Cecelia clibmed the stairway, approaching the door with carefully hesitance. This had been her home once. This place of vile intent, this festoon of darkness, it was her love once. The doorway was rotting and rusted as she placed her hand against it, and it was cold to the touch. She drug her hand, pale in the moonlight, across the carvings of an oak tree intwing a crow within its branches. The image was her family crest, before the split, before the curse.