Tuesday, October 20, 1868. Morning.
Phillips Harbour
After spending the majority of Sunday and Monday sleeping, Caliban awakened on Tuesday feeling considerably more energetic, if not precisely healthy. The swelling on the bite marks had increased on Sunday evening, but during Monday they went down, and now they're definitely looking better.
Nonetheless, Herbert woke before the chimpanzee, and had time to get the houseboat moored again after a night anchored in the harbour. Once the chimp wakes, however, he heads for the galley. While Herbert is trying to convince his companion that, no, he doesn't have to make breakfast and that the Englishman is perfectly capable of preparing food for them both, they hear a voice calling out from the dock. "Hello there! Mr. Shaft? Are you there?" It's Mrs. Everchild.
The old woman is standing near the landing, a picnic basket in her hands, Madame Mysteria beside her, and Islington twining around her ankles. "I thought I'd pay a visit to the invalid, sir," she says, lifting the basket. "I brought you breakfast!"
The chimpanzee pauses in trying to wrestle the eggs away from his master - this is tricky since neither of them actually wanted to break the eggs, well, prematurely. "Ook?" His gaze swivels toward Miss Everchild and his brows rise.
"My goodness!" Herbert says, lowering the gangplank. "It is good to see you, Mrs. Everchild. I suppose Islington has filled you in on things?"
Madame Mysteria blinks a few times at that, her eyebrows pulling together in a frown. Mrs. Everchild offers a bland smile. "Oh, you know how these small towns are, Mr. Shaft. Word gets around. I'm glad to see Caliban is up and about again. Permission to come aboard, captain?"
Caliban sorts the eggs away into a water-chilled bucket, looking proprietary of his kitchen. "Ook, ook," he says with a wave to Mrs. Everchild, her friend, and her cat.
"Oh, of course," Herbert says, and walks down the gangway to escort the women (and cat) aboard.
"Thank you kindly, sir." Mrs. Everchild takes the Englishman's arm, and nods to her friend.
"I must go to tend my shop. Good day, Mr. Shaft. I shall see you later, Penelope." The dark-haired woman returns the nod, then turns to depart as they ascend the gangplank.
"Good day and thank you, Madame Mysteria," Shaft says to the retreating woman, then leads Mrs. Everchild into the main cabin. "I'll get the kettle going, please make yourselves comfortable," he offers to his guests.
Mrs. Everchild nods again, unpacking a loaf of bread and covered dishes from the basket. Islington gives a mew to Caliban.
The chimpanzee, looking a little spryer than yesterday, joins in setting up the somewhat small table for their visitors. First is a white tablecloth, then a white linen placemat, then a little aluminum vase with a tiny flower adding a bit of color, then teacups and saucers.
Caliban spares a little time to pat the cat. "Eek, eeoook," he replies conversationally.
While he works in the small kitchen, Herbert says, "I hope everything has been going a bit more smoothly for you than for me, Mrs. Everchild."
The old woman lifts the cover from one dish, revealing a platter full of still-warm pancakes, and another holds a dish full of eggs scrambled with cheese and bacon. "Oh, I imagine it is, Mr. Shaft. Islington and I are still in one piece, which is certainly a plus. I'll admit I do have some ... concerns, though."
The monkey visibly salivates.
Herbert adds cream and sugar dispensers to the tea set, and smiles appreciatively at the food. "Concerns about your safety, madam, or concerns.. in general?" he asks.
Islinton gives the chimp a puzzled look, then licks his lips as Everchild produces a small glass bottle full of cream. She pours some onto a saucer for him, and he starts to lap it up avidly. "Well, safety,too," she says. "But I am more worried about the Opening. Have you begun your calculations yet, Mr. Shaft?"
"In that endeavor I have been dealt a serious blow, I fear," Shaft laments, and takes the kettle off of the small stove. As he pours, he explains, "The equipment I had hoped to use was destroyed in the attack on Caliban - was most likely the reason for the attack, actually. And the location of Miss St. John, while apparently being out in the wilderness, is difficult to pinpoint."
Mrs. Everchild heaves a sigh at this news. "And here I was hoping you might know where she sleeps. All of this will be for naught if we cannot ascertain the location for the banefire." From the bottom of the basket, she pulls out a sheaf of rolled up papers.
Herbert unfolds a compact writing desk for Mrs. Everchild, so that she doesn't have to fit her papers on the crowded dining table.
