Page 63 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor Man nor Boy . . .

Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea ...

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind ...

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The letter continued:

Please write to me when you can, Owein. I know it is selfish of me to ask, but hearing from you brings me peace. Even if it’s just a single sentence ensuring your heart still beats.

With most sincerity,

Cora

Releasing a long breath, Owein tenderly refolded the letter and pressed it to his forehead. “Thank you, Cora,” he whispered.

He sat like that for several seconds, losing and finding himself, before standing and slipping the letter into his pocket, pausing when he felt the grease pencil and communion stone there. He pulled the letter back out. Stared at it as though new words might appear on the paper, then placed it inside his wardrobe with the others. “I will,” he promised. “Soon.”

Finger-combing his hair, Owein took the stairs down and went outside, the light dimmer than it had been moments earlier. He thought to round the island again, but spied Hulda jogging toward him, holding her skirt in one hand, her face flushed.

Owein tensed. “What’s wrong?”

Her expression fell when she answered, “Lisbeth has finished.”

A hundred moth cocoons ruptured in his stomach. He nodded and sprinted for Beth’s house. Lord Pankhurst lingered nearby, likely trying to glean what information he could on BIKER’s project. Merritt was speaking to him in soft tones.

Owein came to the kitchen, surprised to see it ... just how Beth and Baptiste left it. Immaculate, the laboratory equipment already packed away into its cases. Lisbeth sat in the chair he’d occupied for the bloodletting and glanced at him with stoic features, holding a slim cylinder with a capped needle, much like the one Owein had stolen from the laboratory in Ohio. She did not speak to him until Hulda arrived, out of breath, and shut the kitchen door behind her.

“There isn’t a lot of it.” Lisbeth spoke so suddenly it startled him. “The bones were old.” She glanced to Hulda, who nodded through a frown, and handed the vial to Owein. The contents had a silvery hue to them. Silver and crimson.

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