"Is your pulse usually- " It comes out irritated, sharp and snappy, and she close her eyes a moment. " - I'm sorry, I'm under considerable stress. You need to go to a doctor." But woe, they've got Paul instead. And that was abitchy thing to even think. He'd done well with Nuada's arm, hadn't he? Deep breath. Be sweet.

"Go sit on your stoop. I'll b- well. Daisybelle will be there in a few minutes. This part is a bit father off, but he'll come, too. He's just got to take the train first."


Metody is good as her word. A few minutes ago, the sewers rattle, then vomit a flood of bones. They grind and crackle, folding together to form a hydrocephalic dish of a riding compartment mounted directly on a pelvis that bristles with clawed legs. It crouches down.

Meanwhile, Paul gets a text alert: Emma, irregular pulse, sob; Daisybelle.