“What? Are you sure, Fanny?” William had finally made his way through the ballroom to be at her side. His sword was duly used to hack up countless desiccated limbs. And yet, despite his general courage, efficiency of movement, and prowess, William was ready to admit having had no effect whatsoever upon the general state of the enemy. Sure, the enemy was now in more pieces than it had been before, and yet—the pieces themselves—they tended to fall apart and then terrifyingly come together again, and the broken mummies were made whole! Indeed, what a frustrating, blasted, whack-a-mole abomination!

“Yes, I am very certain of it, William, dear! By covering up their mouths we rid them of the breath of life—the very thing that animates them and that which they feed upon when they attack the living!”

“However do you know all this, Fanny?” Edmund was in his shirtsleeves, having taken off his evening jacket, and was bunching it up into a large wad.

“You truly do not want to know, cousin,” she replied, throwing off a small baboon that had attached itself to the back of her prettily-coiffed head and was about to take a bite of the breath of life from her ear. . . .

But where—the observant Reader asks—where in all this was Mr. Crawford? What kind of eager lover did it make him, not to be at his chosen and favored lady’s side in a time of such dire danger?

But—for once Mr. Crawford was not to blame. For, he was, in fact, otherwise preoccupied. And his preoccupation had to do with a very real, very immediate threat to his life from a very real, very large, very hairy giant werewolf.

The werewolf had cornered Mr. Crawford in a small alcove just near the entrance of the ballroom, and was growling like a maddened overgrown boar and a pack of hounds all put together. Looming about eight feet tall, the giant hairy form roared, moving slowly forward and gnashing its monstrous teeth.

Backed to the wall, Henry kept his cool.

“A fine evening, Rushworth,” he said. “A full moon tonight, as is obvious by your—ahem—full condition. Incidentally, whatever are you doing here, miles away from Brighton and your delightful spouse?”

The werewolf roared quite ground-shakingly upon hearing “delightful spouse” and took another elephant-heavy step, clawed legs like trunks, crashing against the parquet floor.

“Now, now—there is no need to get all riled up, good fellow. Upon my word, no need for such a display at all,” said Mr. Crawford very calmly, taking a small sidestep into the direction of the larger ballroom.

The werewolf gathered itself for a spring and was about to lunge. . . . But Henry Crawford was saved, in the nick of time, and without a nick of intention, once again by none other than Mrs. Norris.