I slept in the merciless embrace of demonic nightmares. I was pursued by three animalistic skeletons, knowing it was all but impossible and that I must indeed be dreaming. Yet, I was still as frightened as a jack rabbit.

At times the nightmares would recede and I would have find myself in an open field, beckoned towards the barn by the full chested Negress. Then my sinfully weak will pulled us down together for a moment of carnal pleasure.

Yet, such a pleasant distraction could not last; not in the world of nightmare. Under the watchful eye of an emaciated colt, who lost much of his flesh to maggots, a thousand hands pulled me down into the darkness beneath the floorboards.

Then, once I thought the darkness could drive me mad no further, I was expelled into the light of a dimly lit hall only to come across Satan himself standing before me.

Satan stood tall and wide, his horns those of an 18-point stag easily and his eyes glowing red. In his grasp, I was shaken like a rag doll until his maw opened to nightmare proportions.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

I sat bolt upright, with my heart racing furiously in my chest. I did not know where I was, but Satan was gone and I realized it had all been but a terrific dream. With no candles burning and the only light in the room that of the false dawn peeping through the window, the room was familiar; yet, it was not.

I took in huge gulps of air, as I sorted things out. My mouth tasted foul and coppery, the fading taste of extreme fear I reckoned.

Then the door opened slowly and my less than nimble mind decided that it had been a knocking that had rescued me from my nightmare. With the door ajar, a candle preceded my early morning visitor, who poked his head in apologetically.

"Mr. Herne!" I called out, surprised at the sudden flush of good will and comradeship I felt for my host. I supposed that only natural since he was the one who had rescued me from my nightmare. "Good morning!"

My host smiled wanly and I felt my cheeks flush slightly. I felt a bit guilty perhaps because the man was obviously exhausted, although there at least appeared color in his cheeks. "Penrod," he said by way of greeting, "I am sorry to have awakened you, but Jared and I have just gotten in and I'm afraid we needs must sleep much of the day away, for we are both truly exhausted. I trust you are well rested?"

I nodded, for indeed I felt suddenly energized and my nightmares suddenly seemed to pale at the sight of a friendly face. "You are a gracious host, my lord..."

There was suddenly an awkward moment as if I had more to say, but I could think not of it. If Merlin Herne noticed it, he did not let loose with a hint. Instead, he nodded and smiled again, although it might well have been a little forced. "Thank you, Penrod. I hope you feel the same way after you meet with the man from Lloyd's." He sighed. "I really do hate throwing you to the sharks, but I really must retire. You'll find an envelope with the appropriate papers on my desk in the drawing room, as well as a note granting you power as my representative in this matter. Good day, then, Penrod."

"Good rest to you, Sir," I called out as my host's head withdrew from my room.

Dawn was but moments away, so I saw no point in attempting to slumber again. I threw off the blankets and found myself exposed fully to the air. This surprised me a great deal for not only was it rare for me to go to bed without so much as a night shirt, but I was almost certain that I could recall pulling the white shirt over my head.

***

Breakfast turned out to be several crepes and an assortment of spring berries, which would have been impressive enough, but a small glass of orange nectar. The citrus was tart and sweet all at once and worked as a restorative against a slightly scratchy throat and weak spirits.

I found myself looking for Naomi while I ate. She had helped to serve dinner last night, after all. Wouldn't she also assist in serving breakfast? I hadn't an idea why I was looking for her, but I found her absence echoing in my heart.

Then I remember the bath from the prior and the sinful interlude between our stations and our sexes. Merely carnal desires that I should have denied at the time, I decided. That's all it was. I owed Jared a debt for interrupting what might have been the gravest mistake of my life, before it might have gone too far.

My seven sons deserved a father they could look up to as a paragon of virtue. Of course, a man need not be a saint. A healthy man has hearty needs, and I am no exception. I must be discrete in my failings of character, lest my sins become doubly cursed.

If only the birth of the twins hadn't left Pamela so cold.

I forced myself to abandon that particular line of thought as it was neither Christian nor productive.

The same house servant that had announced dinner last, told me that I was wanted in the Grand Hall by one of Mr. Herne's men. The timing was proper as I had just finished my second helping of crepes and berries and I could eat no more.

The Grand Hall matched the entry hall in theme if not exactly. It divided the manse into three sections, a west wing, an east wing and a south wing, which is where the kitchen and dining room had been placed.

The interlaced Celtic circles were inlaid upon the marble floor, just as the entry hall that lies beyond the double set of doors. These doors each had 4 stain glass panes depicting what I later learned to be the legend of Actaeon, a hunter who becomes the creature he has hunted, and is eaten by his own dogs. I would have been staggered, again, by Herne's casual display of wealth, if a large brutish man did not step between myself and the ornate doors.

"Mr. Penrod? Torc Triath, overseer, at your service," He said briskly but clearly. He spoke like a man who expected to be understood and thus be needed to say his words but once.

