(2024-01-16) The Sleepers - Nightmares on Fallon Street Part 1

Details

Author:	Athena
Summary:	As the Nightmare takes hold of Azeroth and sends the sleepers going walkabout with bonus violence, those inside House Fallon hold fast. War Against The Nightmare RP. 21k-ish words.
Rating:	T for Teen

Arc: War Against the Nightmare

Chain: Siarenne

+ Show additional content warnings

contains descriptions of violence/blood, characters in distress, pregnancy, romance

The evening that Siamus returns from Stormwind City after a three-day absence and moors his skiff at the little beach dock with the sleeping Milla and Daisy as cargo, dinner at Fallon House is a subdued one.

The two young ladies were ferried upstairs and tucked in, Milla in her own accustomed bedroom and Daisy in the room beside Isla's, and Croft and Lyra are keeping watch over the household's sleepers for now. Isla and Ralaea's absences from the table are conspicuous, as are the absences of Shine and Catrin from the dining room. The substitute staff — the footman Vane, the housemaid Moirin — move awkwardly around the table in the heavy atmosphere, as though feeling guilty for taking over these jobs.

Abruptly, there is a thin, high scream from upstairs.

The staff freeze. Siamus drops his silverware with an ungentlemanly clatter and nearly overturns his chair in his haste. He runs for the stairs, and takes them two at a time.

Emerine, who is standing in the hallway outside Ralaea's door, straightens up with a jolt, her ears flicking. She looks in the direction of the scream.

Otto ducks under the table, vanished immediately, tucked into a tiny ball of blond floof.

Finley stands, and seems torn, his head turning from Siamus to Avrenne, waiting for an order, or a direction.

Avrenne's complexion is a littler paler, but she doesn't stand up, exuding calm and control. "Finley, see to Otto please." She turns to Phoebe, that surety in her manner. "Don't worry, Siamus will handle it. Someone may have been frightened by their dreams. It will be alright." Her voice is slow, soft, utterly composed.

Finley hesitates, and then crouches down to under the table, speaking in a low, very quiet voice to Otto.

Priscilla glances at Avrenne. She stops eating for the time being, wiping her mouth off with a napkin, and calmly waits for an update from Siamus.

In the upstairs hallway, Siamus calls hoarsely to Emerine, "Which way?"

Before she can answer him, though, the scream sounds again — it's coming from behind the discreet door at the end of the hallway, the entrance to the servant's quarters. He runs for it.

In the servants' corridor, Lyra is standing on tiptoe, pinned against the wall. The person pinning her is Shine, who has his forearm braced across her neck. There's no further force to the gesture, it doesn't seem like a genuine effort to choke the girl, but his hold is implacable. His eyes — the good eye and the scarred, sunken lid of his other eye — are both closed.

Croft is standing stricken a little farther down the corridor, holding his sister in a kind of bear hug, her arms pinned against her sides as the sleeping Milla attempts to lurch clumsily free of his grasp.

"Emerine! Secure Rae!" bellows Siamus, and seizes the back of Shine's collar to haul him backward and away from Lyra. "Vane! Get up here!"

In the dining room, Vane fumbles a plate precipitously onto the table and sets off at a run.

Moirin stares at the household. She smiles weakly. "Shall I go see, Your Grace?"

Emerine runs after Siamus, who is closer to the screaming, but no sooner has she caught up to see what's going on than Siamus orders her back. She spins about in the hall and dashes for Ralaea's room.

No one sees Avrenne leave her chair, because one moment she is in it, blink and the next she is next to Phoebe, picking the four-year-old girl up, and out of her chair, setting her down for the moment and grabbing onto her hand. "Not yet. Take Phoebe," she says to Moirin. "Finley?"

"I got him," Finley says, emerging from beneath the table with Otto, the younger man looking frightened and red, holding onto Finley's arm like it's a lifeline in a storm. Finley looks upwards. He glances back to Priscilla, then to Avrenne, waiting for orders.

Avrenne herself seems to be waiting for more information, but it is clear from her body language that she is preparing to run, if necessary. She just doesn't know what direction yet.

Moirin bustles forward to take Phoebe's other hand, visibly relieved to be handed a task that is both familiar and doesn't involve anyone screaming. "Come on then, little duck," she tells the child. "Cook's got apple tarts in the kitchen. Shall we have one?"

Phoebe looks very much like she doesn't want to let go of Avrenne's hand and also she kind of wants to go toward the screaming, but at last she nods mutely, her chin wobbling.

Priscilla is dressed for dinner, not for any kind of trouble. She pushes her chair in as she stands. "What's going on?" she calls.

Avrenne still seems very calm, seven months pregnant and wearing a dinner dress of dark blue silk and black lace not at all suitable for running. When she calls out, it's projected, without the harshness of a shout, but her voice carries, "Siamus?"

Upstairs

Sir Somer arrives on the scene with Lyra and Shine, breathless and red faced, dressed in a civilian's clothes, but with his sword belted on over them, and it's clearly taking him a moment to assess what is going on, but Siamus is holding onto Shine, and there's a lady in distress, so he does what any knight is meant to and places himself between Lyra and Shine, a hand on his sword, looking to his lord for a command.

Down the hall, a door opens clumsily, and Isla staggers out of her room, searching for someone or something to attack. At the moment, it appears to be the wall, as she scratches along it.

There's a sound of a woman's yell, muffled, from Daisy's room, the door closed.

Siamus is still grappling with Shine, who is struggling in sluggish, underwater fashion to get free of him. He has an arm around the footman's neck now in a kind of chokehold, to which Shine seems oblivious. Siamus nods breathlessly at Sir Somer.

At Avrenne's call, he glances down the hallway in the direction of the staircase — and sees Isla emerge to fight the wall. He turns back to Sir Somer. "Isla," he says.

Sir Somer is off like a slightly creaky shot, almost barreling right into Isla, who turns her attempts onto the older knight with all the fierceness of a chihuahua and about one-nineteenth the effectiveness. Sir Somer gently, but deliberately, holds onto her. "Isla?" He should know better by now, that it's not an effective strategy to try to talk to the sleepers, but here we are.

Siamus raises his voice to call back to Avrenne in that command-carrying way, "They're walking about!"

He doesn't add that they seem a touch murdery, but the people downstairs have probably deduced that from the screams and shouting.

Downstairs in the Dining Room

Priscilla has not deduced that. She relaxes. "Ah. Sleepwalking. All at once…?"

Avrenne's shoulders go back, hard. "Finley, take Otto to Moirin and the others, make sure they're safe. Priscilla, with me, we'll see to the children upstairs."

Finley's expression does something, and he pales, but he nods, in jerky movements, pulling Otto along with him after Moirin and Phoebe towards Cook and the others. Otto makes a whimpering sound, his eyes large and wet, watching Avrenne.

Avrenne is already moving, the skirt of her dress pulled up slightly, as she waddles moves quickly towards the stairs and Isla and Daisy.

Priscilla nods and quickly catches up with Avrenne, walking next to her. She keeps pace.

In Ralaea’s Room

Emerine slips into Ralaea's room, shutting the door behind her.

Ralaea stands in a corner of her room, on the opposite side of the tent. It seems she may have struggled to escape the cloth prison, as half of it is now collapsed. The bed as well is a mess, the sheets having been pulled and tossed about, before she ultimately found her way to the corner. When Emerine enters, she turns towards the door at last, her eyes open, but unseeing.

With what sounds like an angry war cry, probably loud enough to be heard in other rooms, Ralaea lurches towards her, her muscles tense and prepared for violence.

Emerine moves with feather-light steps around the room, silent as can be, perhaps checking if Ralaea can sense her through some method other than her actual senses.

Though there is tremendous lag in her movements, it seems Ralaea is at least aware that she is not alone, even if she fails to locate Emerine. She lurches towards the direction she first sensed Emerine, then stops and stills, emitting a low growl as she turns her head in seemingly random directions, perhaps on reflex alone. She is now in front of the door, though whether her sleepwalking form realizes that is unclear.

There is a rattling of metal. Emerine has taken out a pair of handcuffs. She might be one of the very few people to actually carry them around with her.

Siamus wishes to put a pin in this fact for later.

Ralaea turns towards the rattling sound, focusing on it. There is a pause before her reaction, a sharp cry of pain, then she launches towards where she heard the sound. It is a small burst of speed that seems to die halfway through, and her hands reach in front of her as if to grab something — or someone.

Emerine attempts to use this opportunity to snap one of the cuffs around Ralaea's wrists.

Being the faster of the two, Emerine succeeds in snapping a cuff around Ralaea's wrist, but, feeling the unfamiliar metal object, Ralaea grabs it with her other hand and tries to pull on it, staggering backwards from where it had secured its hold on her.

In The Hallway

As Ralaea shouts, Priscilla does break into a run.

The shouting in Ralaea's room gets Sir Somer's attention, and he seems torn between holding Isla — struggling with zero effectiveness — and assisting. Another shout from Daisy's room worsens the choices. He's saved from indecision by the arrival of Avrenne, taking in the scene before her with quick flicks of her eyes.

Isla is not dangerous. But she is clearly in some distress. "Priscilla, get Isla. Sir Somer, Daisy." Avrenne moves to take hold of Isla, to let Sir Somer leave to help another. It gives her a line of sight to Siamus, struggling with Shine. Her face goes hard, and her hand goes out, flickers of multicolored arcane lights around her fingers, her lips moving silently.

There's not quite a poof so much as a strange, uncanny wavering, where for a moment there is both Shine and a sheep, and then only a one-eyed brown sheep with a little eyepatch, moving in a dazed idle circle of confusion at Siamus' feet.

The sheep is not the only one confused by the abrupt change in circumstance, and Siamus nearly trips over him, bewildered. Still standing pressed against the wall, Lyra lets out a slightly hysterical giggle.

Priscilla wrangles Isla into a hold with relatively little ease, pinning Isla's arms at her sides. "I've got her. Sweetie, it's me…" Talking to the sleepers hasn't gotten anyone anywhere yet, but that doesn't stop Priscilla.

Isla does not fight Priscilla any more effectively than Sir Somer. There's a clumsy attempt at biting the air, nowhere near actually hitting Priscilla. Chomp, chomp. She's trying, okay. It is not a difficult task to move her, as Isla's sense of direction is not keen at the best of times.

Sir Somer sprints to Daisy's room. Inside, Daisy has pinned Sophie to the floor, and the older woman's arm is crushed beneath her, possibly broken or fractured, lines of scratches on her face where Daisy's short nails managed to find some purchase. Sir Somer calls Sophie's name, pulling Daisy off her with greater strength than he's had in years, adrenaline and fear pushing him to a limit.

"I can only hold it for fifteen seconds at a time," Avrenne tells Siamus, her hand still out, and her concentration mostly on Shine, holding the polymorph in place.

Siamus jumps to action at once in response, although in this case "jumps to action" means "seizes a one-eyed sheep by its fleecy withers and attempts to stuff it back through an open bedroom door."

Lyra manages to pull herself away from the wall now that her unexpected assailant is a sheep, and possibly takes some satisfaction in assisting Siamus by pushing the sheep's rump forward with one foot.

The moment Shine is out of Avrenne's line of sight, the polymorph breaks, and Avrenne staggers slightly in place, breathing hard, before she turns immediately to Priscilla and Isla, to help corral the chihuahua back into her room. She does not bother sheeping Isla. It'd be a little redundant.

Vane, the other footman, is helping Croft restrain Milla now; she has grown increasingly frantic, gnashing her teeth and lunging. Vane pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffs it in her mouth, and he and Croft maneuver her toward her own bedroom door.

In Ralaea’s Room

Emerine pulls on her end of the cuffs for just a moment, and then, once Ralaea has really committed to the tug-of-war, moves with Rae, seeing if she can get Rae to fall.

Ralaea seems completely caught off guard by this and falls straight down onto her rear, sitting stunned for a moment, one arm dangling by the handcuff, the other planted on the floor. Then, rage takes her and she begins to scream and thrash like a child throwing a tantrum, arms flailing, legs kicking out, accuracy wild and hard to predict.

Emerine yanks Rae's arm sharply to the side as she clips the other end of the cuff around the leg of a very nice desk, then sits herself on top of the desk to help weigh it down and keep Rae from pulling it down on top of her. "She's in danger of injuring herself," Emerine calls.

In The Corridor

Siamus dodges nimbly away from the suddenly-human-again Shine and slams the door. He stands holding the knob in a white-knuckled grip as the door bangs and rattles from the other side and Shine makes a low, unnerving growling sound. Lyra shrinks away again.

At the fresh commotion from Ralaea's room, Siamus looks sharply in that direction and swears under his breath. To Lyra, he says, "Get the keys."

She darts off obediently. Siamus continues to hold the door closed, as someone begins hurling himself repeatedly into it on the other side.

Avrenne has her hands fairly full with Isla, relying in no small part on Priscilla to get the younger woman into her room, and close the door. Her head turns towards Emerine’s call, her lips set in a tight line.