"Thank you." Mrs. Everchild unrolls one page to reveal a town map. I've got down the locations of the Players I know -- is this where you moor your boat, Mr. Shaft?" She points to a little 'HS' mark in the harbor. There are other marks on the page: "PG" is in town, while the Stephenson's farm has "XP". "JH" is near the church, and "R&GM" at the inn.
The ape peers curiously at the map, but alas, it seems just a little too crowded in that corner for good visibility. He makes tiny ooking noises and crawls under the table to the other side, where he can perch on the empty chair's back.
"Yes, that is the location," Herbert says, and begins to serve out the food, before Caliban's stomach grumbles or he becomes dehydrated from so much salivation.
Eying the entry at the inn, Shaft also asks, "Are you quite sure the Mikkelsens are Players?"
"Mm? Don't you think they are? I mean, it's a bit much for coincidence, them coming here all the way from Norway and not being Players, isn't it?" Mrs. Everchild purses her lips.
The feline pauses in lapping up milk to look at Caliban, his tailtip twitching.
"It is only that I have seen no indication of a Companion for them," Herbert says. "Frankly.. well, I thought they might be hunting the White Hart, St. John's apparent Companion."
The ape peers at the letters with furrowed brows, before the dishing out of the food distracts him. He ooks happily and sets in. His improving condition apparently also improves his appetite!
"Hmp. You're right about the lack of a Companion, I'll grant. I half-wonder if the brother is serving as the sister's Companion, though I've never heard of such a thing being done." She rubs her chin. "But if they're hunting the hart, more power to them. I wonder if they know where she sleeps?"
Islington's tail lashes, his whiskers twitching. He waits a few minutes to let Caliban eat, then mews again.
"In any case, we should follow up with them," Shaft proposes. "There's even an excuse now, since they are supposedly here hunting a rare and unusual animal, and all evidence points to a monster wolf having been Caliban's attacker."
The ape licks syrup off of his lips with great relish, pausing to let his first serving settle into his stomach while he pours himself a bit of tea. "Ook," he says sunnily to Ms. Everchild, then chirps at the cat curiously.
"That's something I hadn't considered. If they were Players, and using their 'exotic animal' hunt as a cover, they should've picked the Beast as their target," Mrs. Everchild says. "What of the others? Anyone else you think does or doesn't belong?"
At the chimps pleased noises, Mrs. Everchild smiles. "You're welcome, dear."
Shaft blinks, and remembers to eat some of his food as well. "I never could get the proper expertise in making flapjacks," he comments. "For others.. there is Trouble, and his ghostly companion. While the dog shows a good bit of intelligence, I can't be certain if he is a Companion of a Player or not.. what is your impression, Caliban?" he asks the ape.
Caliban scratches behind an ear, mid-bite of egg, then shrugs. "Eek, eek," he replies.
Islington mews, tail-tip flicking.
"Not very conclusive, I'm afraid," Herbert notes. "He may be on the farm being leased by Mr. Randall Waite, or he may belong to a trapper named Old Ron Whitehorse. Come to think of it.. Old Ron might be aware of anyone camping out in the woods."
Mrs. Everchild looks grave, pursing her lips again. "Ron Whitehorse's gone missing," she says.
"Ah, he probably ran afoul of St. John then," Herbert says, a bit somberly. "We tracked her into the woods a way, but lost her trail at the site of a broken trap. Mr. Whitehorse would certainly be someone she would not hesitate to dispose of, given her ideologies."
Islington gives a disdainful sniff and laps at more of his cream.
Mrs. Everchild nods somberly. "I've been worried about that possibility. I was hoping she was keeping a lower profile this time -- perhaps confining her attacks to Players. Wishful thinking on my part. Then again, if Whitehorse was a Player -- but no, I don't think that he was. He showed no signs of being aware of the Game."
The cat shakes his head at Caliban.
The chimpanzee chews on his eggs with a thoughtful look. He picks out a piece of bacon from his plate and offers it to the cat.
"There is something else that has come up," Shaft says, and sips his tea. "It may be nothing but a nightmare, but I have great confidence in Caliban's intuition. The bite from the Beast may also have given him some extra insight as well. In any case, it may be that St. John is planning a spell to use on the night of the Banefire that will work to suppress the intelligence of Companions."
The ape looks startled and then eyes his boss. "Ook, ook," he replies.
The old woman straightens. "How's this?" she asks, sharply. Islington, too, pricks his ears, then mews at Caliban.
