Nervous pacing was not one of Lady Howell's usual habits.  She'd expected Countess Cheraville to make herself known at some point, the woman's monstrous vanity would permit no less.  But why now? She stopped and picked up the letter from her desk. 

"My dear pet," Belmilia wrinkled her nose in distaste at the Countess' phrasing.  The letter had been long, florid, and annoyingly ... self indulgent.  It was a pity she had not retained Miss Blanchard's writing style, even legalese was preferable to this.

Belmilia Carrington-Howell sighed and leaned back in her chair.  "Is that the last of it, Waxford?"

"Yes, my lady."  The estate steward gathered up the stack of papers; manorial accounts, court rolls, custumals, all the information necessary to run the estates and manors that made up the Howell lordship.  "I should have the final accounts ready by this evening."

In every lie, there is a kernel of truth.

The ravings of madmen contain seeds of wisdom.

Hints and whispers are signposts to lost secrets.

What has been hidden, I shall find;

What has been buried, I shall uncover;

What has been lost, I shall reveal;

And what lurks in the shadows, I shall master.

"Vrakazh silkarzhen, hren ka hren.  Vrakazh hren mukhesh ngashta!"  The air in the room grew close and heavy, the candles flickering in the still air as Belmilia chanted, her fingers moving in a complex series of gestures.  "Sul vrizhat gurithros hren, gul vremi, gul vremi, gul vremi!"

She had changed her fashionable dress for robe of black and dark red, minutely embroidered with arcane symbols.  With her gloves neatly placed on a side table, her pale face and hands seemed to float in the thickening shadows as her voice rose and fell. 

"Vaha nglui, golzhu ftaghn.  Gar shay gultos, vrizhat hren.  Tur ngvalathros!"

The air of the Stockades was foul, even the above ground parts were permeated by the stench that crept up from the dungeons below to mix with the odor of sewage from the canals.  Belmilia Carrington-Howell sniffed as she waited.  The smell was decidedly vile, she thought, but oddly comforting in a way.  So very ... human.  Certainly more so than some of the things she had smelt recently.

The tramp of heavy boots signaled the arrival of the parcel she had come to retrieve.  A parcel in the shape of a rather battered red haired Sin'dorei, paid for in bribes and minor threats.  Cheap, really.  Given the miserable wages Stormwind paid its jailers, it was perhaps surprising that more prisoners did not escape.  Or perhaps it was not surprising that the prisoners seemed to control the prison.

Whomever had observed that knowledge was power, Belmilia Carrington-Howell mused, was only half right.  It was the application of the knowledge that brought power.  She permitted herself a smile as she leaned back and surveyed the library - her library now.  A love of books had been the one and only thing she had shared with her late husband.  It had, in fact, been the lever she had used to convince him to marry her.

The figures all matched up.  There were no irregularities in the reports.  Miss Blanchard was a well-known barrister of good repute.

And yet ...

Doubt lingered.  Forty-five thousand pieces of gold was a large amount of money, raising it would strain her finances severely and losing the money would set back her plans for years.

((Written in an elegant, flowing hand on good quality paper))

Miss Sowelu Danae,
Stormwind

My dear Miss Danae,

It was so very nice to meet you at the Keep recently. Please accept my invitation for tea, I'm sure that we have many things to discuss that would be to our mutual benefit.

Sincerely,

Words like poisoned honey,

The praise of my instructors.

Would you like some more tea?

I suppose I ought to thank you.

Once I merely dabbled in the Fel arts;