Priscilla Northwest watched her husband pace frantically around the maisonette's dining room, cursing to himself while puffing frantically on a cigar, a glass of dry brandy in his other hand.

She raised an eyebrow, looking at him with a distinct lack of approval. "Don't wear out the carpet, dear."

"I'll wear out this carpet as much as I like!" He snapped back.

Things were tense. Increasingly tense. Not only had the lawn been torn up more than their family chemistry, but the wallpaper was ruined, the fence demolished, at least six designer gnomes knocked to pieces, the topiaries wrecked…

Oh, and Pacifica had run off, obviously.

It didn't help that Preston's father had been the man who had donated the fire truck back in 1976 with the outcome of a court trial. They had effectively - unknowingly - used their own tools against them.

Again.

The house was now, following the rude interruption, silent. The grandfather clock ticked its merry dance, as if taunting the couple. If you keep wasting time, you'll never get her back…

The family patriarch found himself glaring at the grandfather clock furiously. Then realised he was imagining a talking clock, and opted to take another sip of brandy and a deep breath.

Priscilla Northwest idly sipped her fourth glass of the day, seemingly having thrown out any sense of common decency when the Pines had decided to throw out the entire garden fence. "Well, perhaps we could have handled things better. I think Pacifica really is quite fond of them."

"They've corrupting her. Twisted her to a pauper's existence! The lies, the criminal activity, the lack of dress sense - Mark my words, Priscilla, this is the end game!" Preston said, getting increasingly frantic. His moustache twisted and bristled like a particularly posh caterpillar, balanced precariously upon his lip. "I knew things were bad, but I had no idea they'd gotten so dire."

"I'm as upset as you are, darling. I just don't know what to suggest."

"This has never happened to a Northwest before. Not like this. It's all wrong! This isn't how our family works! I thought the moment she came home to our warm welcome, she'd realise her mistake, but- THIS? This has all gone too far!"

The middle-aged patriarch paused and swallowed what was left of his generous glass.

"I tried, Priscilla. I really tried. It's so frustrating. it seems like every time you try, you know - really try to feel the burn - bad luck is knocking at your door ." He huffed in frustration and threw himself back into a deep purple armchair, holding his head in his hands. "Sometimes I really do feel like screaming. "

She cleared her throat in a typically ladylike manner and swirled her glass with a curt glance to the floor. "Surely your family has some kind of… some kind of backup option over this?"

He raised a thick eyebrow. "In case you haven't noticed, Priscilla, most of the town seems to be looking at us with some sort of unjustified scorn."

Priscilla attempted to twist her lip - which wasn't a particularly easy process for her. "Well, I meant - ahm - more of a historic sort of option. You know. After all, Nathaniel Northwest had some excellent connections. I think we've shown quite enough patience, really, Preston. It's about time we called in the big guns."

"Fundhausers?"

"No, Preston. I mean more supernatural help."

Preston's pupils shrank to pindots. "You don't mean-"

Priscilla's eyes slipped downwards to her glass. "I'm not strictly saying him. No, no, that Bill fellow was ghastly. But you do have an awful lot of those artefacts sitting around from the old days. Surely you can raise some kind of demon, or vampire, or-"

"To what end?"

"Preston, if we can't use them for blackmail, I guarantee a vampire would be an absolutely superb lawyer."

It was clear that - for one of his few moments of lucidity and reason - the Northwest patriarch was nothing if not fearful. He had experienced quite some degree of the supernatural lately and was no great fan. It was true that Nathaniel Northwest had been a man with enough steel - and unstable mental patterns - to dabble in the paranormal.

A deranged, grotesque lunatic, certainly, but he was a brave one. Preston was not a man known for his nerves of steel. He'd only taken that kind of risk from family inheritance. Not from his own volition. And following the likes of Curzon, Bill Cipher, that time a manotaur fouled his backyard - well, to him, it was clearly a hairy situation. (Albeit not as hairy as said manotaur.)

He tugged on his collar as he spoke. "You know I'm reluctant to get involved in this - in this business. Since the whole Cankerblight unpleasantness, not to mention the facial incident last year, being turned to stone…-"

"I know, I know, but if the natural allure of our life isn't good enough, what on Earth is?! I'm just saying, dear, it's maybe time we looked beyond the conventional means and started considering something more… substantial."

Things went quiet.

It was a tempting prospect. His brain kicked into motion as he considered the pros and cons of calling in help. In a typical Northwest fashion, he found himself treating the escape of his emancipating daughter as nothing more than a particularly daunting business deal. A gamble on the stock market.

A transaction. As if he was seeking a financial asset.

If Priscilla, herself, had any real scruples or morals, she'd be sickened. Instead she was eager to hear his judgement. After all, as he had said himself - it had gone too far.

"I suppose," he said, clearing his throat. "That a bit of tinkering with the occult never did any harm."

"Certainly not. A small amount of chaos is great for public support."

"You're thinking of a false flag?"

"Well, let's not use government terms, but…If the Pines can't handle it - and we can - Pacifica will realise it's not all silk bed sheets. We're a family of action, too. We'll come to the rescue, bring it all to a halt, pay off whoever we end up raising-."

"Fiendish. Delightfully so." Preston beamed.

"Not fiendish." She replied. "Good marketing."

He strolled over to the mahogany hatter's wardrobe in the corner and retrieved his finest designer catsuit. "I'm sure there'll be something in the chapel. Or the library."

"We're going in, then?"

"That manor is ours. Just like Pacifica." Preston replied, sliding on his baklava and cracking his knuckles. "By birthright."