Looking sheepish, the monkey gestures a little as he chatters at the cat.
"Well, that is one interpretation, if your dream was more premonition than nightmare, Cal," Herbert says to his Companion. "It may also be St. John's overall goal as well - to rid the world of higher thought, and return everyone to the level of beasts."
Mrs. Everchild considers this. "She's certainly capable of that and worse," she agrees. "At least to humans. She's usually less destructive towards animals, even the intelligent ones. Then again, she did attack your Companion." She sighs. "I'm afraid the current signs indicate she's worse than ever, rather than having learned any restraint since the last Game."
The cat pricks his ears to Caliban, listening before he interjects another meow.
"She may be running out of time," Herbert says. "She appeared young when I saw her from a distance, but she likely isn't immortal, supernatural nature or not. She may also have thought of the same thing I recently realized, even if it is only a hypothesis.."
"Hmm? What hypothesis is this, Mr. Shaft?"
"Well, Openers all seem to have different goals or expectations of the Portal," Shaft says. "What if.. and this is conjecture.. but what if the Portal can open to many different realms, with the will of the Opener being the guiding factor? It might explain why Closers have been so successful, if the Openers are all actually working against each other without realizing it. For someone like St. John, the solution would be to eliminate the competing Openers as well."
"Dear me." Mrs. Everchild fidgets with her fork. "In my day, the Openers were more uniform in their goal ... but I must admit, it's unlikely that anyone else would share Miss St. John's particular desires. still ... I'd always thought the Opener's lack of success was more due to Oldman than anything else."
Islington gives Caliban a sympathetic mew.
"Oldman?" Shaft queries. "I'm afraid I am not very familiar with past Players."
Mrs. Everchild stares at the Englishman. "You don't know Oldman?"
"Quite honestly, I was amazed to discover that there were Players who had already gone through the Game once before," Herbert admits. "Such things aren't exactly.. well documented."
The old woman cuts off a bite of pancake with her fork. "There are records ... but you have to know where to look. Oldman's been Closing for as long as there's been a Game, to hear some tell of it. Openers used to be terrified of him and his canine Companion, if for no other reason than that they'd been at so many successful Closings. The last Game is the first one in memory that he didn't attend, as far as I know. I'm afraid something's happened to him at last, given that he's not at this Game, either." Everchild sighs. "Some were speculating that the Banefire didn't work in '49 because Oldman wasn't there. Or that he didn't show up for it because it wasn't right, that it wasn't a proper Game. I doubt we'll be that lucky, though it would be nice."
The ape has consumed his share of the food and appears quite satiated, though he eyes the rest of the food as if half-wondering if he should nibble 'a little more for the road'. He begins to slouch down in his chair, when his gaze goes to Mrs. Everchild, causing him to straighten up and mind his 'company manners'.
"The Banefire didn't appear last time?" Herbert asks in surprise.
Mrs. Everchild shook her head. "No. Good thing, too, since there was only one Closer left, some new fellow. The Witchhunter."
"Perhaps they had simply chosen the wrong location?" Herbert suggests.
The old woman looks thoughtful. "No, I don't think so. If the Players were all at the wrong location, there would still have been a Portal. It might have Closed, or Opened, on its own without a struggle. But the event would have left a signature, for those who know what to look for. It didn't happen."
Islington gestures with his head and one paw to Caliban, apparently conversing.
Completely distracted from the meal now, Herbert pushes his half-full plate over to Caliban reflexively. "This means that it may be possible to prevent the Portal from manifesting at all.. amazing," Shaft comments. "I can reproduce one of the effects of the Banefire myself, thanks to extensive research done by Leonardo Da Vinci, but I had no idea it and the Portal could simply fail to show up as scheduled."
The ape chatters back at the cat intently.
Mrs. Everchild leans forward, interested. "Which affect can you reproduce? I'm not aware that it's possible to prevent the portal from manifesting at all ... to the best of my knowledge, no one knows why the last Game didn't end properly. Actually, I've heard one speculation that it was St. John's fault -- that she broke the Rules and killed a Player before the Death of the Moon, and that her side forfeited on that account. But I don't know that I buy that at all."
Islington sits up, giving a sharp meow. He tugs at Mrs. Everchild's skirt with one paw, claws catching at the fabric.
