Abigail The car hums in idle as my eyes comb over the invitation one more time. This wooded, isolated drive doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. The vellum is fine, with the invitation itself handwritten in red ink in a swooping, calligraphic style. The envelope itself was even sealed in a rich, red wax. The address is more plainly written, and assuming this isn’t some kind of a trap—which I haven’t ruled out—I’m headed in the right direction. Straight on the path to Briarton