Hildegarde drifted through the quiet mansion. It was the early hours, at that mysterious and magic point when the world paused and held its breath before fully waking for the day. Winter darkness still pressed, desperate, at the windows; the first numbing tremors had seeped into her bones, warning her that the daysleep was coming. The Chapter House was filled with silent shadows as the resident dead had already retired to their chambers and their havens.

Her pale hand reached and reassuringly patted the keys in her pocket. The action was comforting but she wished that the Chapter House had old style locks with big keys, looped on an even bigger key ring - just like in the old days. The Count's castle had a key ring like that, she recalled. It had been heavy, that key ring: smooth and shiny with a lustre borne of much use. A key ring like that had been almost a relic, weighted by Time itself. How many hands had it gone through? Her Ghoul, Iago's most assuredly. Probably a line of mortals too, back when the castle had been home to living lords and their families.

Her fingers curled around the set of keys, furnished with a strength only the dead can lend their limbs. Memory was a funny thing, you see. The size of the object had little to do with it, really. It was the memory of the thing that caused her to walk to halls of the Chapter House: an unseeing walk, movements pantomimed by rote. Then as now, it had been her duty to go from door to door, ensuring the building was sealed and barred as the dreadful dawn approached.

Her duty.

Castellan.