There's sounds of a growing scuffle in Daisy's room, as Sir Somer works to keep the tall young woman off Sophie long enough for the secretary to escape. Sophie at last emerges from the room, cradling her arm against herself, getting out of the way as Sir Somer heaves Daisy off one last time, and shuts the door behind him, taking up his own position now at holding it closed, raised scratches and a deep bite on his left arm.

"Vane!" barks Siamus, and the footman who has just finished helping Croft wrangle his sister back into her room straightens sharply away from that door. "Help Sir Somer."

Vane moves immediately in that direction.

Lyra comes racing breathlessly back, a jangling key ring in hand. She thrusts this at Siamus, who takes it, sifts the keys briskly one-handed, and inserts one into the lock on Shine's door, where it turns with a click.

Cautiously, he releases the knob. The door remains closed.

He hands the key ring back to Lyra. "Lock Milla's," he tells her, and then heads for Rae's room himself, rolling up his sleeves.

Priscilla easily pulls her weight in wrangling Isla. She is fine doing most of the work. But she moves inside the room with Isla, trying to march the teenager right back to bed.

Isla fights back, not very well, but with all the determination of a toddler who refuses to obey her bedtime, but with 5'4" worth of resistance. No, no, she won't go back to bed.

Avrenne's attempts to press the teenager down do little. "I'll hold her, let go," she tells Priscilla, holding out her hand once more, those flickers of arcane on her fingers as she concentrates to polymorph Isla.

The little sheep that forms is dazed and tiny and a little pink, wandering in a little circle near her bed. Avrenne waits for Priscilla to back away first before backing out of the room herself.

Priscilla obeys, releasing Isla on demand. "Oh, she's too cute," she says, once again reaching for the light side of the situation. She hurries back into the hallway.

As Sir Somer seems to have Daisy herself contained, Vane moves solicitously instead to assist Sophie, guiding her out of the way of the general chaos. "Shall I fetch the priest, Your Grace?" he calls to Avrenne.

"If you would, please, Vane," Avrenne calls back, that calm assurance in her voice. She doesn't sound like they're in a deep crisis, so much as requesting that if he would be so good as to fetch her a coat, that would be appreciated.

"Just here, ma'am," Vane tells Sophie, quietly and reassuring. "You sit put just here, aye?" Then he turns and vanishes with alacrity.

Sophie is quietly crying, but she stays put, holding herself together, out of the way, her mostly blind gaze straight ahead.

Siamus pauses in the doorway of Ralaea's room, surveying the situation within. He crosses to the disordered bed, whisks a blanket off it, and carries this over to where Rae is struggling against the handcuff and the desk. He throws the blanket over her, like trying to calm a panicky animal, and then kneels down and attempts to wrap her up securely in it: a Rae burrito.

Lyra comes racing back up the hall with the jangling key ring, looking for other doors to lock.

Avrenne's eyes go to Lyra at the sound, and the keys, to her hold on the door, and to Sir Somer's own on Daisy's. "Lyra, if you would be so good as to lock Daisy's door." Calm, assured. Do not panic the staff. It's all okay, Lyra. Pay no attention to the sounds of a tall woman throwing herself against the door, fingers clawing at the wood, a strangled, frustrated cry sounding through it.

Isla, no longer a sheep, seems to have not figured out where the door is. There's the sound of someone hitting the floor with an oof.

Lyra fumbles only a little bit with the keys, but manages to find the correct one and rattle it into the lock on Daisy's door. The lock clicks.

Siamus, still attempting to wrangle Rae into blanket-burrito submission, calls over his shoulder in a voice of calm command, "Have Croft and Burren find six rooms on the east corridor and empty them of all but the beds and any immovable furniture. We're going to have to confine them safe and away from the rest of the household."

Whom is he instructing? It doesn't matter. Someone, do the thing.

Sir Somer, freed of his door holding, hesitates a moment between comforting Sophie, and moving to his lady's side. He's spared another decision as Avrenne turns her head. "Lyra, this door now, please. Sir Somer, see to Sophie. I will get Mr. Croft and Mr. Burren. Priscilla, let Finley and the others know what is happening, please."

Priscilla, who had been moving towards Sophie, changes course to hurry downstairs.

Lyra darts immediately to lock Isla's door as well.

Isla might be attacking the floor inside, or attempting to swim over the rugs. It's unclear.

Avrenne leaves the door to get Croft and Burren, to relay orders from the Vice Admiral.

Sir Somer wraps Sophie in a hug, holding onto the older woman, murmuring quietly at her, possibly letting her know what is happening.

Ralaea, now encased in blanket, continues to flop around with all the effectiveness of a fish out of the water. She still has teeth, though, so stray limbs beware.

Emerine nods to Siamus in gratitude. "We're relocating them? Good."

Siamus nods back at her briefly, most of his attention still on Rae. "It seems best. Keep them together, keep the rest of the household away from it. We'll have to post guards, no' just have a pair of staff to look after. And we ought to send to — the city, or elsewhere, to see whether it's only our lot or… something new is happening."

Avrenne does not have far to go in her quest for Burren or Croft, because Croft is still standing, white-faced and stricken, outside his sister's door down the corridor, and Burren — either drawn by the commotion or dispatched by Moirin from downstairs — is coming up the back stairs, the servants' stair, past him.

Avrenne makes her way down the hallway. "Mr. Croft," she says, before she reaches out a hand to touch his arm, slowly and carefully, trying not to startle him. Her attention splits between him and Burren, to halt the other footman. "Mr. Burren."

It may not be their imagination that the Lady Fallon looks a little extra glowy — and by that we mean sweaty — and maybe it's not the lighting that makes her seem greener around the edges of her jaw and temple. It might be hard to tell though, past the mask of composure currently welded by sheer willpower onto her face.

Croft gathers the remaining threads of his composure together. "Your Grace," he says. "I beg your pardon. I don't know what she — why she —"

Burren has reached them, and claps a consoling hand on the slighter man's shoulder. "Steady on ahead, mate," he tells Croft gently, and then turns his Footman Face a little apologetically on the Duchess. "Your Grace," he says.

(Burren, a broken-nosed, shave-headed bear of a man with a gold front tooth, might be remembered by guests of the Charity Gala as one of the two "welcomers" at the front door. If he were a literal bear, however, it would be of the "teddy" variety, as he is in general a cheerful and surprisingly earnest fellow.)

He surveys Avrenne now and then offers — a little hesitant to volunteer suggestion to Her Grace — "Shall I fetch ye a chair, Lady Fallon?"

Avrenne straightens further. "Not at present, thank you." She is, obviously, fine. Ignore the sweat on her temple. She's glowing with health and pregnancy and — nothing, don't worry about it. She clasps her hands over her belly.

"The Vice Admiral needs six rooms cleared to contain those affected by the sleeping sickness. East corridor." She gives an exact description of which six she means (one of them is the room Isla is sure is haunted, sorry to anyone who ends up in that one). "Empty them of everything but a bed, and any furniture that cannot be moved. Finley will assist." Does Finley know that? Not yet. "He is downstairs with Cook. Mr. Vane will be back presently with Brother Casker. We can see to any who sustained injuries, and they can assist with the moving." Does Casker John know that? Not yet. Thank you for your assistance, Casker John.

"Aye, Your Grace." Burren nods crisply and then turns to Croft. "Go and fetch Mr. Boutille, Marten. I'll meet ye in the east corridor."

Croft nods and turns to practically flee down the stairs to the kitchens.

Burren hesitates for a long, uncertain moment before offering low-voiced to Avrenne, "They fled the Fall, Your Grace." Avrenne and her people get that, no doubt.

Avrenne does get that. She reaches out a hand, that automatic sort of reach she does, to gently touch on Burren's arm, a motherly sort of gesture. "House Fallon will not fall," she says, that assurance in her voice, confidence in her dark eyes. "We will take care of them. We will not lose anyone." Not if Avrenne has anything to say about it, anyway. "We will Hold Fast." The actual Stormwind Fallon motto, being somewhat literally applied in Ralaea's case.

Burren salutes, a former marine's reflex, and then colors faintly. "Aye, Your Grace," he agrees. "Fallon holds fast." He bows his head extra courteously — maybe she will forget about the salute — and then heads in the direction of the east corridor.

A salute, a curtsey, a bow — it's all the same to Avrenne. She turns from Burren to head back to Siamus and the burrito.

Meanwhile, from the other direction, Vane and Casker John come bounding up the main stair. The priest sees Avrenne down the hall and opens his mouth to call a question, but then he spots Sophie nearer by and has no further questions; he goes straight to her and Sir Somer. "May I?" he asks one or both of them in his gentle, gravel-voiced way.

Sir Somer raises his head from Sophie's, and his lips move in some brief prayer of gratitude, perhaps. "Please, see to her, thank you, Brother, thank you." To Sophie, his voice lower, gentler, "Sophie, it's Brother Casker John, the priest. He's here. It'll be okay." He seems to have some trouble actually stepping away so that Casker John can get to her, Sir Somer's hand remaining on her back as he forces himself to the side. His own left arm has a small trickle of drying blood where Daisy got a decent bite in.

Sophie is shaking like a leaf in the wind, and she grabs at Sir Somer with a look of terror as he steps away. "Geoff — " She turns a little wildly towards the sound of Casker John's voice, clearly unclear exactly where he is. Her arm has a small break in it, and some bruises, the scratch on her cheek not deep enough that it would leave a mark even if it were left to heal on its own.

"Shh, shh, I'm here, I'm right here, the priest is here," Sir Somer repeats.

"I'm going to touch ye now," Casker John warns her gently, so as not to startle. "Hold still as best ye can." He lays both gnarled, tattooed hands on the underside of her forearm, cradling it rather than applying any pressure. His gaze goes vague and he tilts his head; a moment later, a soft glow suffuses his hands and then, rising, Sophie's arm.

Sophie steadies only a little as the healing takes hold, still clutching onto Sir Somer like if she lets go, she's going to collapse there in the hallway. Sir Somer is still speaking to her, quiet and low, explaining what's happening, where Brother Casker is, where Avrenne is, where he is. It might just be words to be words at this point.

Vane, meanwhile, has come down the hallway and found Siamus basically sitting on a blanket-wrapped Ralaea. He opts against asking any questions, as the moment seems inopportune, and looks for Avrenne instead. "Your Grace?" What are your orders, Tiny Sub-Captain?

"Mr. Vane." Avrenne does not turn her head, she turns her entire body to face him. "We need rooms cleared of hazards, in the East Corridor, to contain those affected by the sleeping sickness. Mr. Burren and Mr. Croft have the specifics. We will need to secure Ralaea and Mr. Shine first, I expect." No offense to the others, but they're the only real dangerous ones. "Once two rooms are cleared, report to the Vice Admiral for how he would like to proceed in getting them there." Avrenne's voice is steady, her posture is perfect, her expression is composed and confident. Her complexion is still a little green, but maybe that's just the lighting in the hallway.

Downstairs

Meanwhile, Priscilla is off searching for Finley and the others.

Finley is with Cook and the apple tarts spoken of in the ancient scrolls of Moirin.

Otto has one hand on Finley, and another on an apple tart that he's eating silently, his eyes large and filled with unshed tears. His hair is a little damp with sweat, and his cheeks red, leaving mostly an impression of a ball of upset floof.

Finley has crossed his arms, still holding onto Otto's hand obediently, his expression blank behind a Butler's Mask. He is not a comforting presence in the room, but he is there.

Moirin is sitting on the floor playing an awkward game of pat-a-cake with Phoebe — awkward mostly because Phoebe is also holding an apple tart — while Cook stands sternly near a counter clutching her rolling pin like she thinks she's going to need to use it on a fool any minute now.

Priscilla sweeps into the room like a ball of energetic sunshine. "Things have mostly calmed down now!" she announces. "Everybody who was asleep has started sleepwalking, and some of them were rather rough about it, but no permanent damage was done! We're going to move them all into rooms in the East Corridor, take the extra furniture out so they can't hurt themselves in their sleep…"

Finley straightens up from his sullen slouch, and the Butler Mask breaks into a look of terror, and he rapidly tries to shove that feeling back under the cracked mask. "Isla? Is she — ." He doesn't seem to know what he wants to ask with that question, so he stops there.

Croft arrives at this moment at the far kitchen door, the one that leads up to the servants' quarters. He opens his mouth, sees Priscilla, and shuts his mouth again, relieved. He doesn't have to explain. Lady Moore has explained. He… can't really explain.

"Isla's back in her room. She's not hurt. She didn't hurt anybody." Priscilla smiles, moving over to pat Finley's shoulder. "Daisy got a bit bitey, and Sophie's a little shaken up, but Sir Somer's with her, and they're getting the priest to heal her. He's probably there already."

Croft clears his throat diffidently. "Mr. Boutille, Her Grace has asked that you come and assist myself and Burren and Vane with getting the eastern rooms in order."

Finley looks relieved before he nods sharply, Butler Mask back firmly in place. Good, yes, dealing with rooms and order, and not children in a panic and feelings about what's happened to Isla and Daisy and everyone upstairs. That's what a man likes to hear. "Very well."

Finley's barnacle is not so easily dislodged, as Otto clings to him. But, Finley leans down, carefully releasing the younger man. "Otto, Scilla's here. You stay with her, okay?" Finley's tone isn't especially gentle, but it does something of the trick, because Otto turns his eyes to Priscilla, and reaches for her.

