Blood flowed from a jagged crack near her temple. Not much to his surprise, but in the moonlight, white patches of bone shone through the wet, matted hair. She no longer reminded him of a youthful Audrey Hepburn.

There was no pulse. There was no life. She was gone.

Her eyes stared at him, wide, no longer creased in fury. He should feel sorry for her, but he felt nothing except relief and maybe even pride that he’d done this.

Using his good hand, he pushed back onto his haunches and leaned back to stare up into the night sky, dotted with a million stars; overseen by a gold moon. He looked back down at her wondering what she was looking at up there because her face carried the barest wisp of a smile.

Clutched in her clawed, stiff hand was the green book, or a better description, the remnants. The exterior had been blackened so that it was unrecognizable from the original handsome volume. Pages were now only jagged, crisped and curled edges. Small wisps of smoke curled up into the damp air as if the object had been recovered from a camp fire.

William wondered if even a few pieces of paper was still enough to hold the power? Or did it need anchoring in book form?

He crouched over her, pushing at her fingers, prying them away until he slipped it from her hands and pulled open the covers, stiff and flaking from the damage.

Even if a vestige of power remained in the unburnt paper, he was relieved to see the saved pages were close to mush, thanks to the rain.

He carefully stroked the pages open and looked for the place where he’d written the words. He found them on the page he’d sweated and puzzled over, as he tried to choose the perfect phrase.

It wasn’t as if his life had depended on it, or anything, he’d thought sarcastically as he wrote.

His inscription, though only partial, remained visible but fading, as the moisture soaked into the fibers. The letters now runny and blurred were barely legible.

…ath. St.uck by lightn... twice.

All the notations which came before them, destroyed; the tragic stories they told, gone forever. Thank the God of Fortune—whoever that one was—because he didn’t need reminding of the events which had set this in motion. Nor the terrible things he had contemplated doing to Orelia in the beginning. He hadn’t been serious, not really, but he reminded himself to be careful what you wish for William Barnes. Look where that took you.

The note he had handed her, the moment before she had been struck by the bolt, lay in muddy grass, inches from a burned hand. At the moment she was hit, the paper must have fallen.

Though his injury throbbed as if a hammer had been taken to his forearm, he smiled. Shame descended just as quickly as it took him to admonish himself for feeling anything beyond remorse.