As evening fell, Iris finished typing the many letters she had promised wounded soldiers at the infirmary, feeling like a conduit for their hopes and messages to loved ones. A new letter arrived from her anonymous correspondent, who shared the second half of the Enva and Dacre myth, obtained from his sharp-tongued grandmother. The myth related how Enva, unhappy underground, used her music to sway Dacre’s court—first to sorrow, then joy, and finally sleep—allowing her to explore his fortress and eventually escape.

According to the tale, Enva later ambushed Dacre upon his emergence, wounding him and forcing him to seal his realm. Over time, she returned intending to cast a century-long sleep over him and his court; some say she succeeded, others that her power waned. The correspondent concluded with the warning to never offend a musician and to choose lovers wisely. Iris pondered that this account could mean Enva’s harp, not a mortal poison, subdued the gods, implying Enva remained free while four others slept, and explaining Dacre’s vengeful rampage to draw Enva out.

Moved and unsettled, Iris wrote back to thank him and asked for a favor: to post a bundle of the soldiers’ letters, offering to repay postage. She also asked whether his typewriter bore a silver plaque and specific quirks, suspecting a connection to the Alouette legend. She sent the soldiers’ letters through the magical portal and paced while waiting for his response.

His reply arrived promptly: he agreed to mail the letters and confirmed that his machine, inherited from his grandmother, is the Second Alouette, engraved with “THE SECOND ALOUETTE / MADE ESPECIALLY FOR H.M.A.” He wondered if their rare typewriters explained their connection. Warmed by the confirmation, Iris began to share what she had learned about the Alouettes, noting her own was a gift from her grandmother, when a hound siren abruptly cut her writing short.

With only minutes to prepare, Iris sent a hurried, misspelled note, then darkened her room and moved into the hall, nearly colliding with Attie Attwood. Marisol Torres gathered them into her bedroom, barricaded the door with heavy furniture, and distributed a flashlight to Iris while readying a revolver, instructing Iris to illuminate any hounds that breached so Marisol could shoot.

The three sat in darkness as the hounds approached. Iris counted breaths to stay calm, hearing howls multiply and draw near, claws scrape doors, and the house shudder under impacts. She and Attie clutched hands while Marisol stood guard. The attacks ebbed and returned in cycles, until a long silence finally settled. As Marisol had warned, it became a long night of fear and vigilance, but the chapter ended with the trio still barricaded and unbroken.