"It'll be okay, Finley," Priscilla promises. She gives him a quick little side-hug before it's time to transfer Otto.

"Who is walking the sleepers?" Otto asks Priscilla, and it's a weird question to ask, a little unsettling, especially in his wispy little voice. Take Otto hand, please. He is frightened and he has feelings.

Priscilla is quick to snatch up Otto's hand and pat it comfortingly. "Nobody knows yet. But they aren't very well-directed. It's like someone just told them 'now go fight people', but they aren't helping them any more than that. None of them tried to use any weapons, just their bodies. They aren't sleepwalking very cleverly at all."

Finley doesn't seem to know what to do with any of that information, and it is not a coincidence that he decides wow, look at that time, go go gadget long legs out of there and that entire concept. He has no feelings about Isla being told to fight people and someone using her body, nosirree. Ignore any feelings you might be perceiving in the way he breaks out into a brisk jog towards the Eastern Corridor like he can outrun his own thoughts. Come on, Croft. Manly moving of stuff awaits.

Otto just nods at Priscilla, his tears sliding down his cheeks in the movement, the apple tart clutched in his other hand, crumbs falling to the floor. "The prince did that, too, to everyone who died." In the Fall, he means.

Croft stares at Otto for a moment, stricken, and then turns silently to follow Finley out.

Priscilla squeezes Otto's hand gently. "I don't think it's the same. They used weapons if they had them. But it's scary, not knowing anything. Do you want a hug?"

Otto nod nods, the tears splashing. Yes, he wants a hug. He may or may not let go of the hug once begun. Priscilla enters into these terms and conditions unknowingly.

Priscilla accepts these terms and conditions, as well as the possibility that her hair may end up with apple tart in it, by scooping Otto into a big hug.

Moirin scoops Phoebe into her lap and gives her a hug too. It feels like kind of a hugging moment. Phoebe looks a little alarmed that she's being hugged.

"Apple tart, Lady Moore?" asks Cook gruffly. It's her version of a Hugging Moment.

"Oh, yes, please." Priscilla gets a hand free.

Upstairs

Upstairs, Avrenne makes her way to Ralaea's door. She sets a hand on the threshold, for no reason in particular. Or it might have something to do with that sweat beaded on her forehead, and that greenish tinge to her complexion. Her spine is ramrod straight, and her face is a mask of composure pulled tight enough that it's like emotional Botox. "Siamus. I can poly — " Oh, boy, there's an odd pause in her words, and a swallow. "Polymorph Ralaea. I simply need a line of sight on her." A polymorph would give them time to close the door on her. But at what cost?

"Aye," Siamus says a little wearily, and starts to ease away from the bitey burrito. Something in Avrenne's pause, though, gives him pause in turn, and he looks back over his shoulder at her. His expression changes.

"No," he says. "We can manage. She's secure enough." He glances up at Emerine on the desk. "I'm concerned if we leave her cuffed to the desk she'll dislocate or break something in thrashing about." He glances down at Rae and then back at the hall again reluctantly. "But I suppose that's what we have a priest about for, if it comes to that. If ye get off the desk and out, I'll hold her until then, and then I'll be right behind ye."

Emerine hops right off the desk. "I'm supposed to protect her," she says, heaving a sigh. "From herself too, I imagine. I can hold her if you want to swap places, while you all get the rooms ready."

Siamus surveys Emerine, surveys Rae again. "I'd rather she no' harm herself," he concedes. "But I should see to the rest."

He nods curtly at Emerine. "Aye, all right. Ye take her, and I'll go. We'll close the door but no' lock it, because I don't want to lock ye in wi' her, but I trust ye can keep her from it."

Avrenne doesn't argue the polymorph option, holding in place in between the room and the hallway, watching and waiting. Or possibly waiting out a wave of nausea. Hard to tell.

Emerine nods. "On three. One… two… three." And she moves to hold down the Rae-burrito herself.

Siamus releases Rae and rises smoothly to his feet at three, stepping away as Emerine takes his job at Chipotle. He takes two steps backward, watching carefully to be sure Rae doesn't… explode, or something, and then moves back farther still, to the door. "If ye need anything —" he tells Emerine.

"I'll yell," Emerine says agreeably. "Or knock something loud over. I think I can handle her just fine until you've got somewhere clear to move her to. She's all instinct and reflexes and no strategy like this."

Yes, unlike regular Ralaea who is…hm.

"Aye," says Siamus. "All right." He puts a hand to Avrenne's elbow to usher her gently back into the hall, and shuts the door behind them.

He turns to Lyra without taking his hand from Avrenne's elbow. "Bring tea and ice water to —" What is the nearest reasonable place? He glances at Sophie. "Miss Mercailles's room. For her and for the Duchess." To Sir Somer, he says, "If she's mended, why don't ye take her to her room, and Her Grace can sit wi' her a bit until she's settled."

Does he mean Sophie or Avrenne? It sounds like he means Sophie, but he is giving Sir Somer a Look.

Casker John steps away from Sophie and looks from her to Avrenne. "I think," he says mildly, "that is a fine idea. She is in a shock, at the moment, and I'm sure the Duchess' company would do her good."

Siamus looks a little annoyed. Why does the Light-priest have to agree with him, ugh.

Sir Somer straightens up, a swift bob of his head somewhere between a nod and an abbreviated bow. His eyes go to Avrenne and guilt strikes a hard path across his face before he buries it under a dutiful knight, ready to escort his lady and his Lady to a bedroom just down the hall.

Sophie's breathing is loud and shaky, and she cannot seem to get a lock on anyone speaking, her head moving without clear direction.

If Avrenne has any feelings about being possibly managed, she doesn't show them. She is also very much not acknowledging being unwell. Her head is held as high as ever as she sweeps forward, a hand going out to Sophie. "It is me, Sophie, on your left," she says before she makes contact. She flicks her gaze to Casker John. "Brother Casker, you mentioned you may have some options for nerves? I believe they may be necessary, if later you would be so good as to secure some for the staff who may require it." Not for Avrenne, of course, who is a rock and immovable, etc etc. It's fine.

Wait, when did she discuss options for nerves? Don't worry about it. It's Avrenne. It could be any time.

"Siamus — Finley, Mr. Croft, Mr. Burren, and Mr. Vane are securing the rooms. Mr. Vane should be returning as soon as two are ready for Ralaea and Mr. Shine. Priscilla is downstairs with the children, Moirin, and Cook." This information relayed, she sets Sophie's hand into the crook of her arm, moving with a slow step forward to be escorted by Sir Somer to a room to sit. "Come along, Sophie."

Siamus nods at the information conveyed, and then again — this time in silent thanks — to Sir Somer. He stands for a moment as the trio moves away, and then says to Casker John, "Will ye go and tell the lads in the east corridor that I'll be along presently? I want to see to Lady Moore and the children, first."

Casker John inclines his head gravely. "Of course, sir."

Siamus nods once and heads for the servants' stair down to the kitchen in Lyra's wake.

In the Kitchen

Lyra bursts breathlessly into the kitchen — she's not running, a proper maid doesn't run, but she is walking hella fast — and blurts to Cook, "Tea anworter farrer Greece."

Cook translates this automatically and goes at once to the kettle on the big stove; Lyra whisks a tray from a cupboard.

Otto is still hugging Priscilla, and also eating his apple tart. It's an exercise in skill, determination, and possibly whimsy. He looks up as Lyra comes in. "Is the tea going to be outside the water?" He asks the room at large. He's just curious why it's tea and water, if there's water in the tea, unless it isn't water in the tea.

Priscilla is almost finished with her apple tart. She has one arm securely around Otto's back. Protect the child. She giggles at the question.

"Aye, duck," Lyra tells him. "Tea farranarves an col'worter farrahelf."

"For Miss Mercailles," Siamus corrects, coming in behind Lyra. Avrenne is obviously not unwell, in this house we do not speak heresy. He looks to Priscilla. "How is everyone?" he inquires.

Priscilla smiles at Siamus. "Worried about the new development," she says honestly. "But the apple tarts are delicious."

Siamus gives the apple tarts a cursory look. Hm. Sweets. He nods politely.

Cook, meanwhile, beams at Priscilla.

"I'm not walking," Otto reports to Siamus, helpfully (?). He lifts his head from Priscilla's hug slash bosom. "Do you want an apple tart for your nerves, too?" No, shh, Otto, Siamus has no nerves.

"That's kind of ye, Otto, but no' right now. I've some things to see to upstairs yet." He looks over at Moirin and Phoebe.

"I'm just going to put her to bed, sir," says Moirin, collecting the little girl and rising. "It's near enough to time. I'll sit with her a bit."

"Good, all right. Thank ye, Moirin." To the child, he says — as seriously and courteously as he would to any adult — "Good night, Miss Vogel."

Phoebe nods solemnly at him and puts her head on Moirin's shoulder. The maid dips a curtsey and whisks the child out of the kitchen.

Siamus turns back to Priscilla. "Her Grace is sitting wi' Miss Mercailles in her room. Miss Mercailles' room, that is. If ye can" — he surveys Otto — "ye might go and sit wi' them both?"

Sit with Avrenne, he means. Go and sit with Avrenne.

Lyra and Cook are clattering about with the tray, and have triumphantly accomplished a tea service — apple tarts included, Cook's not letting them go to waste — and a carafe of ice water.

Otto nods, as if Siamus has asked him this directly. "We can sit with them." He pulls out of Priscilla's hug with a loud sniffle, holding onto his apple tart with both hands now. He has not wiped his face, and he looks, despite his actual age being nearly twice that, somewhere around ten-years-old. "After you've seen things, you could have a hug and sit down, too," he offers, as if maybe Siamus hadn't thought of doing that, and here's Otto, helpfully making suggestions.

Priscilla nods. She rests a hand on Otto's back and shoves the last bit of apple tart into her mouth, chewing rapidly. "Absolutely wonderful as always, Cook," she says as soon as she can speak without food in her mouth.

"Thankee, luv," beams Cook, and tucks her hands modestly into her apron pocket, rocking on her heels.

To Otto, Siamus says, "Thank ye kindly. Perhaps later, aye."

Lyra hoists the tray and hustles back out of the kitchen to the servants' stair to take it up.

Otto doesn't wait for anyone to tell him to go, doesn't bow or say anything, he just starts off to Sophie's room at a wandering sort of pace, carrying his own apple tart with him. For his nerves, maybe.

Priscilla looks down at the front of her shirt, which Otto has been crying all over. She gives a little shrug and keeps pace with Otto, heading upstairs.

Siamus heads in the other direction, to join the other men in the east corridor.

In the East Corridor

Finley, in the absence of other Butlers, has taken charge, directing the footmen with clear, if often brisk, directions.

Two of the interior rooms have been nearly completely emptied — the furniture and items in them have been put into another bedroom, one not designated for a sleepwalker. Finley himself is part of a chain of effort in the hallway, minimizing how much each man has to pass around another to get things from Point A to Point B. He is already sweating slightly, a faint flush around his cheeks, and still moving quickly with all the stamina of youth. At the sight of Siamus he pulls up to his full height. "Sir," he says.

Siamus nods at Finley and gives the operation a once-over. "Well done, Boutille," he says curtly, and takes off his (now much rumpled) jacket to toss it aside into the Designated Furniture Room. It's fine, someone will find it later. He begins rolling his sleeves. "When these two rooms are done, we'll move Shine first and then Miss Westwind, as they'll likely give most trouble. Croft, the rest of us can manage this now. Why don't ye take yourself to the stables for a horse and ride down to the Harbor. See how they're faring there, and if they've strong hands to spare, send a pair of them up. We're going to need proper guards, we can't leave the watching of them to the likes of Lyra now."

Croft nods wordlessly and slips out of the room he was working in.

In Sophie’s Room

In Sophie's bedroom, the older woman is lying down in her bed, an extra blanket laid on top of it. Her eyes are closed, but the tears that slide down her face indicate that she's still awake. Sir Somer is a stoic, silent guard at the door, standing at formal attention, his eyes on Sophie. He looks every year of his age, a man who can see 70 on a no longer so distant horizon, but someone has wiped the blood from his healed arm.

Avrenne has sat herself onto a simple wooden chair by Sophie's bedside, one hand holding Sophie's, one on her belly, staring straight ahead at the wall. Her thoughts are her own, and not shown on her face or anywhere else. Some of the green has faded from her complexion, leaving only a touch of paleness behind, the sweat having been mopped up by something or another.

The room is notably warmer than any other not currently with a fireplace or boiler heater, and is emanating gently from the fire mage. It doesn't seem to be bothering her to keep it up, this warmth, but it's Avrenne. It might be difficult to tell what it's costing her. She seems to think it's worth the price, whatever it is.

Lyra sidles in discreetly, after a nod to Sir Somer, to set the tray on the nightstand and bob a curtsey to Avrenne. "Yegreece. Tea an'worter an'tarts fricook," she says in an undertone, after a sympathetic look at Sophie. "Shallybrenga caulcomperss?"

