"Okay with the tights, but I'm not putting on a peruke. Nice coat though."

Mrs. Thorne was kind enough to give me a copy of the local paper. This is the first place I've been where announcements for masked balls outweigh church events. Cool.

Surely, if I work on The Project for a few hours this morning, I can justify a treat tonight? I wonder if this place has a clothing store open on Sunday.

I pour a glass of wine to help me think. The fog has cleared, and I can see more strange birds in the distance. Memo to self: buy opera glasses or telescope. Also, more notepaper.

Don't go out for formal rituals much, but that was nice. Lots of incense, laughing, dancing, and for a change they kept the shagging off the high altar. It's appropriate for our sort, but it does tend to freak out the High Church Anglicans just a tad to find condoms draped over the reliquaries. Mutual respect, that's the key.

So I make my way up to the roof to catch my ride home. And, of course, Bob and the Squadron are doing competitive aerobatics against the Angel Flight from the Cathedral. I may be waiting here for a while.

And who the heck is that humming "Ride of the Valkyries" as they fly overhead? I didn't know gargoyles could hum.

Hmmm. That was an interesting walk. I went out about, what? five hours ago to enjoy the autumn air, and ended up dancing with a bunch of people I'd never met before. I use the term "people" in the broadest sense, because I'm sure that humans comprised a minority.

Still, very gracious folk. No one seemed to mind that I was wearing jeans and a sweater, and while the food was a little off-putting, the music was great. Wonderful "people" watching, of course.

It is odd, however, that I didn't hear the music from the house. In fact, I was right outside the church in the town square and didn't hear a thing. I happened to be passing as a couple rather giddily lurched out from between the massive oak doors. She was wearing what looked like a patent leather catsuit, and he had on a cavalier outfit, and, I swear, bat ears. They noticed me (staring, probably, I regret to say) and beckoned me in.

Work on the project continues apace. Tomorrow I will go into town and look for an art supply store. I must also get something more suitable for dancing.

A lone figure sits in the kitchen window of his wedge-shaped house. Outside, a flying dog sprays the neighbour's hedge before flying off with its tongue lolling. High above the cathedral in the distance, a group of gargoyles perform like gothic Blue Angels. A sigh emerges from the figure as he lovingly strokes his crossbow.

The smell of burning cranberry scones fills the air, eliciting a yelp that breaks the silence of the house. Rushing to the large brick and cast-iron oven, he pulls open the door. The handle burns, the iron being impossibly hot. A knit potholder is grabbed up and used to open the overheated oven. Inside is a maelstrom of heat and fire. Cranberry scones sprout flames like Dresden after the bombings. Deeper in the furnace-like oven, beyond the ceramic baking plate, is a presence…a bright malevolence…a baker's nightmare...an Oven Afrit!

Something gradually nudges me out of slumber. Something on the air, a sweet perfume, an airy voice.

Oh, wait. It's something burning - I sniff - baked goods - I listen - an inventive litany of curses.

Maybe I should go see what's the matter .. .. .. Nah, the bed is warm, the cats are purring; I'm good here.

"I'm good for breakfast whenever you want to bring it to me." What a good idea it was to install an intercom system.

A howl issues from the intercom. A primal scream from the very depths of hades...followed quickly by, "MY SCONES!"

Soon after is a loud hissing, a clang, and a choking gurgle.

Booted footfalls sound on the stairs minutes later. He enters the room, silver breakfast tray in hand. soot and fresh burns cover his hands.

"No scones today. Just pie. Oh, and I think we need a new stove." He gives her a peck on the cheek, exits the room, and treads back down the stairs. He takes up his perch by the kitchen window and stares at the skies. His burned hands lovingly caress his crossbow.

PIE!!

Remembrance Day is different in Sang Sacre. People gather in groups; at Town Hall, the Cenotaph, the Tombs. It's quiet in the city; people speak, when they speak, in hushed voices. The dogs don't bark. The birds don't sing. The very pavement grieves. At eleven the silence is broken by the crack of cannon fire; the flapping of a thousand wings mingles with the booming echo. And then, faintly, just on the edge of human hearing, comes the mournful howl of a wolf. The bells start ringing, even as the wolf squeezes our hearts with pain. The majestic tolling of the Tower Chimes, the nostalgic bong of the school bell, the shrill tinkling of a hundred bicycle bells. The air is full of sound for a full minute; commemorating every drop of blood that has fallen on the soil, every tear that has been shed in pain and sorrow and joy. Our ears continue to vibrate even when the bells stop pealing.

Memory is long and deep in Blood; the crowds remain silent, reflective. The mood is not broken, but shifted, subtlety, in stages. It begins spontaneously; sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears, always with singing and dancing. Flasks are passed, bottles decanted, kegs tapped. And we celebrate our memories into the night.

As is only fitting.

(I do so love Elena)