The Ill-Fated Fortunes of a Steampunk Madam XII: Harvest

In the parlor, amongst the crows, the grizzled crow that housed the remnant of Mrs. J. Leonard Weatherbank fluttered and preened. She could hear, through the vent that connected the parlor and the library, all of Sweet Fiona's conversation with Tapping Ajax.

Too, she could hear the cries on the wind, blowing through the skittering fingers of the ancient maple outside, and even the whispering moan of the ancient and long-forgotten remains entangled in its trunk.

Thrice we reap whate'er we sow. Happiness from love and death from sorrow.