Avrenne flicks her gaze from Sophie to Lyra, considering perhaps. Maybe translating. "Thank you, Lyra. A cold compress would be appreciated."

Sophie doesn't actually speak, but she turns her head, making a soft sound at Avrenne.

Sir Somer takes an involuntary step forward, before he halts, and returns to attention.

"A heavier cloth, with no strong scent of anything, if you would," Avrenne adds to Lyra, in another translation.

"Yegreece." Lyra curtsies again, casts Sophie another look, and hurries from the room.

Otto passes by Lyra in the other direction, ducking his head with a blush, and peeking around into Sophie's room. "Siamus sent us," Otto says quietly. "We're going to sit, too."

Avrenne raises both brows because she cannot raise only one. "I see." She lifts her hand from her belly in offering to Otto. "Come in, then."

Priscilla arrives right behind Otto. "Sir Somer," she says as she passes him, a warm and friendly greeting. She looks about the room for more chairs — she, at least, wants somewhere to sit.

Sophie's room does not house many sitting chairs, as a more humble room of staff who doesn't need to entertain within it.

"I beg your pardon. I'll get some more chairs," Sir Somer offers Priscilla, noting the look. He wasn't expecting multiple people. He glances at Avrenne, who moves her head barely in what can be considered a nod back. Sir Somer cuts a crisp partial bow, and leaves to secure more seating.

Otto doesn't seem to be concerned about the chair situation, coming to sit on the floor next to Avrenne, setting one sticky hand in hers, and resting his head against her legs, hugging onto her. He closes his eyes. This is a safe place.

Avrenne looks up at Priscilla as Otto settles in, her expression grim. "Phoebe?"

"Thank you. Moirin's gone to put Phoebe to bed," Priscilla says gently. She moves over to stand near Avrenne's chair. "You seem to be running low on hands." She looks at the liquids on the nightstand, and then at Sophie. "I'm here too, Sophie."

Sophie nods, not opening her eyes. She would usually turn to look in the direction, but she doesn't now, returning to lying flat on her back. "Scilla," she creaks.

Avrenne flicks her eyes to the tea service. "Tea? Something to eat?" She offers Priscilla. Avrenne is the one who is meant to be drinking and eating, but are we surprised she's just trying to make other people do it? Surely not, by now.

"I already had an apple tart, in the kitchen. Do drink some water, Avrenne." Priscilla pours some cold water into a teacup. She seems to be hovering between the options of holding it out for Avrenne to drink or alternatively accepting Sophie's hand or Otto's hand in the meantime so that Avrenne can do it herself, and leaving it up to Avrenne to choose.

"Oh, if you insist." Avrenne releases Sophie's hand gently, patting it back into place under the covers, to accept her water. "Thank you." She doesn't protest that she's fine, but that's probably because as a general rule she doesn't lie to Priscilla. She obligingly takes a sip. Look at her, drinking water.

Sir Somer returns with two additional chairs, one much more padded than the other, and also more expensive. He sets that one down near Priscilla, and considers for a moment with Otto before putting the simple chair down a little way behind Avrenne. Otto will move if he wants to. Task completed, he resumes his post at the door.

Otto is not moving. Otto is comfortable. Otto is attached to Avrenne like a barnacle. He lives here now.

Lyra slips back in, carrying a little silver tray on which is a plush, velvety cloth folded around ice. The cold meltwater is just beginning to dampen the compress' surface. There are no herbs, nothing fragrant, just a soft cloth and ice.

She brings this over and offers it to Avrenne rather than Sophie.

Oh, gotta put the cup of water down. She took a sip, that counted. Avrenne accepts the cloth. "Thank you, Lyra." She turns to speak to Sophie. "Sophie, I have a cold compress. Would you prefer to put it on yourself, or shall I?"

Sophie's answer is to poke her hand out of the blanket for it, and Avrenne places it in her hand slowly, touching a finger to Sophie's hand first before setting the compress into it. Sophie's fingers close over it, and she brings it up to her face, to set it gently over her eyes, sighing with relief.

Sir Somer mirrors it at his post at the door.

Lyra dips another curtsey and vanishes, but just to linger in the hall in case she's needed.

Priscilla sinks into the chair. "Thank you," she says to Sir Somer.

Sir Somer just nods, holding his post.

Avrenne does not pick the teacup back up, using her free hand to pet along Otto's fluff of curls instead. "Are you alright?" She asks Priscilla, quietly, concern in her tone and in her expression.

Priscilla blinks at her. "Oh, yes, I'm fine. I had an apple tart, it helped quite a bit. I'm wondering how we might most safely get some news from Stormwind."

"The mail is still working," Avrenne says. "Or at least it was up until this morning," she corrects. "I don't know if that's altered, but I don't feel anything unusual, no arcane shift or — " She pauses, concentrating. The heating of the room stops abruptly. Avrenne cannot keep it up and whatever else she's doing. "Or anything magical at all, really. I expect the mail is still functional. I suppose what we really must hope for is that someone is still able to get to it. I don't want to think about what state the streets must be in now." There is something hollow in her eyes, as if she is, despite her words, already thinking about it, or perhaps remembering another time, another street.

In bed, Sophie just cries silently, tears leaking slow paths down her cheeks, pooling a little in the dent of her cheekbone.

"Someone must be close to a solution, I'm sure of it," Priscilla says with confidence. It's very similar to what she said yesterday, and the day before that. She pats Avrenne's knee. "Those were some very timely sheep. Just what we needed."

Avrenne sighs, sitting back into her chair, a small, brief smile in response before she sobers again. "I have not done a polymorph at all in more than, oh, it must be 15 years now. I forgot how terrible the blowback gets. Or maybe my stomach was simply more ironcast at 16."

Priscilla smiles back at her. "That's what the water's for, I suppose. Or the tea?" She hasn't looked too closely at the tea tray.

Avrenne flicks her eyes over to the tray, and then away to somewhere else in the house — possibly towards the kitchens, the place she last knew Siamus to be. "I suppose I should have some tea, so I can say I have, before Siamus sends in the rest of the household to sit on me until I do," she says, her voice dry, but it lacks any bite to it. She looks down to Otto. "Otto, dearest, I need both my hands. You may hold onto my dress."

Otto, who is nothing but a silent floof now, slowly lets go of Avrenne's hand, and grabs a fistful of her dress, settling down again, his eyes still closed.

Avrenne's hand is sticky, but this is not even in the top one hundred times her hands have been so raising three younger children. It's not even the first time in the past week spent with a four-year-old. She just reaches for the teapot to pour herself a cup of tea in the other teacup.

A Little Time Passes

There are footsteps in the hallway; it's Siamus returning, flanked by Finley and Burren. He pauses outside the door of the room. "How is Miss Mercailles?" he asks Sir Somer, low-voiced, though when he looks through the doorway it is Avrenne his gaze settles on.

Avrenne looks like the very picture of health. Well, a picture of some health. Okay, fine, yes, she still looks a little pale, but she doesn't seem like she's about to lose her dinner any time soon, and if she's glowing a little it's with the usual amount of pregnant lady glistening. She is sipping at her tea, speaking in a quiet voice with Priscilla, Otto curled up at her side, his head on what remains of her lap, Avrenne's hand petting his floof of blond curls.

Sophie has a compress over her eyes, and from the way she's breathing, it seems likely she's asleep.

Sir Somer barely turns his head towards Siamus, his voice equally low. "Better, thank you, sir. Sleeping now."

Avrenne's eyes flick from Priscilla to Sir Somer at the sound of his voice, and then immediately to Siamus. There's an obvious brightening of her expression even if she does not smile, and a relaxing of her shoulders. Also, behold, she is Resting, she is Drinking Tea, please do not send more people to sit on her.

Priscilla looks at the door and she does smile, because that's what Priscilla does and she's allowed to.

Siamus surveys the number of people presently assigned to sit on Avrenne and concludes it is satisfactory. He inclines his head courteously to her — so polite! — and then offers Priscilla a slight smile in return. Good job. He knows Avrenne ain't drink that tea of her own volition.

His gaze goes to Sophie and he studies her briefly; he nods at Sir Somer and claps his shoulder in a brief, affirming reassurance. "Aye, good man. All right."

To the group in the room, he says, "We've the first few rooms ready. We'll be moving Shine and then Miss Westwind, to start."

Uh oh. Avrenne looks like she's considering a stand, and she's moving to set down the teacup. Wait, she's paused. She seems to be calculating something.

Math…math. She exhales a sigh and sits back further in her chair, holding onto her teacup. "You will let me know if I might assist in any way?" The way she saying it sounds like she doesn't think Siamus is likely to ask, but she's offering anyway.

Finley, in the hallway, looks confused. How would Avrenne assist? Bounce them off her belly?

Priscilla stands, moving away from Sophie's bedside and closer to the door so that she can speak without worrying about waking up Sophie. "How do you plan on moving them? Can they be sedated?"

"They're already asleep," Siamus says. "I'm no' sure whether we can — sedate them further. I believe we can manage them." He hesitates. "Burren and I can manage them together, one at a time." This is a slightly grudging admission; obviously Siamus could handle them, but, you know, he'll let Burren pitch in. For a treat.

Burren does look like he could handle a small-to-medium-sized gronn.

Avrenne could make that small-to-medium-sized gronn a small sheep, but here she is, sitting delicately like a delicate lady sipping delicate tea from her delicate teacup. Sip, sip.

Priscilla considers this and then nods, satisfied. "I suppose I'd only get in the way with carrying people through the halls."

Siamus would never tell a lady that she might be in the way, so he does not tell Priscilla that. He gives her another faint smile and turns his attention back to Sir Somer. "I'll rely on ye to man this door," he tells him. You're doing great work, Geoff, keep it up.

Priscilla returns to her comfy chair and considers eating an apple tart. A third apple tart. She had her second apple tart earlier.

With that, Siamus steps back to address Lyra. "Ye still have the keys, lass?"

Lyra nods and takes the heavy ring from her apron-pocket.

"To Mr. Boutille, if ye please," Siamus tells her, and then nods at the two men with him. "When we get to Shine's — Finley, at my signal, ye unlock the door and stand aside. Burren and I will take him. Aye?"

Lyra offers the keys out to Finley.

Finley takes possession of the keys, offering his own encouraging smile to Lyra, before he nods sharply to Siamus. "Understood, sir." He seems ready. But then again, Finley hasn't seen the sleepers "walking" yet.

The three proceed down the hall and across the threshold of the servants' corridor, where Shine's door is the first on the left. Siamus signals a halt as though they were on a military mission, and Burren, accustomed to such things, halts at once and is silent. Siamus tilts his head.

There is only silence from Shine's room. The aggressive commotion of earlier has ceased.

Siamus glances sidelong at Burren, and then at Finley. He steps forward to place himself directly at the side of the door, turning to press his shoulder against the doorframe, poised to move. Burren shifts to stand squarely in front of the door but two paces back, and crouches slightly, like a football linebacker.

Siamus glances at the doorknob and then up at Finley. He nods.

Finley, with zero military experience, but with over a decade's worth of working in nothing but subtle glances and covert signals of a servant, manages to follow along with the unspoken. He's still flushed from earlier exertion, but he's calm and dutiful, as he gets the precise key immediately, and unlocks the door, and opens it, without a hitch, like he aced Butlering Grad School.

For a moment, nothing happens. The door swings open on dim silence. Siamus and Burren both wait; Siamus is silently but visibly counting in his head.

When nothing continues to happen, he very cautiously eases around the doorframe to look into the room.

Shine lunges from the shadows behind the door, his arms up and grasping blindly, his mouth wide open in a strange rictus of terror, or on a silent scream. Siamus ducks back and Shine misses him by the narrowest margin.

Burren bulls forward to tackle Shine and gets his arms around the leaner man, pinning them to his sides. For a moment the situation appears under control, but then Shine, struggling with a fury not entirely his own, gets an arm free and begins clawing at Burren's face and head, gnashing his teeth.

Siamus dodges around both of them, gets his arm under Shine's free one, and seizes him in a half-nelson hold. "His feet!" he barks at Burren, who lets go of Shine only to grab him instead by the legs and haul them up. The furious sleepwalker writhes and tries to thrash between them, but they have him securely.

"Go," says Siamus, and they start moving down the hall, Shine jerking and struggling between them.

Finley's face has drained entirely of blood, and there's a look of stark, real terror on his face, his back pressed against the wall, watching Shine like he's not entirely seeing Shine at all — but something else, or someone else, from another time, another place. He shakes his head in disbelief or possibly begging some entity that this is not happening, and he does not move forward to help, holding onto the keys of the house like it might be the only thing keeping him from bolting somewhere else. To Avrenne? To Isla? Away? Unclear.

Ahead, by Sophie's door, Lyra shrinks back against the wall and wrings her hands as Siamus and Burren carry Shine past. She gives Finley a hollow-eyed look of sympathy.

The two men and their sleepwalking sleep-murdering burden vanish around the corner toward the eastern corridor. The halls are held-breath silent for a span, and then there is a howl from Catrin's room, down the servants' hall past Milla's, and the door rattles as something slams into it.

