Sir Walter Merryweather found the small, white envelope amidst the aftermath of his rampage. He passed it over with a sneer of utter contempt, Aurora by his side.
I sliced the thing open with a razored fingernail to an overpowering stench of lavender and tipped its contents into my hand: a single sheet of folded paper and a necklace with a silver cross, my cross.
My eyes closed, world stalled, stomach fell away. Fumbling fingers tugged free what I wished them to not as dark eyes reopened to four little words.
Merryweather reacted first, his face raised to the sky in scarlet, snarling fury, as I roared to the ground. But it was Aurora who put a voice to the message written in bold, italic script. It was Aurora who put sound to my torment as she read those words written in blood.
Dear Je