Although his hair was not quite as red as the Herne's, he was obviously a Scott. I could tell at once he was a man of great temper, a man who accepted the idea of his "betters" with an uneven pragmatism, as long as there were many more below him to lord over.

I found him grasping and pumping my hand roughly, although I hadn't offered it. His own hands, each as big as a Virginia smoked ham, were calloused and rough, so I decided not to protest this unwelcomed familiarity. "I was told you wanted a tour of the freehold."

I had already seen the port and town by moonlight and I had a great deal of doubt that sunlight would improve the appearance of either. I agreed, however, on the assumption that my host had arranged for me to be entertained while he was recovered from such an extended period of work.

Also, Mr. Triath did not seem to be the type of man I would want to anger or deny. His smile was forced, the expression in his eyes said he felt put upon. The fact that his dark beady eyes glared out from under a thick brow that was skirted with a single hairy eye brow that ran uninterrupted across his face did nothing to mitigate this cruel impression.

Of course, no doubt, this made him an effective overseer.

***

The freehold, it turned out, was not the collection of harborside hovels, but the plantation itself. It did not take long to discover that Mr. Triath used many odd words. I decided early in the course of the man's monologue that these must be very common words in Scotland; a country I had not yet had and I will not ever have the pleasure of visiting.

As we made a circuit around the environs, the overseer softened. His voice became warmer and a soft brogue began to slip out. One could see the man loved Avalon as if the land was his own. When he spoke of Merlin Herne it was with a warmth one hardly hears unless someone is speaking of a dearly departed.

I felt a flush of appreciation, a reflection of the warmth that had seemed so odd this morning. I was indeed lucky to have made the acquaintance of Lord Herne, for the man was obviously a visionary and most generous soul.

Avalon was much like a small village in its own right, a "mew," the overseer called it. The barn and the stables were separate builders, as was the carriage house were my man stayed. Near the stables, there was a small smithy attached to a squat brick building with a kiln that shared its heat with the smithy's forge. A glazier was at work, pulling a glowing glob of molten glass from what Mr. Triath called a "balefire."

When asked if Mr. Herne employed a glazier full time, the overseer responded that Merlin Herne was the man's patron and that the man, I believe his name was Knocker, was considered to be something of an artist.

I stood for a moment watching this artist at work, pulling and beating at the pliable mass. I was fascinated to watch the transformation from ugly shapelessness to a detailed image of a woman with the wings of a butterfly. The man was an artist, indeed, for I'd never seen an article of glass before that had even suggested such craft was possible. Furthermore, the impurities of the glass lent the wings a reflection not unlike mother-of-pearl.

To think but scant hours ago she was but a pail of sand.

I moved on reluctantly, wanting to speak with the artist, but the overseer seemed to think that was a bad idea.

The slave quarters were a row of tiny shacks built one into another, resembling huge chicken coops more than anything else. As with most such housing, it was hidden from casual sight of the house and drive. To Mr. Herne's credit, their quarters were clean and white washed.

Several of the smaller black boys capered in front of the shacks, watched by an elderly slave woman who sat in the shade of the building. I would have thought most of them old enough to be helping out in the field, but Mr. Herne no doubt had an excess of workers at the moment.

Mr. Triath's expression softened a bit as he followed my gaze. "Have children, do you Mr. Penrod?"

"Seven boys," I said proudly. Then I smiled, recalling a friend's oft-repeated joke. I added, a chuckle creeping into my speaking voice, "That I'm aware of."

This was as vulgar humor as I allowed myself as a genteman, but it seemed to kindle some good humour into the overseer's mien. "Come from a big family, do you?"

I nodded. "I've six brothers myself. I'd not intended seven, but the lord had other plans, apparently."

"Apparently," the overseer agreed. A young black buck came running up to Mr. Triath at this point and whispered something in his ear. "If you'll excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Penrod?"

Barely waiting for my agreement, the overseer stalked off with the house servant towards the manse and left me to continue the tour myself. I suppose, I could have followed the man back inside, yet I found myself fascinated by the young slaves.

One young little buck in particular, actually, who had set himself apart from others. He was wearing ragged pants and a dirty cotton blouse, but of particular interest was the red tint to his short, kinky hair. Occasionally, he would look up at me from the picture he was drawing in the dirt. His green eyes were shy, but intent. His relatively light brown face friendly was friendly and open.

The image of Merlin Herne looking softly upon Naomi as she slowly topped off a glass of water that had hardly seemed empty in the first place.

I do not believe it was jealousy that I felt turning in the back of my head at that moment. Nor do I believe it was envy, yet, I found I could not ignore this little Mulatto. Within moments, I found myself squatting down next to him. "What are you drawing, my young friend?"

A huge grin appeared on his face and his eyes met mine fearlessly. With his head out of the way, I saw a vague human shape drawn into the dirt. I could see horns growing from the man's head and his legs did not belong on a man, but were those of a goat. I might have mistaken it for a demon elsewhere, but here in estate of Avalon, there was no doubt he was drawing a satyr.

The young artist giggled happily. "I'm drawing you!"