Finley startles, badly, nearly dropping the keys, and his lips move in silent words. Prayers, maybe.

Sophie jolts awake from her sleep with a gasp, and Sir Somer comes even more alert at his post, his hand going automatically to his sword.

Otto whimpers, and holds on tighter to Avrenne. He was not asleep. He is still frightened, and all the apple tarts on the cart will not fix it permanently so long as there is danger.

Avrenne's expression is unaltered. There was a slight movement of her head at the sound, but nothing more. "Shh, shh," she says to Otto, and maybe Sophie as well, petting his hair. "It will be alright. Siamus has it under control." Her voice is firm, calm, assured, and it carries.

Priscilla twitches, but she seems fairly calm.

He might not get the words, but Avrenne's voice gets Finley moving. The door. He has to lock to the door for Siamus and Burren, and his real expression is thrown in and locked behind a Butler's Bland Nothingness, even if he cannot disguise how pale and drawn he is. He rushes down the hall after the lord of the House, ready to serve and lock the zombie sleeper back away behind a door.

In the east corridor, Siamus and Burren move into the first vacant bedroom, still grappling the struggling Shine between them, to await Finley and the keys. Siamus tilts his head to indicate the bare mattress, and Burren nods grimly at him.

Finley arrives at the door, and terror or no, he has his hand on the right key for this door, memorized by feel and sight. He doesn't look into the room, he doesn't look at Shine, he stares straight ahead as he gets a hand on the doorknob, ready for the signal to slam it shut and lock it. For better or worse, Finley's Butler Training did include zombies, if only in a brief but memorable training course.

"On three," Siamus tells Burren quietly. "One, two — three." They heave Shine bodily, tossing him onto the mattress of the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room, and neither of them waits for him to get his bearings; they make a hasty, nimble retreat as the footman is still thrashing indignantly upright.

"Now," Siamus tells Finley, who almost certainly doesn't need to be told.

Finley, for possibly the first time in his adult life at least, genuinely slams a door, and it's locked before the door even has a chance to realize what's happened.

Otto gasps at the sound of the door, covering both his ears, his face pressed hard into Avrenne's leg.

Avrenne hums out a few bars of scales of notes, either to soothe or maybe warm up her voice.

"Good man," says Siamus to Finley. He puts a hand on the younger man's shoulder and squeezes. "Aye? Good man. Good work, that."

He steps back and looks from Finley to Burren and back again. "Miss Westwind next. Emerine's wi'her and can help, I expect."

Finley nods, staring straight ahead at nothing. "Isla…" It's barely the whole of the word, broken off at the last syllable. His voice comes out as a whisper, like he's afraid if he says her name too loudly, he'll hear another thrown body against another door. He swallows, tries again. "Is she… she's like that?"

Siamus hesitates. "She's Isla," he says gently. "Asleep in a nightmare. She's no' — she's thrashed about, a bit, but ye know she couldn't harm a mouse." A pause, and then he adds, "They're all… asleep. Ye saw how clumsy he was, aye? Shine's a marine, one of the best I had, he'd no' be staggering around like that if he knew the world around him. They're still asleep, somehow, blind and chasing whatever phantoms are in their heads."

He is not one hundred percent sure of this himself anymore, but his tone is both confident and soothing. Is that soothing information, Finley? Siamus sure hopes it's soothing. It's the best he's got for ya.

"Someone is making her — no, no, she's…she's just a kid — " Oh boy, is that panic? That might be panic. And then it's gone, swallowed down. House Fallon isn't the only one of Business First, Feelings Later. He nods his head, a servant's gesture. "Miss Westwind, next. Very good, sir." Solace in a role. He's not Finley. He's a Butler. A Butler doesn't have to think about things like what has Isla. He just has to open and shut doors right now. So that's what the Butler will do.

"Come on, then," says Siamus. "Time for Miss Westwind. Her door's no' locked because Emerine's wi'her."

He leads the other two back in the direction of Rae's room.

In Ralaea’s Room

The Rae burrito has gone still, but her eyes are still open, staring towards the doorway. Occasionally a breathy sound escapes her, like a quiet hiss, and her expression, if one can call it that, is one of fearful rage.

Emerine is on the floor with her arms and legs wrapped around Rae, holding her blanketed body firmly in place. She looks bored.

Siamus opens the door and steps in to survey the scene. "We've a room ready," he tells Emerine. "Will she be carried, d'ye think?"

"Oh, she's waiting for an opportunity to strike, I'm sure of it." Emerine chuckles. "But she'll have to be carried."

Siamus nods and considers his approach. Putting a wrestling hold on a young lady seems like poor form. "If we keep her wrapped — how would ye say best to manage her?"

Rae is smol but he probably can't just tuck the bitey burrito under his arm and tote her.

Emerine shrugs. "Use rope to secure her arms over top of the blanket, perhaps. And I can always swap the cuffs to her ankles. I admit this isn't my usual specialty."

"I'm inclined," Siamus says slowly after some deliberation, "to say we should cuff her ankles instead, aye. If we get her arms wrapped tight, I can… carry the top half of her and you her ankles?"

Burren hangs back in the doorway. He looks more than a little creeped out by the open-eyed, softly hissing thing.

"Sure." Emerine looks at the men. "One of you two'll have to fetch rope, I'm sure you sailors know all the good knots. I only have the one pair of handcuffs."

Siamus glances over his shoulder to nod at Burren, who vanishes in search of rope.

Finley does not know how to either tie knots or reach Ralaea, so he remains where he is, ready to lock a door.

Siamus looks back at Rae. Ordinarily he might look a little more enthused at the prospect of tying a young lady up, but he seems pretty grim about it on this occasion, probably for multiple reasons.

"Ralaea?" he says, just experimentally. "Miss Westwind?"

Ralaea's eyes begin to move, slowly to one side, then in a sudden, angry burst, she lets out an enraged scream, twisting sharply in an attempt to get at her captor.

Siamus doesn't step back, but it is through force of will; he definitely did half a flinch back. And then, as if to compensate for almost retreating, he takes two steps closer and crouches down beside her and Emerine. "All right," he says to Rae in a Very Patient Tone. "All right, then."

Burren returns with a coil of rope and approaches to hand it to Siamus. He doesn't approach too closely; he kind of comes halfway and then leeeeeeans out to hand the rope over. Siamus accepts it with a nod.

He looks at Emerine. "If ye uncuff her wrist, I'll get her arm. Burren can hold her while I tie."

Burren looks very much like he definitely doesn't recall volunteering for this particular situation, but he nods resignedly and moves closer, eyeing Rae.

In Sophie’s Room

Otto has curled up against Avrenne's chair at the scream, and is hugging her legs against it. He is not a super effective rope, but he's trying.

Avrenne is attempting to exude calm, sipping at her tea, which is not-so-mysteriously still hot. She is still humming, although it's formed into something like a song, at least varying notes, rather than just warm up scales. She pets at Otto's hair, waiting to see if she will be called for to assist or not. It's one sheep, Siamus, what could it cost? 10 nausea?

In Ralaea’s Room

Emerine nods. She uncuffs Rae's wrist.

Siamus grabs at Rae's forearm in an attempt to guide her arm down and tuck it beneath the blankets with the rest of her. Burren looms alertly.

At Siamus's movement, Ralaea goes suddenly, almost unnaturally still, allowing him a solid hold. Her eyes still drift around in confusion, and she remains rigidly tense.

Her stillness actually briefly gives Siamus pause in a way a struggle might not have. Is she injured? Is she… up to something?

But no. He tucks her arm carefully beneath the blankets, trying not to force the rigid limb too much. He nods at Burren, who kneels down and takes hold of the blanket's edge to hold it tight while Siamus fits a coil of rope around Rae's torso at approximately elbow-level and knots it deftly. (Sailor.)

He glances down to Emerine at Rae's feet, who has snapped the cuffs in place around her ankles, and nods at her. To Rae, he says, "Ralaea, we're going to move ye someplace safe."

Oh no, she heard her name again. There follows another maddened scream and she attempts to launch herself like a fish at anyone in front of her, teeth gnashing.

Emerine holds onto her ankles.

Burren is not paid enough to wrestle Actual Witches, and lets go of Rae's shoulders hastily, so that even as her ankles are secure, Rae's upper body self-launch is unimpeded in Siamus's direction. He attempts to bar her by throwing his forearm swiftly across her chest to push her back down flat.

Instead, Ralaea's teeth meet his arm, and not gently. She clamps down like a tiny purple basilisk, and holds like letting go means her death. At least she's not screaming anymore.

Siamus makes a strangled sound and says, "Mother of —"

Burren guiltily attempts to seize Rae's shoulders again, which doesn't really address the fact that her teeth are in his employer's arm.

Avrenne's humming stops, and there is suddenly no one in her chair at all. Otto is left hugging the air and then the chair, blinking in surprise, as the mage blinks free.

Priscilla scoops Otto towards her when Avrenne vanishes.

"Stay here," Avrenne says, already in the hallway, past Sir Somer, and fast waddling running to Ralaea's doorway.

Finley has that look of terror on his face again, and he steps back and away, which is actually helpful for the pregnant lady barreling through. She takes in the scene in quick flicks of her eyes, and out goes the hand, the arcane sparking rapidly across her skin —

— and there's an adorable, slightly pinkish white sheep, standing dazedly in place between Burren and Siamus. The little handcuffs have been, maybe oddly, polymorphed along with the rest, on the sheep's back legs, and the rope blanket remains in place, possibly by nothing more than the willpower of the mage in the doorway.

Sorry, Rae, you've been officially grounded.

Siamus sits back hard, clutching his forearm. He examines the bloody damage. That little lady has some chompers on her.

Burren is staring at the sheep and then, covertly, at Avrenne. Surrounded by witches.

"Stan," says Siamus Very Calmly — and Burren flinches in a way that conveys to anyone who might not yet know it that when Siamus uses your first name in that particular tone of voice, it is Not Good — "would ye go and fetch Vane and the priest? And then ye can take over whatever's left of the furniture moving, and Vane will switch over here."

"Aye, sir," says the shame-faced Burren, and shuffles away, looking at no one. (Definitely not looking at either of the witches.)

Avrenne can't make eye contact anyway, Burren, she's busy doing witch stuff.

Finley, on the other hand, rallies enough to get to Avrenne, waiting for orders. "Sir," he says, and with Avrenne there, he seems to have a firmer grip on himself.

Emerine picks her half of the sheep, the back half. "Where's the room, let's go."

"Right, aye." Siamus rises to seize the front end of the sheep. He is extremely careful of its whole face-and-mouth region, not least because his arm is now bleeding. "Boutille, lead the way," he directs. "She'll change again in a moment."

And then, in a less direct-y tone of voice, "Thank ye, Your Grace."

Finley does as instructed, turning briskly to get ahead of the sheep brigade, to get to the designated room for Ralaea. He is absolutely ready to lock that door.

Avrenne moves out of the way, keeping her eyes on the sheep. Her expression goes softer, a touch of a smile, probably not directed at the sheep, adorable as she is. "Always, Vice Admiral." She'll have more tea and a sit down later, she promises.

"Great timing, ma'am," Emerine calls down the hall as she moves.

Finley and the sheep-bearers (the name of his next band…) are met partway in their journey by Vane and Casker John. "Vane," says Siamus, and tilts his head down at the Rae-sheep-half he's holding. "Take her."

Vane reaches to relieve his employer of the sheep's front end, and even as he is visibly wondering where a sheep came from or why it is wrapped in a blanket or has cuffs around its hind legs or why it takes two people to carry a sheep… pop! the sheep is Ralaea again.

Vane nearly drops her, but he recovers both his equanimity and his grip faster than Burren and gets a firm hold of her around the shoulders. He hustles onward with Emerine after Finley while Siamus submits grudgingly to the Light-priest's examination of his bite wound.

Avrenne is there herself soon, having remained back and away from the danger sheep but in range and line of sight if a second sheepening was required, reaching out a hand to Siamus' back, just a light, grounding sort of touch. It probably says something of Avrenne that her hand is no warmer than usual. Not at the moment, anyway.

He glances down at her with a weary smile. "No harm," he says, and shows her his mended arm as Casker John releases it. "She's got a jaw on her, that lass." He surveys Avrenne. "I'd no' like to tax ye, pet, if it's no' necessary. I expect these two were the worst of it."

"It's only a little bit of unwellness," Avrenne says, and no one pay any attention to the way she's taking Siamus' arm, as if an escort, but it seems suspiciously like a hug, and she strokes her hand along where he's been mended. Ignore it, Casker John. She's Cold, etc, etc. "Certainly no worse than a touch of seasickness. I would rather make it simple if we can. The screaming is frightening Otto and Sophie." She doesn't mention Finley, or Sir Somer, but Siamus saw Finley himself. "But, they will also calm down once everything is settled again, one way or another." Information presented, options given. He's in charge; she'll support what he decides.

Siamus looks in the direction of Sophie's room and the people there. "I don't like to move Miss Mercailles in her state, but perhaps if you and Lady Moore and Sir Somer were to take her and the children to a farther room for a time? I don't expect they'll give us real trouble, but I don't know… what state Daisy and Catrin and Milla will be in." He hesitates. "Finley's a touch concerned for Isla."

