4x-xx-xx ep32 The Curse of the Mantle

Phantoms of a world gone by speak again their immortal tale, the curse of the mantle. Telling since the procession began, since sundown its dismal clang has beat upon the town, rung upon it like hammer upon anvil, tolling for the damned.

They are bearing the mantle of Lady Eleanor that we publicly burned. And from where I stand here in the dim cemetery above my own grave, I can see the procession moving slowly through the streets.

George Helwees is at the head. Behind him, upon a litter, gleams the magnificent mantle. How many eyes sick with disease watch this procession. How many dead like myself listened to the tread of their feet?

How many recall the events that led to this feverish evening in spring? It begins when these dead walked and these diseased laughed. It begins in her uncle's, the governor's mansion, in the room with a great mirror.

The chandelier was ablaze with candles and she stood there, the lady Eleanor, gazing at herself in the mirror. Behind her, sat George Helwees, for Fiercée. You've stared at your image in the glass a long time, Ellen.

Yes, I have. The vanity of women. Are you dissatisfied with what you see, my love? Are you, George? Am I dissatisfied with the lovely summer's day? But come, come, look at me. I'm by far the more eloquent mirror.

That one is silent while I proclaim the beauty I see. Yet the real mirror is more honest, for it shows me as I really am. Then I am its voice. A man's voice. And a lover's.

Yet I am not satisfied. I am but another weed in the garden. What is it, my lady? You stare so earnestly at yourself. Oh, do I. I've only been imagining how I shall look in my new mantle, George.