Chapter 24Theo knelt, holding Henry, in his Library. In streaming dust, in broken green-gold light, the fading struggling gleam of Theo’s book-wards.
He could still see Henry running into his office, Henry coming to save him. Through fallen shelves and torn pages, which floated like snowflakes in mid-air.
Henry had grass-smudges on his trousers and a bleeding scrape along one arm, and his clothes were sweat-dark and scuffed; every detail seemed precise, significant, important to remember. He was uninjured otherwise, aside from the growing blooming obscene red and white that was his stomach, like ruby glass.
Percival Therion-Windham said, pleasantly, “I had dear Isabella make this one for me, and we infused it together; it’s an intriguing construction, is it not? An illustration of possi
