing and excitement?"

The hair on his arms prickling uncomfortably, Iyan could only concede, though not without some explanation.

"The last Lady who lived here," he said, walking up to and running a hand softly over a dust-laden pillow, "she died most suddenly, and it threw the Lord into a terrible state, it's been said."

"I suspect a bit of colour and light would have improved his mood." Forcing himself not to cry out in protest, Iyan fervently reminded himself that the circle of life and the response to it were handled quite differently where Kairie was from, though his heart still clenched in pain as he thought of his uncle, who would likely never smile again, nor be so frivolous to the memory of his wife as to decorate the house.

"Returnists are still prone to sadness," was all that he said, before moving onward. "The kitchens are inaccessible, due to some cave in by way of a faulty ceiling, but the dining room - "

"Marvelous!"

They stood before a table grand enough to house twenty or more people, and a chandelier that dangled loosely over it. Eyeing it warily, Iyan made his way around the table and its light, pointing instead to the statues that curled around the corners of the room. "These are the Lord's most esteemed dinner guests, or rather, they were."

"How do you mean, Mr. Lutton?"

"When he was alive, the last Lord threw parties quite frequently, and whoever was lucky enough to survive the night the longest would be granted a statue to commemorate their steadfastness."

"He didn't sound terribly religious, this Lord."

"It's... very complicated," offered Iyan weakly. "When you've been trying to convince your gods that this world is good enough to return to...." He didn't finish the sentiment, though Kairie understood.

"Let us move on from the memory of this debauchery," she smiled, not before adding, as they linked arms and continued on, "I am hardly one to judge, however!"

"Are your people as wild as ours?" Though she was carefree and smiling and fond of forgoing her shoes, it seemed unthinkable to Iyan that Kairie Felling be of a family that was as loose with their religious charms as those in Tottenham Cross.

"Your world is as tame as mine," she said with a wink, and she pulled him into a room whose window was barred. The faulty curtain that had once dissuaded the light from being seen was a crumpled, moth-eaten mess on the even more neglected carpet, but the light, peering in from the murky glass, gave the unidentified area a sort of underwater charm. Heart hammering at the watery illusion, Iyan was at once relieved of his fear when Kairie gently nudged him against a wall and pressed her mouth to his.

Devils a hundredfold could have stormed Kenton Abbey and ripped apart all of the precious furniture, smashed every trinket to pieces, and Iyan Lutton would not have cared. He was quickly lost in the safety, the warmth, the life that was Kairie's mouth. How peculiar! She tasted of roses and berries. Iyan had not known people could taste of things, but the discovery was not unwelcome. How much could he learn, he thought with a smile, from this most beautiful of creatures!

"Why are you laughing," questioned Kairie in a smooth murmur, as she pulled a few inches away from the kiss. "I should think I am not inadequate."

"Roses!" Iyan pulled her back, and was delighted to feel Kairie's arms shake with a laugh of her own, even as her lips melted into his.

Once the initial barrier of affection is broken, there is never a point one may return to their defensive state. Hopelessly in love for the first time, who would dare accept that mantle of cold loneliness again?

Upon making their way out of the abbey and to the post office (where they had decided to meet and part, to avoid Kairie's unnecessary trek into and out of the woods), the lovers shared one last kiss, a slow and meaningful appreciation of one another's presence keenly felt. Even as she left, her feet traipsing over root and rock, Iyan wanted to call her back. Alas, crippled with self-doubt and fear, with no small measure of inexperience holding him back, Iyan could only watch as Kairie's back walked away.

What have I done to myself, he questioned, when the day had rushed from his grasp and nightfall found him in his bed. What have I welcomed into my heart? Even after just two kisses, he knew he would never be the same. Nothing horrible, be it sleepwalking or death, could ever quell the feeling that lifted his heart and pushed his pulse into such frenetic movements!

Sleep was unavoidable, alas, and it was the many-stepping presence of guests in the house that awoke Iyan from a smiling slumber. Hair askew and breath smelling an odd mixture of Kairie's and yesterday's lunch, he emerged from his room to find a host of the nieghbours in the kitchen. They were milling about a great many plates of food, and splashing wine around their glasses.

Was his aunt's funeral upon him already? Guests only intruded with food and drink like this when they were prepared to commit somebody's body to ash that day!

He bolted back inside his room and barred the door. Under no such circumstance would he be seen, he swore, breath coming out in panicked bursts. What a terrible surprise! If he had expected anybody to be over at the usually quiet cabin, he would have stayed out all night and returned only when his uncle was all that remained! The grieving rites of the Returnists were among the only things that Iyan despised about the people of Tottenham Cross - excessive drink, crassness, a propensity to volume that rivaled even the post's busiest days, and a profound lack of regard for the person whose soul they were in belief of ferrying to the heavens.

Aunt Myra was a lovely, kind person, and Iyan wanted nothing less than to see her name tarnished by the insensitive rites of these people.

When he had recovered himself from the shock of company, and made himself presentable to the public, Iyan emerged once more and at once ran into his uncle.

Uncle Hans looked twice as awful as Iyan felt, and had balded so significantly in the last three days that Iyan was quite sure he'd ripped most of his hair out. Tall and stocky by nature, the weight loss was at once evident, which would explain the amount of food in the house now. That they would fatten a man up after the death of his wife was a silly presumption.

"I didn't know this was happening today," he said in a low voice, and Uncle Hans closed his eyes shut in a pained sort of way.

"Neither I, neither I."

"They all presumed it today?" he asked in shock. It would be unforgivable indeed, if the townsfolk pressed the matter of grieving to the side of their own will.

"The coroner," came the strangled answer. "If we don't... don't burn her now, we'll be forced to bury her." Iyan felt more for his uncle than he ever had. Burial was highly discouraged in Returnist faith (as opposed to the grim practises of their distasteful counterparts), and to have the stain of one on the family would likely close their post business for good. A most terrible chain of events indeed!

"When are they lighting the fire?" Iyan asked, his head already aching as the guests' carousing grew in volume.

"As the sun sets. We've more of this to suffer, I'm afraid," Uncle Hans replied, with a dark look thrown down the hall.

There was nothing to do but follow along with the events planned out for them. As much as Iyan wanted to burst into tears at the sight of every photo he was shown of his dead aunt, as much as he desired to scream at everybody to be silent for even a minute, he kept his smile glued to his face, and his hands clenched firmly in his pockets. At times, the funeral gathering would swell and ebb, pushing him into the presence of his uncle, but that was rare indeed, and it was alone that Iyan spent most of the day. The sun had set for a long while before the crowd at last ushered the family of the late Myra Lutton outside and towards the selected grounds for consecration.

When they did arrive at the cemetery - of Kenton Abbey, no less - Iyan fainted, and awoke only when the bright eyes of Kairie were over his own.

"Get up, Mr. Lutton" she whispered, pulling him to unsteady feet. "I think they're ready to burn your aunt!"