"Well, the Rules must exist for a reason," Shaft speculates, then explains about the Spirit Lamp. "The Banefire attracts spirits to it, both natural and elemental. That effect is reproducible via my Spirit Lamp. Until recently, I had no idea why spirits would be attracted to it, but my recent encounter with a ghost implies that they see it as.. well, as something highly desirable and beautiful. A glimpse of Heaven, if you will."
Mrs. Everchild looks down at Islington, frowning. After a moment, she nods. "Yes, Companions can continue their part in the Game, even if their Player is removed from it. You think ... ah, Caliban thinks. Well, if this Yotee is Oldman's Companion, that would surely be good news for us."
The ape rubs his nose thoughtfully.
"Fascinating." Mrs. Everchild looks introspective. "I'll have to check into that. But it would make sense, of a sort. The Banefire is a spiritually charged event."
"My goodness, that is a thought!" Herbert exclaims. "We need to find Trouble.. er, Yotee.. and learn the truth of it."
This elicits a scrunched-up face from the ape. "Ook."
"There must be a reason behind the break-in and.. rampage.. through the Inn," Shaft notes to Caliban. "Perhaps Yotee was investigating the Mikkelsens.."
"Ook," the ape responds. He moves his chair back so he can pantomime sneaking around and then peering at papers, then nods. Then he pretends to throw things around, and then shakes his head vehemently.
"And we'll need to know where he sleeps, if he's playing, whatever his role in it is." Mrs. Everchild makes a note in the corner of her map. Yotee-Trouble: Companion? Location? Above that note she has: Sarah St. John: Location?
"And speaking of mysterious disappearances -- have you seen the Frenchman at all?" Mrs. Everchild asks.
A headshake from the ape.
"But if Yotee is the Companion of this Oldman chap, he may still have his master's Artifact of Closing," Shaft notes. "As for the Frenchman - Mr. Giraud, is it? - I've not heard of anyone seeing him since the return of Reverend Hale."
"I know he reappeared when the Reverend did, but he kept to his house after that. I've heard his horse is gone again and he doesn't answer the door any more, but I don't know if that means he's gone or not." Mrs. Everchild sighs. "And since he'd been keeping to himself, no one was watching him so I'm not sure when he disappeared this time."
"Oh -- Oldman's artifact was the Staff," Mrs. Everchild adds. "In case you see it."
Caliban rubs his chin, a gesture of obvious deep thought. His brows furrow.
"The Staff.. ah.. do you know what it looks like?" Herbert asks.
"Ook, eek ook," the ape says to the cat thoughtfully.
Mrs. Everchild's eyes unfocus as she concentrates. "Old wood, knotty but with the wood worn to smoothness, the height of a man. Capped on either end in brass."
Islington paws at his mistress again, relaying something from Caliban. "What, the undertaker? Do you have reason to think he's involved in the Game, Mr. Shaft? I thought that fellow purely a local."
Caliban pantomimes opening a door furtively and sneaking in, then picking an object from the ground. By the way he's holding it, shifting his grip, it would be long and thin. He pretends to unwrap one end of it, then runs his finger over the surface of the object. "Ook," he says explanatorily.
"Not exactly local, but he moved here to apprentice to the old undertaker," Shaft says. "Mr. Hobson is a skilled carpenter, and well read in certain genres.. I believe he had a print of the Shelley book, Frankenstein. And Caliban saw something that caught his interest in the storage shed there."
"You saw a staff in the undertaker's possession?" Mrs. Everchild starts to rise, then seats herself again, exhaling. "All right, I shouldn't leap to conclusions from that. After all, plenty of people own staves. Especially with all the trappers and woodsman around here. Even Whitehorse had one."
The ape rubs his chin and nods reluctantly.
"Perhaps we should investigate a bit more closely," Herbert says, looking to Caliban. "I think I could arrange another meeting with our undertaker friend and Mrs. Stephenson, if they haven't already done so themselves."
"Hmm. That is interesting Do you know how long ago he moved to the area, Mr. Shaft?" Mrs. Everchild asks.
The ape grins at his boss cheerily.
"Not very recently," Shaft says. "But Sheriff Oldridge might have better information on that."
"Sheriff Ponds, you mean. Oldridge runs the General Store. And the sheriff's been rather edgy, what with all the odd goings on, bodies turning up and going missing." Mrs. Everchild gives Caliban a sudden speculative look. "It might be wisest to avoid his attention."
Caliban looks studiedly innocent, with a passing ook to Islington.
