Laurel watches the raindrops drizzle down the windowpane as he awaits his next order. Supper is served late today, as the housekeeper has been forced to step-in and fulfil the role as chef in the Madame's absence.

"Where is Mother?" Alphy inquires as he peers over the stove.

"Never you mind!" the housekeeper retorts. "Why don't you make yourself useful and feed the dog?"

Alphy retracts his curiosity and goes to fill the dog-bowl. Laurel looks on as she stirs the stew-pot impatiently. Helga, her name is: another addition to the Yan family who came here long ago looking for work. Although she didn't come alone: hearsay says that she arrived as half of a newly-wed couple. She and her husband fled a nearby village in search of a fresh start. Mamamu Yan scooped them into her arms with glee and appointed them the first housekeeper and woodcutter of the Yan Estate. However, darkness fell when her husband and Yan's brother-in-law went to trade at the nearby village: they were found dead in the woods. Nothing was taken from them: no highwayman or hunter had crossed their path. Their deaths were inexplicable.

"Alright boys, I want you all sat up straight!" Helga commands the table. She places a bowl of stew before each of the brothers before finally resting on Laurel. "Table manners in this family seem to have slipped a little, but we shan't have them forgotten in your mother's absence!"

Laurel examines his bowl uncertainly: the gloopy contents bubble and squeak with unappetising stench.

"What did you see, Andy?" Atlas asks his younger brother.

"It was like a told you!" Andy insists with a gob full of food. "That yellow slime spewing from its mouth!"

To demonstrate, he regurgitates phlegm into his hand.

"Do you mind, Master Andes?" Helga scalds him. "Put your food back where it belongs!"

"And you're certain there was nothing else?" Atlas presses on with his inquiry. "No broken hooves, no bloodshot eyes-"

"No sign of any other injury." Laurel affirms.

"I wasn't asking you…" Atlas snarls. "Let's just hope it didn't come into contact with any of the others…or all that wool will have to go to waste…"

"I'm sorry, I'm not understanding…" Laurel interjects. "You don't think that sheep had some sort of…infection?"

"'Infection' is an understatement…" Andy scoffs as he scoops another spoonful of stew.

"Well, what else could it be?" Laurel suggests. "Like you said, no trauma. It must have died of natural causes."

"Ain't nothing natural about that!"

"Stop it, Andy, you're scaring them." Atlas warns.

"You think it's…" Alphy mumbles timidly. "Y-You think it's…"

"Enough!" Helga slams her spoon on the table, shaking them all into silence. "I won't have any more of this ghost-story chit-chat at the dinner table! It's a sheep, for the Gods' sake! We have plenty more!"

Mamamu Yan emerges on the staircase. She seems a shade paler than this morning, and her lips seem cracked and dry.

"Good evening, boys!" she bests her soothing smile. "Are we all on our best behaviour for Miss Helga?"

She doesn't wait for an answer before scooping her precious pooch into her arms. "And as for you, mister: I think it's time for one of Mommy's puppy-pampering appointments!"

"Mother, may I-"

"Not now, Atlas! Mother must fill the bathtub ready for Richard's soak!"

"Mother, we-"

"Alphy, I said not now!" she reiterates with a ferocious frown. All eyes on her, she softens her face into a reassuring smile. "Now, be the good boys I raised you to be and help dear Helga with the washing-up! I shall see you all bright and early tomorrow morning with brushed teeth and gorgeous smiles!"

Mamamu Yan collects her companion and glides up the stairs to the bathroom. They listen for the clack of the lock as she seals herself away from the worries of the outside world.

"You heard your mother!" Helga gestures to the sink. "Washing-up! Now!"

The table tension is broken by the clatter of bowls as they pile into the pantry. Just as with all their assignments, the brothers work a clockwork system of scrubbing, drying, and stacking until all the utensils are stored back in the kitchen cupboards. Laurel retires to his bedroom consumed by the restless sensation of unanswered questions mulling in his mind. He presses his hands to the glass, mesmerised by the rain lashing relentlessly upon the surface of the lake. A storm approaches.