"Of course." Avrenne's eyes flick to where Finley and the Sheep-Bearers are. Her chin lifts up a notch. "I suppose it's too much like to what he saw before, with Otto's mother, in the Fall. But p does not equal q simply because they look similar. They are not dead and risen. This is something else. He must keep that in mind." Finley's trying, okay, Avrenne.

She tilts her head to look at Siamus. "I can also close the door and sing loudly enough to cover the sounds," terrifyingly loud, one might even say, "it will give them something else to focus on rather than listening for the next sound. But I will not be able to hear if you call for me, if I do so."

He weighs this. "Close the door and sing to them, aye. It may soothe the sleepers as well, who can say?" Because obviously even with the door closed they're all going to hear her.

"If ye like," offers Casker John mildly, "I'll stay about in the hall outside the room. That way I'm near if anyone needs healing again, and I can let the Lady Fallon know if she's needed."

Avrenne pauses. "Isla will likely have skinned her knees," she says quietly to one or both of them, something in the tone, a mother's concern and chagrin both maybe. She squares off her shoulders. "I will hear a knock at the least." Probably.

"I can manage skinned knees," the priest tells her with gentle humor. "I've managed worse."

"I'll have ye help us directly when it's Isla’s turn, then," Siamus tells him. He smiles down at Avrenne. "Go and sing to the children, if ye please, mo chroí, and we'll manage the rest of them as quick and quiet as we can."

Avrenne's hand is moving probably before she gave it full permission, and by the time she realizes, it's too far along to halt it without it being more awkward, so she lets it finish its course up to Siamus' hair to brush some of it back from his face. It might be taking some real effort to not kiss him in front of the priest. To be fair, he's seen them do that once before. But still. Ahem. Serious Duchess. "I have every faith in you." She moves to step away, disentangle herself from her husband, and return to the women and children.

Siamus reaches after her, to catch her hand and lift it briefly to his lips. What? It's chivalry. Stop looking at him, Light-priest.

Then he turns away and strides decisively after Finley and the (no longer a) Sheep-Bearers. He rubs his forearm meditatively as he goes.

That girl has some chompers.

In Sophie’s Room

In Sophie's room, Priscilla is kneeling on the floor, having gone back to holding Otto in her arms.

Otto is fine with this change of circumstances. Priscilla gives S-tier hugs.

Avrenne returns to the room, only very slightly paler, and this time shuts the door behind her. "Now. Ralaea and Mr. Shine are well in hand. The worst is over." She says it so confidently that it must be true. "Shall I sing something, Otto?"

Sir Somer looks less convinced, but he remains at his place at the door, not blocking it, his hand still on his sword.

Sophie is sitting up in bed, her head pointed towards Avrenne. She seems better than before, but it's clear she's frightened, and holding it together by a thread.

Otto nod, nods into Priscilla. "Okay."

Priscilla gasps. "Oh! What are you going to sing?"

Avrenne clasps her hands over her belly, and because really only Priscilla has a line of sight on her, she's the only one who can see Avrenne still calculating the specifics. Uh. Something. "Shall I sing something Siamus taught me? It's a lullaby, for the baby."

Otto raises his head from Priscilla. "Can the baby hear it?"

Avrenne gives him a small smile. "Yes."

Otto nods again. "Okay." He sits back a little, holding out his hand for Priscilla. "Can I pick the next one, after the baby's turn?"

"Very well. Then perhaps we shall have Priscilla pick the one after." Avrenne hums again, a scale up and down, and starts to sing. It's the newest lullaby, a song about laying down one's weary head, listening to the sounds of gulls calling, as ships sail to the west. Avrenne does not sing it softly, raising her voice up enough to fill the room, holding back from overwhelming, but the room is small enough that all that's audible is her voice, the sounds of the men working in the corridors covered by an opera singer singing in a box.

Priscilla holds Otto's hand, smiling as Avrenne sings. She looks very proud and not at all scared of the sleepwalkers being moved through the hallway. "That's lovely," she says when the lullaby finishes. "Otto, what song do you want her to sing next?"

"The small and white one, about the flower," Otto says, and he sounds a little drowsy himself, his eyelids at half-mast, and his grip on Priscilla's hand limp.

Sophie lies back down. "Oh," she says quietly. "Isla's song." There's a catch in her voice, and she presses her hands to her mouth. She both looks and sounds twenty years older than she is, a weariness sitting heavily on her.

"Yes, it was always a favorite of hers," Avrenne agrees, and she does not waste any further time in starting to sing it, her voice unfolding in that darker richness of her soprano. Most likely it is meant to be sung slowly, with pauses intended to invite the listener to relax and rest, but Avrenne keeps it tighter, leaving less room for other sounds to fill the gaps. It is not a complex song, of only so many words, but she repeats it three times through.

On the third repetition, Priscilla joins in. She's an alto, and her voice is good enough, although there's nothing particularly special about it.

Avrenne's eyes warm further as Priscilla sings.

Otto curls up around Priscilla. Comfy cozy fren sing song. He closes his eyes again.

As the third repetition comes to a close, Avrenne lets the song end, rather than go for a fourth, still standing near the door. Her positioning may be in case she needs to listen for a knock on the wall, or maybe it's acoustics, but her expression gives neither away.

"Scilla turn," Otto mumbles. This is the Pact that has been struck.

"Lordaeron Fair?" Priscilla suggests. She is now petting Otto's hair.

Avrenne's expression goes wistful, and there's a wave of something like sorrow and nostalgia both that goes through her, before she tips her chip up, smiling at Priscilla. "An excellent choice. I believe I recall that one." She hums the first few notes of the intro, and launches into it, her voice sweet and carrying.

Sophie smiles, resting as best she can with the singing so loud, but at least it's in what seems to be pleasant memories, rather than waiting for the next scream from the sleepers. Sir Somer's eyes fill with tears, and he's looking at Sophie with such obvious love that he might as well have just said something out loud, but no, he's just there, at the door, in his own memories thinking of a lifetime past.

Priscilla points at herself, tilting her head a little in an unspoken question — Do you want me to sing it with you?

Avrenne's eyes smile, even if she can't easily smile and form her mouth properly for the notes, but she nods. Link up with her. There's no instructor here to grade the performance, despite the way Avrenne singing sounds as if she expects the Russian judge is listening to her, judging her every note for clarity and projection, for exactness of her phrasing and pitch.

Priscilla waits until the end of the first verse and then joins in. She is unconcerned about her rating from the Russian judge. She just likes the song.

The Russian Judge better not judge her friend's singing, or Avrenne will sheep him. She knows someone with handcuffs, too. This is a threat.

Avrenne's own singing remains as it ever is, that sound of someone whose natural voice has been shaped and refined, until just about all of its original form is lost but for that undefinable element to it of a dark soprano, a sound caught in between high and low both. The song is not meant for this sort of dramatic shaping, a folk song not a high opera one, but this is the only way Avrenne knows how to sing, so she does, repeating the song twice, to stretch it out.

Outside Sophie’s Room

Meanwhile, outside the room, the work of sleeper transfer has continued, quietly and less eventfully now that the two spiciest burritos have been handled. Daisy is wrapped and transported safely by Vane; Siamus handles the bundling and toting of Isla himself, once Casker John has seen to the girl's bloodied knees and palms from her repeated tumbles.

The only two further moments of drama are when the careless Vane, accustomed to the mild-mannered waking version of Milla, nearly gets his ear bitten as he wrangles her blanketed form to her new room, and when Finley opens Catrin's door and Siamus has another Swearing Moment at the scene within. Casker John is again summoned to handle the maid's inadvertent self-inflicted injuries, and then Siamus and Vane carry the subdued Catrin between themselves to her new room.

Once the sleepwalkers have been confined to their new quarters, Lyra is dispatched to the kitchen for strong black tea, and Vane and Burren — not yet forgiven but eager to prove himself — are given watch over that wing, a chair planted at each end of the corridor.

Siamus and Finley are on their way to rejoin the group in Sophie's room when there is the muffled commotion of a new group arriving below, and then footsteps on the stairs.

"Sir," says the white-faced Croft breathlessly, and gestures at the three hulking gentleman behind him and the wiry, squint-eyed Thredd. "They've come to help."

"Good." Siamus assesses the group and nods. "Tarrant, you can join Vane and Burren in the east corridor. Croft will show ye the way. What's it like at the harbor?"

"They be wolkin', sar," says one of the men. "We'm bar most'em inney houses, McCall be arganizin'. Somma leedies an' chillern gone wi' neighbors when they menfolks wolkin'. We trey'n got noon, no, so we commere."

"Thank you," says Siamus. "We're obliged. I'll go down there first thing in the morning and make sure McCall has what he needs to keep it in hand, as well."

"Lyra?" asks Thredd.

Siamus tilts his head down the hall in the direction of the eastern corridor. "She's on her way up wi'tea for the lads. She's all right."

Thredd nods and takes the last steps two at a time, then vanishes around the corner in search of his sister.

"Milla's well," Siamus tells Croft. "She's in her new room. I must go see to the Duchess and the rest, aye? Once ye've got Tarrant wi' the other two, ye can take these two down to the kitchens and the three of ye get a hot drink and some food in ye. In three hours, ye can shift watches wi' the three up here, aye?"

Croft nods and leads his troupe of shipwrights up and away toward the east corridor.

Siamus and Finley continue in the other direction, back to Sophie's room.

Casker John is waiting patiently in the hall outside the door again, and Siamus nods courteously to him. "Ye can have a rest now," he tells the priest. "Down to the kitchens if ye like, wi' some of the other lads, or — wherever it is ye like." What do Light-priests do in their spare time? Who knows?

Casker nods amiably. "I'll be in the kitchens, then, if ye need me."

Siamus pauses outside Sophie's door and knocks politely. Can he be heard over the singing from within? Who knows? Let's find out.

The singing stops — at least Avrenne's does — and there is only a moment before Lady Fallon emerges, belly first, and her forward momentum suggests that she is ready to move quickly into the hallway and along to whoever needs to experience bovine confusion. She is briefly surprised to see that the person knocking is Siamus himself, but from the way her face relaxes, relieved to see him. "Siamus."

He smiles faintly down at her. "Your Grace. They've all been moved, and I've set a watch overnight, at least. We'll revisit the shifts in the morning. Croft's brought some lads up from the Harbor to help. They say the same's going on down there wi'their sleepers, but it's being managed for now. I'll ride down there in the morning as well." He looks past Avrenne into the room and lowers his voice. "Everyone's well?"

Avrenne is not moving her head at all, not a great sign, and she has that lingering paleness to her complexion, but she seems otherwise fine herself. "Yes. I don't know how well they will sleep tonight, but for the moment they are more tired than frightened." It's been an intense past hour or so, and some people are mere mortals. Some shadow of a thought flickers across her face, a rise of something that looks almost like panic, but it's banished back, as she clasps her hands over her belly. Calm. Assured. Finley is right there, and Avrenne will not panic the child man grown. "How would you like to arrange sleeping tonight, should any other who sleeps become afflicted?" Do they do it in shifts? Pre-emptively burrito the ones who sleep?

Siamus considers this. He looks to Finley. "Are ye tired? D'ye think ye could relieve Sir Somer in watching over Sophie so the man can have a little rest? And then ye can trade off again? Sophie needs her rest, obviously. I can bring the priest back up as well, if ye think it wise, and he can take shifts with ye."

Finley nods in agreement to Siamus. He is still hiding behind his Butler Mask, but it's serving him well enough. He can take shifts with Sir Somer for Sophie. Maybe eventually he'll even let go of these keys he's holding onto like they're some sort of touchstone of reality.

Siamus glances back into the room. "Otto needs his sleep, obviously. I'd no' like to ask Lady Moore to stay awake either to keep watch on him. Perhaps in shifts wi' Lyra and Moirin, to look in on one another?" His gaze goes back to Avrenne and he studies her. "Ye should rest as well, mo chroí, and I'll sit up wi' ye while ye do."

There are more footsteps on the stairs, and Siamus glances over his shoulder. Miss Curran, of all people, is coming up. She is, as usual, utterly composed, dressed in a trim forest green woolen, high-collared skirt suit, a cloche hat and kid gloves. She is pulling the gloves off casually as she approaches.

"Miss Curran?" says Siamus with surprise.

Avrenne is spared any response to if she'll be sleeping again, ever that night by Miss Curran's arrival, and her brows raise, her eyes flicking from Siamus to Miss Curran, taking in the other woman's manner as if trying to assess what her presence here means. It would probably be easier if Avrenne didn't suspect this might be the same way that Miss Curran would announce both that there is a new shipment of tea and also the heralding of the end of the world, so all Avrenne can do is wait for more information to find out which one it is.

"Sir. Your Grace. I've come from the city," Miss Curran says.

It is not entirely clear how she came from the city, as the road through Goldshire is impassable and she doesn't have the look of a lady who just took a rough cross-country route, but who knows? Miss Curran seems capable of looking like this in any situation.

"The sleepers in the city have begun rising from their beds, most of them violently. As I know you're housing several here, I thought I'd best check on the situation in case you need additional hands."

