‘The Magician is my father,’ the High Priestess says while buckling up her white pompons. ‘Oh, Erebus, you who left this earth before Nemesis could figure out what she was.’ ‘But she always knew,’ you whisper, and then go: ‘That’s the nature of magic: to cut with the sword what needs imparted. Dip your finger into some plum brandy, let some smoke come out of your Orlik pipe, and deliberate. Let your ‘but’ be but the action of your shadow. Pay a visit to the underworld and leave a trail of blood. I shall know you by your smell and the whiteness of your robe. And you will choose.’


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