Meanwhile, Xanga Jack grieved behind the stained glass sanctuary of their capacious study.

The long exorcism was beginning: by firelight, she whipped her pen across a fresh sheet of paper. Electrified with fury, and embittered by the gods, she scratched her anguish onto the page. To Xanga’s regret, her tears pattered the paper and blotched the ink—but, she didn’t start over. The initial regret faded, and she went on with renewed vigor; the message, she grew to believe, had been galvanised through the manifestation of her bereavement.

She lifted the flap of an envelope and thoughts of its destination streamed out, flooding her mind. Again, she charged on, casting the anxiety aside. With no more thought of the consequence, she pushed the note inside and began to address the correspondence in earnest.

Master Shaman, Gum do Mugu

Before she could finish writing the address, her intense conviction was interrupted by a knock at the door.

á—·Oá‘­ á—·Oá‘­ á—·Oá‘­

Her palm slammed over the name she had written, obscuring it.

“I just,” the voice crept into the room like a lament set to the solemn wail of the door’s hinge. It was Arteur, her husband. He repeated his chorus—“I just...”⁠—and stepped, sheepishly, into the room's fiery glow. He sniffled. “I just,” he tried. “I just,” he tried again. And then, it happened, he crumpled to his knees and bawled into the swirls and lines of their Raiaeran rug.

"Oh, Arteur," she said, biting back at her own distress. Unlike her husband, Xanga had hope; it was written on that page and, without fail, she would ensure the letter's safe arrival.