"Ta's all right?" Siamus asks.

Miss Curran nods tranquilly. "I stopped at the townhouse and advised that she and Barbour and Alys stay put for the time being. For the most part, the Stormwind Guard seems to have the matter in hand."

Both Finley and Avrenne react to that last of the guards: Avrenne with nothing more than a flicker around her eyes, a squeezing of her hands. Finley is more obvious, something like a flinch, and the two of them share a look, some communication passing between them, but neither say anything.

Miss Curran seems to catch the look. She removes her hat, looking like a lady who's never had hat-hair a day in her life, and drops her gloves into it. "It is not plague," she says crisply. "It is not contagious in a conventional way. And it is being managed as carefully as possible. When possible, the sleepwalkers are being subdued and confined so as to do no harm. It should be possible, in theory, to wake them eventually. There are people working on a solution."

Priscilla gives Otto a little kiss on top of his floofy hair and releases him to go greet Miss Curran in the hall. "I knew someone was working on it," she says. "Hello, Miss Curran."

"Of course," Avrenne agrees. Any opinion she has on how that working is coming along or the situation in Stormwind is hidden behind her own composure.

Otto stays where he is, holding out a hand to Sir Somer as Priscilla leaves. Take Otto hand, please.

Sir Somer hesitates only a moment, before moving his post further into the room to hold onto Otto's hand.

"Good evening, Lady Moore," says Miss Curran. "Are you well?"

I mean, it's been An Evening, but who knows?

"I am, thank you." Priscilla smiles at her. "Your timing is excellent. I was just wondering what was happening in the city."

"I expected that if things had taken a turn here, you all would be." Miss Curran nods.

"Thank ye, Annai," says Siamus. After a pause, he asks, "How are they working on it? Who is working on it? Do they know the cause?"

"There is… a situation in the Emerald Dream," says Miss Curran. "But the kaldorei have retrieved their Archdruid, and are devising a strategy."

Siamus raises his eyebrows. "The — Emerald Dream?"

"A spirit world between the living and the dead, the realm of the green dragons, and a font of dreams and nightmares. Druids can… walk there deliberately, in sleep and sometimes physically, and the kaldorei sleepers help to tend it. Some contamination has taken hold, but it is known and I believe will be addressed." Miss Curran smiles politely.

Siamus stares at her for a long moment. "Ah," he says.

"The Emerald Dream!" Priscilla looks both delighted and relieved. "Oh, that's — that explains so much."

Avrenne is taking in the information and adjusting formulae silently. If she has more questions, like how Miss Curran knows this, she's holding them for now, for one reason or another. Some of that might be from a headache she hasn't yet shed from two blinks and three polymorphs for the low powered mage. She's also keeping her hands to herself, her wrists resting on her belly, and she moves her hands off her own dress at the mention of contamination.

Finley looks like he would like to wake up from whatever weird nightmare he's currently in, thank you.

"Can ye — do anything about it?" Siamus asks cautiously, because he has one (1) more information than some of the others here.

"I'm afraid not," says Miss Curran. "Not at present, at least. Although I'm happy to take shifts watching over our sleepers here, as needed."

Avrenne's canny eyes flick from Siamus to Miss Curran. Hm. Curious.

Finley just steps in closer to Avrenne, some unspoken decision made. "I can take over for Ge — Sir Somer for Sophie, and get Otto to his room, if he'll go."

Avrenne moves out of Finley's way, closer to Siamus in the hallway. "Otto will need someone to sit with him until he falls asleep." She sounds very sure of that, and Finley nods wearily. Yeah, he suspected.

"I can sit with Otto," Priscilla volunteers.

Finley looks relieved. He does not want to be sitting with a scared young man for who knows how long.

Avrenne's hands move slightly, but she doesn't release her grip on herself. "Would you like some tea to stay awake, or once he's down sleep yourself? We might need to take sleep in shifts, to be on watch should someone fall afflicted." She flicks her gaze back to Miss Curran. "If that might still happen?"

"It is possible, but I believe less likely that new sleepers will be taken now. It would still be prudent to sleep in shifts, I should think. As I said, I'm happy to aid with that, as you like."

"Oh, I am quite awake right now." Priscilla chuckles. "I can sleep later tonight."

Avrenne really is very carefully not moving her head, so she doesn't nod. "Very well. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Curran, it is much appreciated."

Finley slips into Sophie's room, and there's a brief discussion. Sir Somer emerges soon after, holding Otto's hand, nodding politely and deferentially to Miss Curran.

Miss Curran smiles equally politely back at him.

Priscilla reaches for Otto's other hand. "Otto, we found out who's walking the sleepers," she says gently. "It has to do with the Emerald Dream. Have you heard of the Emerald Dream before?" She starts trying to guide him away towards his own bedroom.

"Are dreams supposed to have colors? Which one do I usually go to?" Otto asks sleepily, easily tugged along by Priscilla. Sir Somer comes along with, because he wants to know the answers to those as well at this point.

Avrenne watches silently, her head held high.

"Whom shall I keep watch on?" Miss Curran asks.

Siamus considers. "Perhaps ye can sit outside Sir Somer's door for a time?" he suggests, and glances down at Avrenne for yea/nay.

"You may need to convince him to not sleep with his sword at his bedside," Avrenne says, and then considers. "Or wait until he's fallen asleep and then remove it from reach should he be afflicted." She looks away from the three walking to Otto's room. "He won't want to sleep for longer than a few hours before relieving Finley." He's a Knight, after all. Ignore his creaking joints.

Miss Curran nods. "I'll see to it, then," she says, and sets off briskly after the other three.

Avrenne reaches back to shut Sophie's door, trapping Finley inside forever. Not really. The man has the keys.

She settles her hands back in front of her, which is a little odd. She could be touching Siamus, and she's not doing that. She is also not quite looking at him now. There's nothing really left for her to do or organize or manage. Uh oh.

Siamus studies her. "Shall we go to your room, mo chroí?" he asks her low-voiced. "Ye've done a share of magic this evening and the business is taxing enough on any of us even without that. Ye should take some rest, for the child."

"No," she says too quickly, her voice tight, before she squeezes her hands together, tips her chin up, attempts a softer tone. "That is, might we go to yours, and perhaps discuss the options we have at present?" Maybe she just wants the darker room.

Or maybe hers just still has lingering evidence of a minor house fire.

"Of course," he says, and offers his arm to escort her.

She hesitates, before reaching out a hand to touch him, lightly. There it is. The heat under the skin, the dead giveaway that she's afraid. It isn't intense, not yet at least, but there is no way to play it off as just warm hands from holding them together. She looks straight ahead at their course.

Siamus considers her profile for a moment, then puts his hand over hers on his arm and escorts her down the hall away from the recent chaos, toward his room.

Avenne holds it together pretty well until his door comes into view, and for some inexplicable reason, for Siamus at least, her hand goes briefly hotter, twitches under his, before she presses her lips firmly together, and seems by sheer willpower to force it lower, and doesn't pull away from his arm. She says nothing at all until his door is opened, they are both inside, and it is shut behind them, and even then all she says is his name, quietly.

Siamus takes her gently by the arms and turns her to face him. He peers down at her. "Is it… Lordaeron?" he asks her. "Or only the magic?"

She might be facing him, but she certainly isn't looking at him, and her hands have hesitated between them, reached out for him and then stopped, curled in on themselves. Her head is down, eyes averted. She takes a breath, and says in that sort of voice someone uses when they're forcing a control they don't really have. "I cannot go to sleep." She says it slowly, but her pace picks up, touches of fear at the edges of her words. "As dangerous as Mr. Shine and Ralaea might be, I will be a hundred times worse if the Emerald Dream's sleeping sickness takes me again — " Wait, again? What does she mean again? Avrenne hadn't been having nightmares at all, at least, not four days ago. "And does not release me." She takes a breath, leaving a pause as she gathers her composure.

Siamus digests this information in silence. He lets go of one of her arms to take her chin lightly and tip her face up. "But ye must sleep, pet, for yourself and the good of the child. What d'ye mean… again?"

She lets him move her head, and he can see the struggle — she tries to lift her eyes to his, and cannot do it, dropping them to somewhere around his chin. Whatever she has to say, she really does not want to say it. Her hands clasp together and pull into her chest, and she has to clear her throat before she can speak.

"The nightmares started…three days ago." When he left to deal with the issues in Stormwind. "I have never, in all my life, dreamt so…vividly. I… I was afraid, and at the end, angry and — my hands, here, not in the dream, did as they always do. The fire comes whether I call it or not when I — " Her lips tremble and she speaks faster, because delaying will not make it any better. "There was a fire, in my bed. I woke, and I handled it. I was concerned for the child, so I went to see Brother Casker, as the closest healer. There was nothing wrong with the baby," she adds immediately, reassuring, although he probably figured that by now as she hasn't said anything before. Odd that she doesn't mention herself, or maybe not so oddly by now.

"But, that was — I woke up. If I do not wake up, if I am trapped there, and whatever this is takes me, uses me against you, if we do not contain me, I could kill everyone, destroy the house." It's not entirely clear from her tone if she says house, the physical building, or House, the concept. They might be one and the same enough at the moment. "Exactly as my dreams have been warning me I will do."

Siamus tenses, a shock running through him, and stands silent and staring. "Ah," he says at last, rough-voiced. "Mo ghra, my love."

He crushes her against him in an embrace, one hand sliding up into her hair, and clasps her to him. "Tides ha'mercy, Avrenne, if you or the child was harmed while I wasn't here —"

Her hair, which is up, when it has been down again ever since Ralaea went under.

Siamus draws back just enough to peer down at her again. "Were you harmed? Ye set the bed afire, Avrenne?"

She does not want to say it. But the hesitation is enough of an admission anyway, and she knows it. "Yes," she says, so quietly it's barely audible. To both, it would seem. There's no sign of anything now, but there wouldn't be, not if she saw Casker John, there'd be no more a sign than his own from Ralaea's bite earlier. And the door between their rooms is closed, when it normally would stand open. She hurries to add, as if she might erase the first word, "Only the first night. I took precautions after."

"Avrenne," he breathes, and takes her by the arms again to set her a step away from him so he can scrutinize her, looking stricken. "Ah, pet."

He releases her abruptly and crosses to the door between their rooms, and opens it to look into hers.

Her hands go out, much too slow to catch at him, and there's the start of his name, a breath, before she sets both hands against her face, pressing hard enough that she's going to leave faint marks behind, as she stays where she is.

The most telling sign is that when he opens the door, he's hit by an all too familiar scent of smoke, lingering in the air, caught on too much fabric to have been cleared entirely. Her bed is intact, at the least so she did not burn it down around her, but everything flammable about it has been changed — the bedding and pillows are entirely different, clearly sourced from another room, mismatched against the bright whites and gold of her room, the cover too small for this particular bed, maybe purposefully, so that none of it touches the edges. There's faint scorch marks on one side of the bed, near the headboard, where Avrenne's head would have been, marring the perfect white of the wood. It will need to be repainted, but it has not yet been done. The draping veiled canopy is gone.

At the side of the bed closest to their connecting door, on the floor, is a loop of rope attached to a small canvas bag — from flour or sugar originally it's unclear — filled with sand. Presumably, this may have something do with the aforementioned precautions. Tying herself up, or maybe just her arms, forced held over the side of the bed away from anything flammable.

Siamus takes in this scene wordlessly. He moves into the room, vanishing briefly from her sight, to pace around Avrenne's bed, touch the scorch marks on the headboard and consider the relative position of the pillows, to step back and survey the rope-and-sandbag situation.

He turns abruptly and strides back into his own room, crosses it urgently and sweeps Avrenne into another fierce embrace. "Avrenne, love. My heart. Ye were burned? How badly? Tides below, what a fright ye had."

The curl of her shoulders might read more like shame rather than fear now, but either way she's moved into the shelter of him, her face still in her hands, her words only slightly muffled for being directed into his chest. "It was not as bad as I have been before." That is kind of a still pretty large range, Avrenne. Don't make the man have to quiz you down, you know what he's asking you. "My hands and arms. My chest. And my face." An accounting of where. Now for the how. "Badly enough it would have left a mark, without the priest." And then, two quick breaths and, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He shudders, exhales at her accounting of the burns, and his arms tighten around her. "Sorry? My joy, sorry? For what? Ah, my star. I'll make a gift to the priest. If he'd no' been here…."

"I would have teleported to Stormwind. It would have been another twelve minutes to the Cathedral, if I could keep up the blinks, seventeen minutes if I no longer could, assuming the same ground speed," Avrenne says, and it's that tone of someone who did the math earlier, and so she has the answer at hand, not that she's doing it now. Even in a panic, even upset, it's still Avrenne, and math and decisions made with logical calculation rules over all. She just measured the shortest distance and went there first. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I'm not supposed to be a danger to you, to the child, the children, the House. I'm so sorry."

Siamus takes her by the shoulders to place her a step back again so that he can look down at her, black-eyed and severe. "You're no danger to me, Avrenne. I know it. I'm only sorry I wasn't there with ye, to help. Ye can't sleep alone, mo chroí, not until this is all past, ye must have someone wi'ye at all times, to wake and help ye if something should happen. I'm home now, aye? I'll watch over ye."

