He worked swiftly, single-mindedly, ignoring his sister’s sobs. He made twelve impressions, spaced equally on the paper and then he blew the candle out, tossed the truncated wax stick into the fireplace, and laid a second sheet of creamy, stiff paper over the first. He folded the two sheets carefully, making sure that the creases were in the spaces he had left for them and then he put the thick, stiff square of papers into his leather pouch.

He glanced at Campion. She was sobbing hysterically, her eyes open. He knew she was not seeing anything. He had seen his victims like this before, at the times when he would rest from his labors and walk up the stone steps to stare across the River Thames as he flexed the stiffness from his lamed body.

He picked up the seal. He unscrewed it and stared, without expression, at the crucifix. He had not known what to expect, half thinking it might contain a naked woman like that inside the Seal of St. Mark. The small, silver statue was very still in his fingers.

He glanced at her again. He was thinking.

He screwed the two halves of the seal together, stood up, and crossed gently toward her. Her eyes moved as he came close, but he knew she was still not recognizing him. He made soft, crooning noises of reassurance as he stooped over her. She did not move away from him. She seemed aware that someone was present, she seemed to want comfort, and, indeed, his hands were surprisingly gentle as he tipped her head forward and slipped the seal round her neck.

Then, still making the quiet, comforting noises, he backed away from her. He opened the door to the long gallery, slipped through, then locked it behind him. He nodded at those who waited outside, expectancy on their faces, and put a finger to his lips. “A few more minutes, I think.” One of his men offered him wine, looted from the castle cellars, but the offer made Ebenezer scowl. “Water! Bring me water! But make sure it’s clean!”

He leaned against the door, shut his eyes, and reflected on the satisfaction of a job well done.

For what seemed hours, yet were only minutes, Campion did not move. She shrank into the window corner like a trapped, scared animal, fearing everything, not daring to move in case the motion should invite new horrors. The blood on her smelled thick and nauseating, and she heard her great, lung-emptying sobs, and only slowly did she realize that she was listening to herself. She touched a finger to her face, feeling the stickiness, and she thought she was in the realm of madness, or else falling through some wild, shrieking hole toward hell itself. She wailed like a child in pain and the sound, or else the thought of hell, made her strength rebel against her predicament.

She moved. She shook her head. She made herself see where she was and the first object before her eyes was the great, dark hole in Scammell’s throat. She felt her stomach heaving, heard the retching mingled with sobs and threw herself sideways, away from the body. She was gasping for air, panting, but she forced herself into one action at a time. First to reach the bed, next to wipe her hands, her face, and then to suck at the wound on the base of her thumb that still bled. She wiped with the corner of the sheet at her breasts which were sticky with blood. The seal hung there.