The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

George gently knocked on Sybil's door and waited a moment before hearing a slightly weary "Come in" from inside.

Pushing open the door, the indoor lights were dim. Sybil was sitting on a soft chair by the window, the thick shawl wrapped around her making her figure appear even thinner.

The torrential rain outside the window completely blocked out the light, with only the occasional blinding flashes of lightning illuminating her face, turning it deathly pale.

"Sybil." George came in and closed the door.

The younger sister turned her head and nodded slightly when she saw George.

George walked to another chair, sat down, and took out a small glass bottle containing the supplement, handing it over.

"I brought you some things."

"This is...?" Sybil reached out to take it.

Just then, a bolt of lightning flashed outside the window, and Sybil's hand visibly trembled.

Amidst the rumbling thunder, George touched his sister's hand—it had the cool touch of a glass ornament.

He frowned slightly: "Let me see your hand?"

The younger sister was puzzled but obediently handed over her hand.

George took the hand and realized that it was probably just his imagination.

However, her younger sister's hands were cold and damp, with a slight sheen of cold sweat, clearly indicating that she was in a state of panic.

"Here you go." He released his hand, pointed to the medicine bottle, and said, "It's a calming potion I made; it should help you."

Sybil looked at the vial of potion hesitantly, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes.

"If you could stop this rain, I think I could sleep a little more soundly."

"I wish I could, but I don't have wings to command the wind and rain." George's voice softened further. "Let's drink the medicine, Sybil, and do what we can."

His keen perception, brought by his spirituality, allowed him to detect his sister's unusual unease about the torrential rain.

Sybil remained silent for a moment, then finally drank the potion in one gulp.

The medicine must taste good. She put the bottle down and leaned back in her chair, her tense nerves seeming to relax slightly.

However, his low spirits were still evident.

Sitting beside her, George tried to draw upon his not-so-developed empathy from his past life, desperately searching for ways to comfort her.

Suddenly, an image flashed through my mind.

"Do you remember?" George began slowly, his voice carrying a hint of distant reminiscence, "that autumn when we were about ten years old, when we spent it with our aunt in the Scottish Highlands."

Sybil's gaze shifted slightly, as if something deeply buried in her memory had been touched.

"That evening was the same; the dark clouds were so low they almost pressed down on the hillside." George's gaze seemed to pierce through the wall in front of him.

"We didn't want to stay in the manor with the adults, so we slipped away when they got into their carriages and left. As a result, rain clouds started to drift in at dusk, and it got dark all at once."

He gestured gently to the name: "The grassland was too big and too vast for us at the time. The wind blew us away without any obstruction and we lost our way. I know you were actually very scared at the time."

Sybil didn't speak, but listened attentively, seemingly also immersed in that memory.

"I remember I happened to have a small piece of candle and a match that I had taken from the kitchen in my pocket at the time, so I used my hand to shield it and light it."

A slight smile appeared on George's lips.

"Of course, the light was very dim, and it almost went out when the wind blew."

"I gave you the candle then, so that your world would at least be focused on something warm." George's voice softened.

"The candlelight didn't shine very far, only illuminating a small patch of the road beneath our feet. And you kept holding my hand, watching the candlelight, as we walked towards the manor. The rain never actually started, and we just walked for a long time without crying or fussing until the adults came looking for you."

He paused for a moment, then looked up at his sister: "Back then, I thought that no matter how dark the road, a little light can always warm people's hearts. If we find it, then we can keep going."

Sybil listened quietly, her eyes glistening with tears. George noticed that her breathing had become slightly more even.

He slowly pulled a candle from the inside pocket of his coat; it was only about half a stick long.

Focusing his mind on guiding the spiritual spark within him, George rubbed his fingertips against the candle wick.

A bright and steady orange flame suddenly leaped up, casting a warm glow in the dim room.

George handed the burning candle to his sister.

"So don't worry too much, Sybil, stay strong—you've done it once before."

His sister looked at the flame in his hand, then looked up into George's eyes, and slowly reached out to take the candle.

The candlelight flickered in her eyes, illuminating her pale face. She gripped the candle tightly, as if drawing upon its warmth.

A warm silence lasted for a moment, after which George realized the effect of his comfort.

"Fear hasn't blinded me, George," his sister said softly, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Thank you for reminding me."

In the candlelight, her expression seemed to relax for a moment, and George's tense heart relaxed. He knew that he had probably completed his task.

The next step is probably to find an opportunity to steer the conversation toward the mother.

But just as he was thinking about how to change the subject, the brief silence was quickly broken by his sister.

Sybil changed the subject: "Speaking of which, George, you've been back for several days now. Have you thought about visiting your mother's grave at the family chapel on the island?"

George's peaceful and tranquil state of mind was almost interrupted by the sudden problem.

In the few days since his return, he has been preoccupied with a series of events and has not yet taken the initiative to visit the cemetery.

It's also possible that the time traveler simply didn't have any concept of these things.

Faced with his sister's question, he was speechless for a moment, a thousand words stuck in his throat, and in the end he could only reply:

"Not yet. There are too many things to do... there hasn't been a suitable time yet."

Sybil lowered her eyes to look at the flickering flame of the candle in her hand, without pressing the matter further or showing any reproach.

"If the rain stops tomorrow," she said again, "we should go see Mother."

George looked at his sister and nodded, then said solemnly, "Okay, we'll go together after the rain stops."

Another long silence followed.

After waiting for a minute, three minutes, or five minutes without hearing anything more from his sister, George had no choice but to stand up.

"I'd better not waste the potion's effects. Goodnight, Sybil, sweet dreams."

"Goodnight, George." His sister stood up as well, still holding the candle in her hand.

George left the room and gently closed the door behind him.

Looking at the quiet and long corridor, he let out a long sigh and strode away.

-----------------

Meanwhile, at the other end of the third floor of the mansion, in a similarly empty corridor.

Frederick, the second son of the De La Porte family, sat alone in the darkness.

Far from the activity area of ​​the manor's residents, only the pale white light of lightning, which suddenly flares up and then goes out as it tears through the sky, shines through the window, violently slamming his figure against the wall behind him.

He had a canvas resting on his lap, a paintbrush clutched tightly in his hand, and a palette of paints on his lap.

Outside the window, the rain was pouring down, and the dense raindrops were pounding against the windowpane like crazy.

A muffled rumble of thunder rolled across the rooftops, and lightning flashed repeatedly, revealing the terrifying nature of the world outside the window in the dead of night.