Avrenne lowers her hands from her face slowly, and at last looks at him, hollow eyed. "I would not have feared it if I slept and it happened. Even if I did not wake, with you here, it would have been no worse than avoiding any open flame. But that was before. If whatever that is making them attack, takes me… you must understand — the fire I will summon, you cannot blow it out. Water will not douse it. You could cover it, deprive it of air, and it will burn on and on. It will burn anything I touch. It's magic. Only I can put it out. And I won't know. I cannot imagine a worse nightmare.

"I've been thinking how you might contain me if I do have to sleep eventually." She sounds so much like herself, that distant, almost distracted tone like she's thinking out loud for him, but there's fear in her eyes despite her calm reporting, information presenting, as she does for him. "You might tie me up, on something I cannot tip over. If you keep my hands only on myself, it won't burn me, so long as nothing else touches it. Here, this, no higher than this," she says, gesturing with one index finger of her right hand to the terrible bracelet of scar tissue on her left wrist. "This is where the fire will start, just above. But I don't know if whatever that is will use me more than the others, or what it will do of what I can do. If I can still blink, there is nothing that will hold me. No rope, no chain, no man, nothing. And at that, all that is left is to just cut them off. Cut them off, better that, than the alternative." Somehow, we have arrived to a discussion of the possibility of cutting off his wife's hands, in case Siamus' night hadn't been horrifying enough.

Siamus makes a choked sound that is probably not a laugh. He shakes her — just once, very gently — by her shoulders. "We're no' — Avrenne, we're not going to cut your hands off. Ye've had a fright, my love, and there's the child, and ye've — it's not clear thinking, Avrenne. You're a canny lass, but this is — the tiredness talking, the nightmare, aye? Ye do have to sleep, and ye have to do it to remedy this, aye? Give me your hands."

He does not wait for obedience, in fact, but lets go of her shoulders to take both of her hands in his.

Avrenne stares at them with that hollow fear, and her hands are hot. "That is what you do in my dream," she tells him, in a disconnected calm tone. "And then the fire takes you from me. I can't control it, and I can't stop it, and I watch as you die, because of me." She swallows, her expression going more intent, and the warmth of hands recedes, dimming, as she speaks, with conviction and resolve, "I will not sleep. Miss Curran said they are working on a solution. I will hold out for as long as I can. It may be enough time." She raises her eyes to Siamus and holds them there on a fixed point of him.

Siamus is ashen, but he doesn't let go of her hands or take his gaze from hers. He lifts one of her hands to his lips and kisses her fingers, still holding her gaze. "I have your hands. I'm no' dead. Avrenne, the fire, setting the bed — that's a real thing. That's a thing we will solve. But the dream was a dream. I'm no' —" He falls silent a moment, considering. "I'm no more burned to death by ye — and nor will I be — than I am drowned by my own dreams. Nor…." Another pause.

"I had one as well. A nightmare. I dreamed — the Admiral came to see me. I'd — chosen wrong, at Theramore. My oaths to Starmwend. He was disappointed, I'd — done everything wrong, he'd rather I'd died for Kul Tiras than… any of what I've done since."

He takes a deep breath. "I dreamed ye were there, and ye told me I was no man of my word, and that I mustn't come back to ye again. And I dreamed… in the dream, I woke, and it was Alsbeth there wi' me." He continues to regard Avrenne, steadily and somberly. His thumbs move idly across her knuckles, stroking her hands. "It was — I woke in a sweat, Avrenne, I woke in… a fright. But — I know ye, and I know ye'd no more burn me to death than ye would tell me never come back to ye, or than I would… go back wi' Alsbeth, go back on my oaths to Starmwend. It's lies, Avrenne, and it's the worst lies that… whatever is doing this can tell us, but it's lying. Ye know yourself, and I know ye."

That flash of rage in her eyes, the way the colors in them shift a little, at the mention of his dream father's disappointment, of the dream Avrenne's lies, and it remains for a moment, but the longer he keeps hold of her hands, the more the fire's grip on her slips.

Her protective anger fades into something softer, and as he comes to the end of the thought, her hands have cooled until they are no warmer than any ordinary woman's would be. She moves them in his, pulling away — no, not pulling away, adjusting the grip, lacing her fingers with his, and holding on tight, as she steps closer, staring up at him with obvious love and trust in her eyes, the truth of the depth of both in her fingers between his own.

"There," he says softly, and lifts her hand to kiss it again, still holding her gaze steadily. "That's my lass. My good girl. And I'm as safe wi' you as you are wi' me, aye?" He pauses, and his expression goes a little strange; he might, now, be trying not to laugh. "I don't recall I've ever been so startled by a sheep, but not so startled as Shine and Miss Westwind were, I expect."

He tugs on their linked hands, drawing her toward the bed. "Will ye sit wi' me? I do think ye should sleep, for your own and the child's sake, but sit wi' me and talk a time, and if ye don't think ye can sleep, I can send for — Miss Curran, or the priest, and see if there's anything can be done. Aye?"

Avrenne is easily tugged along, in no small part because she seems unwilling to move more than a few inches away from him, like they're trying to share the same umbrella. Her face goes strange as well, like she might cry and laugh at the same time, or in turns, and eventually it settles on a small smile. "Oh, how I missed you," she says quietly. She nods, very slowly, that sense still that she's trying not to move her head much. "It very disorienting being a sheep. Your sense of your legs doubles, or your arms move, and you don't feel as though you understand how to use your face or your neck." Oh, that's the voice of experience. At some point, Avrenne was a sheep, and took notes.

Siamus laughs softly. "How were you a sheep, my pet? Tell me." He sits down on the bed's edge, drawing her down with him, and then lets go of her hands to take her hips instead and shift her into his lap.

She curls up there, not quite as small as she used to be, with an extra passenger, but relaxing against him all the same. "It was considered a standard practice and training for the exercise to learn how to do it. One is turned into a sheep, repeatedly," she says and sighs in some memory. "One is simply never one long enough to get one's bearings. It's why it's perfect when one needs to stop an attack, or someone needs to be incapacitated without harming them. After one grasps the basics, then one practices turning small creatures into sheep, then larger creatures, and finally people. I have not done so at all since I passed my last test with the minimum requirement, some oh, fifteen years ago."

"Well, it seems ye've no' forgotten the knack of it," he says, stroking her shoulder. "And it was quick wits and quick work. But I can see it took out of ye, as well, what wi' managing all the rest." He rests his chin on her head. "Ye do a brilliant job, pet, of seeing to them all. Calm, decisive, thinking of your people. How ye sang to them. They're sure of ye, and ye make them safe. But ye know you're safe in turn, aye? I'll see ye safe. I'm sorry I wasn't here, the night of."

"No, don't — you could not have known. I didn't know. I suppose I thought… I was immune." One hand strokes a light path along his shirt, tracing the circles of the buttons in an idle geometric-shape-finding way. "But it is more accurate to say, on reflection, that I am protected, and I know it." She sounds quieter, presses her face a little more into him. "I cannot express how grateful I am to you, how glad I am that you are here. I am not afraid of what is happening, of what might come, because I know that it will not be like before. I will not be alone to carry it all. You are here with me, and I know if you were not, I would only need call for you, and you would come back for me."

"I would," he agrees. "I will. And nothing will be like before, because — ye keep faith in me, and I keep it in you. Aye?" His arm around her tightens, clasping her closer a moment.

"Has it been a help to ye, at least, to have Lady Moore here wi' ye? When I'm away? Not just the last days, but generally?"

"Of course. She's always good company, and she's always been very good with the children, which is important when there's an emergency." She moves her hand up along his chest to his shoulder, then his neck, fingers skimming lightly in direct lines and angles. "I admit I would have been concerned, with all this, if she had still been alone in that house, and not able to know if she was well or not. She's happier here, and it's a gift to see her so, to have her conversation only a few rooms away. And she eats better these days, with someone to keep an eye on her getting lost in her work," Avrenne adds, with no sense of irony.

Siamus tilts his head down, amusement in his voice as he asks, "And how are you eating, mo chroí?"

Avrenne tilts her head up in counterpoint, her brows raised. She looks tired, this close up, but it's not weariness now, not fear or hollow pain. "I have been keeping quite well to the recommendations for the pregnancy." Did she finish eating tonight's dinner? Has she had anything at all to eat since those first few bites? No. She tips her chin a bit. "Tonight does not count. Exceptional circumstances." Wow, is that her usual work around of why Avrenne can get away with skipping meals? Tsk, tsk.

Siamus touches her cheekbone. "Well, aye, tonight we won't count. But it would ease my mind to know ye were eating well, for yourself and the child, even when I'm no' here."

He drops his hand from her face to her belly. "And the minnow is well, the priest said?"

The sudden glow to her that comes out at that might almost be startling, like the sun bursting out from behind a heavy cloud. She looks a little like she has a secret, the good kind, that she cannot wait to tell him, biting her lower lip and nodding, pressing closer into him, a beaming smile growing. "Yes. And he said something else too, when he checked to be sure all was well, since he had to look closely, to be sure the sleeping sickness had not taken hold, and it had not. But he told me something." She looks not dissimilar to how she did when she first told him she was with child, and if yes, admittedly more tired and a little more worn, still just as bright.

Well, what is it? The suspense, Avrenne.

Siamus raises his eyebrows. "Oh, aye? And what's that? The suspense, mo ghrá."

She doesn't giggle. She is An Duchess. That is just a warm bubble of a laugh. "We are to have a daughter." She's clearly very pleased by this, joyful and bright with this news of a specific, of this bit of information that makes the concept of The Child a little more real perhaps — not just A Child, but A Daughter.

Siamus stares at her. His eyes widen, and he stares at her some more only bigger.

"It's — she's — he told ye that? Is he certain?" His tone is cautious, but his eyes are very bright.

"Yes. He was very certain. And he could tell she was sleeping, peacefully, no nightmares. Just a little girl, hale and sound and snug," she says, setting a hand against his cheek, that precious light touch. She looks like she's on the verge of laughing again in nothing but pure joy.

Siamus does it for her: he laughs, and crushes her tighter in his arms, and closes his eyes too because who's getting teary, not Siamus Fallon, he would just hate to embarrass anyone else by looking at them while they were maybe possibly teary-eyed, is all.

"A girl," he says. "A daughter. Sound and snug."

Avrenne laughs with him, pressing into the crook of his neck and shoulder, arms around him. If she's teary eyed, Siamus can't tell, because he's not looking, like a gemblemans.

"Now that we know, we might think of a name for her," she says. That's a thought that's even more real. Not a minnow. A daughter with a name. Gosh, maybe even five names. Six maybe. Could almost give her a name a week until she's born.

"A name," says Siamus. "Aye." He pauses. "We could call her Ery."

"Oh," Avrenne breathes out against his neck, melting against him. "Oh, Siamus, that's lovely. And then when I read her the story, she would know where her name comes from, a connection to her history, and her father's gift. Our 'Ery.'" She sounds like she might have tears in her eyes, and she curls into him again, seeming safe and pleased in her position. "I was thinking perhaps for one of them, 'Arielle,' in remembrance for Abrielle. And she might have 'Blanche', of my mother's line." And she'll need Esprit and Fallon at the least. How many names are we at?

"Arielle is lovely," Siamus agrees softly. "And another little Lady Blanche.

"She should have Parrish," he observes after a moment. This is still seeming like a reasonable number of names. "Or Fianna. Either one. For my grandmother."

"Parrish is one of yours. I like it for that, if one or the other." Avrenne is breathing a little slower, a little deeper, one hand on his arm, the other resting on her belly now, relaxed in thoughts of a child and not on death and fire.

That puts them at six. Just gotta get an order to the names going now.

"Ery Blanche Arielle Parrish Esprit Fallon," he tries experimentally. His voice is low, his hand on her moving slow and soothingly.

"Lady Ery, first daughter of the Duke and Duchess Esprit, first of the House of the Stormwind Fallons," Avrenne announces, softly and into his chest. It's a little preview of what's to come, a person rather than only a concept, a little lady whose face they will soon see.

Avrenne's eyes have closed, and not only so that no one will see if she's crying. She shifts her head a little more onto his shoulder, and adjusts her hips as she moves her legs up and over his to raise slightly swollen ankles up off the floor, committing more fully to the position as well as making herself easier to carry.

"Lady Ery," Siamus agrees softly, and carefully, slowly shifts his hold on her to lift her and turn, laying her fully on the bed. "First daughter of the Duke and Duchess Esprit." He stretches out alongside her, one arm folded beneath his head, his other hand on her belly, and watches her profile, smiling. "Of the Starmwend Fallons."

Avrenne's hand slides over his hand over Lady Ery. She's clearly on the cusp of sleep, but her face is relaxed, and her hand is as cool as it should be. She is not unaware though. "I know you will keep us safe," she tells him, her voice down to a murmur. "I will not be afraid." It's either a promise or an affirmation, but either way, it's the verbal equivalent of her closing her eyes and falling backwards, utterly sure he will catch her, as she lets sleep take her.