“You may be ready for sleep, my little friend. I am not.” I pull on my robe and step into my brocade slippers. The rain has ceased gurgling through the gutter outside my window, but it will be a damp and cool October night outside. I pull my green cloak about my shoulders and make my way down the wooden stairs and out into the garden. The trees have already shed most of their leaves, and their branches drip water onto the sodden lawns and paths. It is really too wet to sit anywhere, so I settle to pacing around the garden, slowly shutting out the nighttime noises of the city that drift over the walls. The streetlamps are no longer lit at night, and their glow has been replaced by the sweeping searchlights that scour the skies for the deadly zeppelins that come to drop their bombs on us. But tonight all is quiet. Quiet, that is, save for the urgent whispering of the spirits who have been waiting for me to come to them.

Where have you been, Morningstar?

Lilith! Lilith!

We thought you had forgotten us, Daughter of the Night.

I am here. I will always be here.

So many dead! So many terrible things.

The way I commune with the spirits has undergone such a change since war began to tear countries and families asunder. Now, all I have to do is to still my thoughts, to open my mind and my heart, to allow them to come, and the voices start up their clamor for my attention. Some are old friends, and all I recognize. There is the kindly grandmother who frets over suffering and is horribly dismayed by the war. She frequently tells me of young men, so very young, who have passed to the Land of Night, cut down before they had a chance to live their lives. She often weeps, setting up a chorus of wailing among the more sensitive spirits. Since the Yulemass calling, Amelia has come to speak with me from time to time. I am pleased to hear from her, but her sadness endures, and I wish there was more I could do to help her. I never hear from Father, which is a constant source of sadness for me. Sadness and guilt, for I know why he will not come. At times, I find communicating with the spirits brings me more pain than comfort, but I am a necromancer. I am here to allow those spirits to have their voice. It may be that their divinations can be of help or give solace to those of us still treading the earth. Or it may simply be that I am a cypher for the anguish of those who have crossed the Rubicon. Either way, I cannot turn my back on them.

I pause under the denuded walnut tree, leaning against its ancient trunk, the smooth bark cool against my back even through the thickness of my cloak.