Spring 1872 – Each New Breath is a Measure of Hell


The wretch’s trail was simple to follow. Broken fences; smashed windows; terrified, babbling witnesses were left in his wake. “Father,” I said, “I feel as if we have run this hunt a hundred times already. Is the outcome ever different?”

He laughed. “Rose, you are letting the gloom and rain pull down your mood. The outcomes are always different. We do our quarry a disservice if we assume that he is the same as the creations made before him.”

I looked at the corpse of dog hanging half out a third floor window. “Rage seems to be an ingredient in most of the Sodality’s experiments,” I observed.