Getting a thought, Herbert says, "Or.. you could speak to him yourself, Mrs. Everchild. To Mr. Hobson, that is. You could ask for a tour of the graveyard, final expenses and so on. Claim you're just planning for the future, as it where."
"Now there's a morbid thought. Still, I suppose it's a point. Islington could investigate this shed of his while I spoke with Mr. Hobson." Mrs. Everchild's gaze falls back to the map. "This still leaves us with the problem of finding the homes for this Yotee and St. John. St. John, especially, worries me. I'm not sure which is worse, asking Islington to search for her on his own or going with him. In truth, I rather think she's too dangerous to approach or track if there's a chance of her noticing."
Islington gives a mew and a feline shrug to Caliban,
Caliban looks worried as Mrs. Everchild begins discussing the prospect of finding St. John.
"The forest creatures are on her side," Herbert warns. "I daresay they'd make any direct search difficult. I have an item St. John used, but no means of divining her location from it, and unfortunately I don't know any local witches or psychics who might be able to."
Caliban settles in for some serious chit-chat with the cat.
"You have something of hers?" Everchild perks. "Let me see."
Islington grins, licking his lips.
"Just a mo'," Herbert says, then squeezes past the table and moves some other things around until he can access the spirit-shielded safe. After fiddling with the complicated lock for a minute, he opens it up and retrieves the buggy whip.
"Found it in the river, I'm afraid," he notes, passing it to Mrs. Everchild. "So any scents would have been washed away."
"Ah!" The old woman's eyes light as she takes it from him. "But you're sure it's hers? When did you find it?"
The ape peers with recognition at the whip, but gives his master a curious look. His brows beetle as he tries to recollect the details.
The cat stretches out one hindleg and licks at it.
"Soon after Islington and Caliban discovered the little ceramic tile," Shaft explains. "Cal spotted it in the water just under the bridge where St. John's carriage went over the edge. It's also where I saw her, searching about for wreckage apparently."
The ape looks far away into the distance, then makes short ooking noises to the cat.
"So she lost it before she came to town." Everchild purses her lips. "I wouldn't be able to use it to divine her current abode, then, since it won't have been there. But I could fashion something to dowse for her whereabouts ... which still poses the safety question, but is at least surer than wandering the woods and hoping to stumble onto her."
"A dowsing artifact, you say?" Shaft asks, rubbing his chin. "I have a device that might augment it to work over a longer distance. It was meant to be attached to dowsing rods originally, but I never got around to testing that."
"Oh? How's that?" Everchild looks curious to learn more.
"Well, it is a compass with nested rings that point to sources of active magic," Shaft explains. "I think the addition of dowsing rods was supposed to make it easier to focus in on a particular source. As it is, there is no way to tell if a source is strong but far away, or weak but very close."
"How very intersting! May I see it?" the old woman asks, while her cat continues his avid conversation with Caliban.
"A moment," Shaft says, and negotiates his way across the cabin to remove the compass from his coat, which is hanging up still. He opens the case and presents it to Mrs. Everchild. "I did not have a hand in its creation, so really cannot explains how it works.. only what it does."
Mrs. Everchild holds it up. Its rings rotate lazily as it is moved, The outermost one stops pointing west, while two of the inner ones indicate northwest and southwest locations. The other three pivot slowly, pausing now and then but not stopping at any particular spot. "A most peculiar gizmo. If you do not mind, I'll take it and the whip with me, and see if I can produce something with which to isolate St. John." Her gaze unfocues. "Which brings us to the other question: if we can find St. John, what do we do?"
Caliban nods at the cat, then looks up to Mrs. Everchild. "Ook," he suggests, pantomiming slapping something onto his wrist.
"We do things the hard way," Shaft says. "From the locations of the others, we can get a general idea of the region to look, and then.. we search for likely spots. There are several old abandoned structures in town and along the harbor, and relatively empty fields as well. Once I get my calculation machine up to full power, it can process the information and rank locations by likelihood."
Pointing to the rings on the compass, Herbert notes, "This outermost one points west, which would be either the strongest or closest. It must be detecting activity on Miss Pau's part. Northwest could be the Mikkelsens, or possible even St. John further out. The southwest one though.. hmm. That may be the farm we suspect Yotee of staying at."
Mrs. Everchild shakes her head. "I don't know about you, but I've not the means to restrain her," she says to Caliban. To Mr. Shaft, she continues, "I suppose that could be one way to find where she sleeps, backtrack it somehow. If it would work, it might be less dangerous than finding her would be. On the other hand ... if we can track her ... perhaps we should look into a more permanent solution to the problem she poses."
