The Underman didn't get his name by digging. At the beginning of his career, he never even touched a shovel. Oh, how the tables have turned. Now here he was, surrounded by fog and damp earth and death. The only things that he was sure were alive were the shadows. Even his own self seemed like it could splinter into nothing but a pile of bones.

The earth heaved, and with it, a child came. A massive birth, impressive in the way large animals were: commanding, fearsome. He'd come across an elephant before, bloodied, it's own tusks stolen off its face. He had looked at it, and not looked away, but he hadn't done anything for it, hadn't touched it. Now was the same. The child lay, cold and pale. But he couldn't touch it.

. . .

Still, the moon had seen death. Now, approaching the horizon, the other side, the moon saw everything. The glint of bones, the soft, regretful sobbing. There was no death. Death was an instant. A sudden moment where one changes into something entirely new. The moon was seeing the process now, the withering, the shaking, the mourning. The moon saw, for many moments, everything fall limp. But no one had died.

Isa threw her cloak over her shoulder, and prepared to face the wind. Even though she was used to Yungling's winters, Greenhallow's winters were so much harsher. She shuddered, probably in anticipation of the cold, and opened the door.

She took the path through the woods, zigzagging through the trees she knew so well. It had taken her some time to find a good place to live; one where no one could find her. She hoped.

Finally she reached the road, and although she wasn't thrilled that she was attending the Countess' party, she felt compelled.

Perhaps 'attending' wasn’t the right word. Perhaps 'sneaking in' was.

She followed the road to the estate, watching the crows that watched her. They perched in the trees, staring at her with their beady eyes. She walked faster to escape them.

Pulling down her hood, Isa stepped into the ballroom. It was warm and welcoming, filled with the bright, dull kind of people she had come to know so well. They welcomed her by not looking in her direction, and conversed with her by dancing around her. The party was full of people, but she knew she was alone.

The light was so bright that he had to blink very rapidly. The Underman was so used to darkness, to crawling shadows and crumbling earth. Here, everything was smooth. The floor--you could slide a limp body across easily. The walls--so white that a dark splash of blood would be painfully distracting from the rest of the room. The chandeliers--each probably costing more than he made in a year. The ladies, in their fancy necklaces--the diamonds sharp and deadly. Yet everyone here was alive, warm, and bright. It almost physically hurt.

. . .

He hated parties. Fortune (the idea) had nothing to do with parties. And Fortune (the person) wanted nothing more than to have nothing to do with parties. But here he was, entertaining guests. And for what? An extra ruck?

. . .

The Underman stood under a bright chandelier. He was wishing it would fall (for multiple reasons) when he saw a shadow in the shadows. He knew when something didn't belong. His eyes snuck around the room, and landed on a deep purple cloak. He wandered through people with a jovial smile on his face, and somehow ended up getting eaten by the shadows, like he always did.

. . .

Yolk didn't attend parties. Nobody in his family attended parties. Or formal events, or get-togethers, or meetings, or anything. Ever. Yet here he was, as close to a party as anyone in his family tree had been in a hundred years.

. . .

Vienna was positively done with the party. It was warm and boring and she was stuck with the same dressed-up peasants she was always with. So she smiled, because she was good at it, and spun around the party, dragging Damian with her.