“I woke in the late fall. It was lonely at first, down in the dark of the undercroft, but slowly I came to realize that that’s where I was. It was peaceful; a good time for reflection upon all I had done in life.”

I looked at my companion over the rim of my spectacles. “And did you begin the screaming before or after this period of quiet contemplation?” I asked, setting aside my tea. My companion bobbed his silver head earnestly.

“Oh, before. I stopped once I realized that I was not bound by the stone around me.”

I raised an eyebrow but chose not to speak; he definitely had not ceased his screams once he had left his sarcophagus. It was this sound that had first drawn my fellow priests to the undercroft and convinced them that the place was haunted. They were right; the specter of our late regent, King Bucephalus, had been seen floating about the dark halls and pillars of the mausoleum beneath the chapel, screaming his decaying heart out, and they had come running to me.

I, the senior-most priest and Mouth of the Lady, was given the task of restoring balance to the undercroft and descended the stone steps with Rod and Cup in hand to send the rotten phantasm back to the shadowy abyss whence it came and instead was met with the visage of the past-king.

“You know, back when I was a king, I was well known as a mighty hunter. Would you happen to have any boars about?” Bucephalus asked. When I shook my head, he pouted. “Foxes, perhaps? Even a goose would do, you know. I’m sure I would feel more myself if I could but hunt down a beast.”

“Forgive me, my king. We have no such creatures here,” I replied solemnly. “We are in the chapel, you see.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding satisfactorily. “Lovely place. A bit dusty.”

I brushed the front of my robes and stood. “Is there a reason you rose from the crypt, my liege? Or shall I go about putting you back to rest?” Bucephalus turned from inspecting the offerings before the altar.

“Hm? Oh, yes indeed. I was murdered, you know. My son is in danger.” He said this so matter-of-factly that I did not register it at first and merely nodded.

As the import of the words sank in, I froze. “Murdered, my lord?”

He nodded and turned to face me. “Murdered. Are you sure there’s no doves about that need hunting? Chapels have doves, don’t they?”