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"Merry, light the oil laive me the knife"

What if the spark the priests stole for Ottonor’s funeral procession was that of a criht until it has reunited with its familiar spark? What if itflesh in which to make a new home?

Coriander steps up beside me, lamp in one hand and knife in the other "What is it, Doma?"

The coffin jerks so hard that it slides partway off the bier

Coriander yelps

Whorab my dead brother off the oracle’s lap His dead flesh ht want to leap into my body, as it is said shadows can do Let it jump into his flesh instead! He can’t be harht the other laht"

A wick hisses as a second lamp takes fla larind and a snap the entire top of the stone bier bursts up

A breath of cold hard air swirls out and then the stone lid slams down, too heavy to stay up

We all scream

The coffin slides, topples, and crashes to the floor The seals crack, and the lid jumps open Lord Ottonor’s waxy corpse sprawls over the mess of bloody shrouds

"Jes!" Maraya’s voice is a breath short of a shriek "Get back fro to crawl out of him"

Coriander mutters curses or prayers; I can’t tell the difference, only that her voice is frantic

My breathing co ht throws shadows across the cha shadow oozes out of Ottonor’s flesh but that is surely only the angle of the light

The corpse’s fingers twitch as the body splays farther forward A dead hand grabs for

"Jes!" Maraya screa with et away The coffin heels over sideways and the corpse rolls towarddown ainstI screech, drop the dead infant on top of the corpse, and scraed bursts that ht blurs