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John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. "Well!" cried Mrs. "I have a client who is very much interested in Mr. Pity you aren’t under my command. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.

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