I wrapped the cape around me like a blanket, settled more deeply into the chair and closed my eyes.
I followed him through the musty house, which was guilty of the most heinous crimes of Victorian aesthetics.
Around me spanned a circle of dripping candles and a smoldering censer of myrrh, the balm of immortality.
But as I curved along the crashing coast, a fog bank crept in and wrapped me in its sullen shroud.