It was what had scared Christophor so much when he attempted his dissection. When he cut away the shrivelled flesh he found its insides lined not with similarly withered tissue, but with clay. This he had seen, but couldn’t understand.

I placed a little of the fester-root in the bowl of the heart. I cast around for my pestle. The wine bottle was too large. And besides, I couldn’t risk wetting the root until I was ready. On the cabinet beside the bed was his pistol, as yet unfired in Drekenford. A hefty thing with a solid wood grip. I removed the round – including clearing the chamber – so there’d be no nasty accidents. Though there was an excitement upon me, this wasn’t a time for foolish rushing. Thus armed, I returned to the desk and set to.

The roots gave little resistance and I soon had a powder of sorts. It wouldn’t pass in the apothecaries of Esteberg, but I was confident it would serve. Why so confident? I couldn’t say – I had never been a scientific man, prone to experiments or the handling of dangerous substances. And yet here I was, making a powder from a root in a grisly crucible, all by candlelight.

The gold crown fit neatly in the centre of the heart. A man, most likely a king, stared back at me. I felt compelled to apologise for what I was about to do. I cleared the wine from my glass and filled it with water from the wash basin. I wouldn’t need so much, a few drops perhaps.

Finally ready, I stood in front of the desk, and felt compelled to raise my glass as if giving a toast – a toast to Berith, whoever or whatever that was. No words came. I tipped the glass, then righted it, for a moment worried I had used too much.

The bubbling and hissing began immediately. A greenish, shimmering smoke rose in tendrils from the heart, twisting and turning like no smoke I knew. It was oddly odourless. Between those tendrils I had a clear view of the dissolving king, his crown now slipping from his head. Like most crowns it didn’t take long to fall. The whole coin was reduced to a viscous liquid. But my heart was not bleeding.

I dithered, trying to recall where Christophor kept his knives. Would the molten gold harden once the root was finished? I glanced at the open book, as if I’d find instruction there. I reached for it but stumbled and my hand brushed the heart. Or, more precisely, I brushed one of the pins.

The pins.

With the best grip I could manage, I pushed a pin deep into the heart, piercing the clay, and then yanked it out. For a breath, nothing. Then, a trickle of gold.

I did the same for the remaining pins. I heard laughter. Full and throaty, drunk even, and looked towards the door. Only in turning from the heart did I realise that it was me, my whole frame shaking with a mirth I didn’t feel. I couldn’t stop. The gold bled out from the heart in thin streams, out onto the desk.