They didn't know how he had weasled out of jail – bail bonds, he once said offhandedly, but they didn't ask. He didn't skulk around the house anymore out of fear of seeing Constance, but they called on him enough to sate his fascination with the property.

He only saw Lorraine once- once when she stood in the shadows, watching Vivian detail a grocery list to him. She noted his suit, what she could see of it from around Viv's figure as she leaned against the door frame, rattling off options. She noted his damaged arm, still curled tight against his side. How'd he get his suit on every day with that crippled arm? The suit was immaculate on him; it was crisp, clean – ironed, still the same suit that he had worn for years, but delicately taken care of. Did he have another woman helping him? Again? The thought was enough to stop her from appearing in his presence ever again. She opted for invisible or left the room whenever he stopped by, washed in memories, burning brighter than ever in dim rooms of the abandoned house.

Neighbors occasionally saw her burning. Constance saw her burning from her bedroom window, looking up at the murder house – a silouhette of a woman, outlined and detailed by red-hot light, passing through the house room by room at night. She was the only light in the house most days. Constance, reclining with a smoke, chalked this up to vanity and a need for attention that transcended the grave; if she could see the poor woman dragging herself around, other people certainly could, too. The house didn't need to draw any more attention than it did.

She invited herself over for lunch one day, through the back door, as she always did. Vivien, a tray of chips and dip in hand, nearly dropped the platter when Constance announced herself. "Hope you don't mind," she murmured, exquisitely dressed for the occasion. "I've heard about your lunches and I thought it'd be a crime to miss out on one."

The guest, a shaky-looking woman with thin black hair in her early 30's, didn't seem to appreciate the new arrival and looked suddenly as if she had forgotten something at home. A common excuse, but the ghosts were in no position to keep an uncomfortable guest – Constance's eyebrows shot up as the woman gathered her purse and excused herself, just short of jogging to the door and out the gate.

"We tried," Vivian sighed, pushing the platter onto a free counter. "We have to really aim for people who don't spook so easily. Nobody was walking by today, though, I didn't know what to do and I just really needed to talk to someone."

Constance sat down at the dressed-up table, straightening her dress and giving Vivien a you-aren't-getting-rid-of-me smile. "Well. I'll still have lunch, if you don't mind. It looks like you've certainly got enough food."

Hiding displeasure was difficult. Vivien's relationship with Constance had always been odd – partially frightened of her because of what she knew about the house and partially annoyed by her Southern ability to elbow her way into any situation, but now that they were part of the house, Constance was an important tie to the outside world, but she still had brashness that made her a difficult guest.

"I'll get everyone," Vivien said, setting the platter down in front of their one lunch guest, who was already settling her napkin across her thighs. "You can start on that."

"Moira isn't coming, is she?" Constance said, loud enough – Moira was just a few steps away, invisible, looking bitter. "I was hoping for an actual guest," she spat, "not an intruder." Her rival smiled, untouchable, and complimented her incredible hospitality.

Vivien left the room gladly, busying herself with rounding up the family. The spats that Moira and Constance had were absurd and years old. Too old to still have the potency that they did; the poison in Moira's voice was unmistakeable. Fighting with Constance was not a game, and Constance was still slinging verbal abuse with the desperation of someone needing vengeance. There was no vengeence to be wrought, Vivien sighed, leaning into Violet's room to signal her to come downstairs. Moira was as dead as she could be. The fight would never end.

Since this lunch was living-person free, they invited everyone in the house who wanted to join, with the exception of Hayden, Thaddeus, and Tate. Elizabeth trooped down the stairs, Beau in her arms, who was squealing wildly, happy to be let out of the attic. Charles and Nora Montgomery walked together, apparently at peace for the time being. Vivien, Ben and Violet led the way and dragged extra chairs from storage to accommodate their big household.

The moment they rounded the corner into the dining room, Beau wriggled from Elizabeth's arms and bounded straight for Constance, who scooped him up and held him on her lap, beaming. The household had taken to Beau – whatever he was, however he got to be what he was, he was charming and enthusiastic in a way that was both childlike and animalistic. Limited in vocalization and capacity for reasoning, he was easily fascinated and pleased. Nora was disgusted by him, and made a face that was distinctly unladylike when she saw the child squirming and wiggling with joy in Constance's loving grip.

"Charles, move," she snapped. "I don't want to see that thing. Let me sit on the other end of the table."

Charles stood for her, pulling the chair out for her, eyes on the floor as Constance laughed, bitter, glaring daggers the couple - "Beau is not the first unfortunate child to be trapped in this hateful place," she said, jaw set, a lock of immaculate blonde hair falling from her bun, pulled out of place by said child, who was now snoring. "I believe the first is yours."

The comment went ignored. It was always something, and Violet and Ben rolled their eyes at each other as they loaded their plates with appetizers. The peace that had transcended their direct family was unbreakable – not by house drama, not by the events of their deaths.