"Ook, ook," the ape says, pointing at the town map where the letters JH are written, then at a spot north of town, a hill. "Ook?"
"That's the hill where Hale was imprisoned," Shaft notes. "When that happened, the compass nearly tore itself free of the storage crate it was in."
She looks at the compass again. "If it's only giving direction, it could e pointing at practically anything. Like your own boathouse, for example." At Caliban's pointing to the map, she frowns. "Do you think we could get whatever imprisoned the reverend to trap St. John instead?"
The ape shrugs, looking spooked.
"It may not be in a helpful mood," Shaft says. "The Frenchman was involved in getting Hale to antagonize it, getting him trapped. But then he apparently helped to set Hale free again afterwards. You've met Mr. Giraud. What is he like, as a person?"
"The chief difficulty there is that if whatever is at this hill favors a side in the Game, it probably favors Openers, Closers. Given Rev. Hale's troubles. Still, we could talk to him about it." Mrs. Everchild wrinkles her mouth.
"Yotee may be our best bet at communicating with the hill spirit," Herbert suggests. "He's friendly with a ghost, and may be able to have her talk to it. He was also seen around the hill after Hale vanished."
"Ook, ook," the ape says, looking much more uncertain about this plan now.
"Mr. Girard? He's a terrible flirt, a vain, cocky fellow. I've no idea what side he's on, or what he's trying. He was testing the three of us -- myself, Miss Dembkowski, and Madame Mysteria -- out at one point, trying to see which if any of us was Playing. To be honest, I rather thought his bird had more sense than he did, didn't you agree, Islington?" Mrs. Everchild looks down at the cat, who gives an emphatic nod.
"I would imagine him to be an Opener, for balance, but Hale may know more," Herbert says. "But his disappearance could mean almost anything."
The ape sits back in his chair, reaching out to snitch an untouched pancake. He munches on it dry.
"Yes." Mrs. Everchild looks dour. "I thought him an Opener too -- his falcon talked like one. But if St. John took him for a Closer on account of their helping the reverend .... " She trails off.
"Hmm, if association is how she determines leanings, then the other Opener is probably in danger from her as well," Shaft notes.
Mid-bite, Caliban starts coughing, then swallows his pancake and washes it down with some tea. "Oowoook," he says plaintively, looking up at his master.
Shaft pauses to pat Caliban on the back.
After rousing herself from her reverie, Everchild nods. "I hate to say it, but if she is turning on her own side it's to our advantage. So -- our plan from here is that I shall take your compass and the whip and see if I cannot adapt them to a means to track St. John. We'll consult with the reverend about the likelihood of using this hill to imprison her? And I believe Islington and Caliban wanted you to arrange for Mr. Hobson to pay a visit to Mrs. Stephenson so that they could investigate his possessions."
Caliban looks a little reassured. He smiles up at his master.
"I can do that," Shaft says. "Caliban can photograph any suspicious possessions of Mr. Hobson's without removing them. Visiting the Stephenson farm will give me a chance to take a sidetrip and talk to Mr. Waite again. What do you propose we do about the Mikkelsens? I can certainly speak to them, to talk about the Beast."
"That seems advisable; you can sound out the Mikkelsens as to their attitude. I'd suggest speaking to the sister, if you can; the brother seems rather a paranoid sort." With most of the food gone now, Mrs. Everchild starts packing the empty dishes back into her basket.
"Ook," the ape says with a grateful sound to his voice, moving to help Mrs. Everchild. "Eek eek ook!"
"I will try to, if he'll allow me," Shaft says, and helps clear off the table. "Do be careful with the Compass, please. I've no idea if it itself is a magical artifact that might draw attention to you. And please don't hesitate to drop by in the future, with or without breakfast." he adds.
Mrs. Everchild smiles at the chimpanzee's tone, and pats his shoulder. "You're quite welcome. I'm glad to see you up and about again" She eyes him with some sudden concern. "But you know, you mustn't overexert yourself."
Caliban buffs his chest and looks nonchalant, flexing a little.
The old woman offers a smile to Mr. Shaft as well. "I'll take care. And thank you."
Islington makes a noise like a strangled snort.
"Yes, Caliban, take heed," Herbert says. "I don't want you turning into a were-wolf or something else improper, especially after that dream of yours."
Caliban grins at his boss. "Awoo-oook!" he teases.