"What have you done?" is never really a question. If "Chessie, my god, what have you done?" were really a question, Mere would expect an answer. She never waits for a reply, when asking what I've done. This is good because usually I'm the last person to know.

"Chessie, how could you?" I don't know. I don't even remember doing whatever it is, so how am I supposed to answer the questions directed at me?

"Dammit Chess, when is this going to stop?" When's what going to stop? My murderous rampage of which I was previously unaware due to selective memory?

…Oh, right. That.

Emily Chester woke once again with blood on her hands. As usual, the blood was not her own. Cursing, she managed to get into a standing position without slipping in the pool of red. She backed up against the wall, her wet hands sliding on the cool marble.

"Morning, Chess," a voice called from across the marble hall.

"What have you done?" Chessie gasped, staring at her own bloody handprints.

"What have you done?" he shot back, and she could hear the smirk with which the retort was delivered. "I don't see any Maddox-sized handprints around here. Come to think of it, I don't see any proof that I was ever here." Maddox stepped into the light. The elegant ballroom suited him. He fit in, with his dark hair and Victorian-era clothing. Blinking back tears, Chessie slid to the floor with her back against the wall, her guilty hands stretched out, shaking, in front of her. She was wearing her favorite jeans, sneakers, and the typical summer tank top. She didn't belong.

"Who?" she asked, looking up with blurry eyes.

"Someone of little consequence. Now get up and 'wash this filthy witness from thy hand', as a friend of mine would say." Maddox was suddenly standing over her, looming and obvious like a burning building.

"I hate it here," Chessie sobbed, burying her face in her hands. Seconds later, with a single shriek she was on her feet. Her face was streaked with not only tears but blood.

"Let's leave, then," Maddox replied, ignoring her hysteria. "Take my hand." Chessie's world darkened and faded to grey.

"She seems absolutely convinced that when she sleeps, some terrible being uses her soul to do terrible things." The young baron smiled. "The girl is obviously quite troubled."

"Emily is a very stable young lady," Mrs. Chester replied primly, straightening her bonnet. "She is troubled, yes, but by nightmares, that's all." Maddox Harper gave her a knowing glance.

"Nightmares have been known to drive people mad, Madam."

"Not my daughter," the older woman insisted stubbornly. "I assure you, she is anything but mad." In a slightly offended huff, Mrs. Chester swept out of the Baron's study.

"Anything but mad," the man sighed. Then, with a none-too-pleasant grin, he added "Not if I can help it."