Father’s corpse now floated upon the water. It was laying facedown and its limbs had been reconfigured in a manner that would have been agonising in life and was indignant in death. The arms and legs were bent backwards and held still in rigor mortis. From the wrists and ankles several silken cords had been wound, forming a rudimentary boat. A pair of long and bloodied swords lay crisscrossed upon Father’s back. These, Desdemona felt, could serve as her oars.

The wind blew low and eerily. It was no longer snowing. She stared at Father’s remains, simultaneously entranced and repulsed by the sight. She knew what must be done.

“I…can’t…I can’t…”

Her protest was small, and a moment later she realised how insincere it was, for as soon as she heard Celeste’s distant cry from somewhere out on the water, Desdemona submitted herself to her duty.

She climbed down onto the rotting Chariot, wincing at the feel of the soggy meat coming apart under her weight. Only Father’s bones seemed to keep her from falling into the water. But these bones were raft enough. Desdemona took up the swords and pushed away from the dock.

The fog banks piled up all around her like drifting snow. Desdemona rowed herself far enough from the island that the sound of the surf disappeared. For a long span the only noise she heard was the rhythm of the blades slicing the unseen water, propelling her deeper into the unseen. But she did not lose faith, for every so often she could hear Celeste’s unmistakable voice seeping in from this direction or that. Sometimes Desdemona would call out to her sister, but more often she would simply do her best to steer her morbid raft in Celeste’s direction.

*

“Hush now, my dear girl,” said August, the pellar. His voice was soothing. It was the kind of tone that Charles knew well from their long work together. “You are safe now, Celeste,” August continued, “perfectly safe. The ugly spirit is gone. It can no longer harm you.”

Charles moved alongside his partner and love. He placed his hand upon August’s back, both to congratulate and comfort him after this draining exorcism.

“Can you hear us, Celeste?” Charles called into the dim parlour. “Please give us a sign if you can.”

The flame inside the red signalman’s lantern (the room’s only light source) flared in response.

“Very good, Celeste,” said August. “Rest now, sweet child. We thank you for speaking with us. We will call upon you again soon.”

Charles extinguished the lantern once August had deposited the spirit bottle into a small pouch. They exited the chamber and made their way into the kitchen. Charles lit two cigarettes and handed one to August, who accepted it with a trembling hand.