“Yeah,” he continued, “I think he thought I was one of those. How he prayed—”

“Let us get to work,” I said, hopefully appearing unmoved.

“All right, all right. No rush as I see it, but I’m not the mastermind here. What shall we do now, sir?” He bowed low, like a butler.

Two hefty table covers later, we were in the library. All six volumes of Poems of the Classics, the legendary Denom Vandahl’s Transient State of Grace and Songs in Regal Twilight, The Embryonic Sorcerer and many more I pulled from their shelves and dropped in Werlyle’s blood-covered hands.

The sight of them made me have to consider: Was this come-to-fruition maniac done with his bloodlust? Was he even capable of splitting the loot and then merrily go about his affairs? Was I, Tymothus Snier, willing to do such splitting?

I knew from too much time in the dungeon who’d squeal. If he got caught—and with an array of bloody boot prints and his reckless blabber-mouthing, he would—it would only be a matter of time before I was in some pre-disembowelment pillory. Equally troubling, he was possibly brewing a similar plan, trying to make my grizzly death look like a grand murder-suicide, swaying in his retelling to the Ward.

“How fuckin’ heavy can a few books be?” Werlyle grunted as he toted an improvised satchel across his shoulder.

“You’ll be surprised how much some of these will sell for. Besides, they’re not that heavy.” Hugging my much smaller load, it was relieving to pretend I wasn’t bothered. In time, my temperament began to follow suit.

I freed one hand long enough to open the door that led us out to the bailey. From over my stack of books, I saw the pale tops of the obelisks. The wind wasn’t just strong, it was cold. I walked to the cart, Werlyle in trace. After placing one table cover at its base, Werlyle handed me the books and I made a solid bed of literature. I covered the second linen over them and hopped out.

Next were the sculptures, silverware, candleholders, decorative weaponry, vases, curtains, sconces, and a plethora of odds and ends, all packed into their waiting crates that I’d kept cached in the mansion’s heap of undisposed garbage. Thieves in the night; Werlyle bellowed in mirth, impressed by my puzzle-piece packing. I stood atop the boxes, cold wind blowing my hair wild.

“Attaboy, Snier,” Werlyle laughed. “Oh, did you check Morlia? Watch it. Careful, Snier, don’t go droppin’ boxes and lookin’ all amateur on me.”

But I didn’t hear him. My heart pounded, my comfort annihilated, and I knew it wouldn’t return. “She has to have keys on ’er.” Werlyle said. “We find what we’re both really lookin’ fer—hey, how we goin’ to fit it all? Make another trip?”