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perform this sacrament?”
    â€œA brazier, if you have one.”
    She pointed to Fingle and he nodded. “So it shall be.”
    She led the way to the third floor where she opened the garret door. The third floor of the house was old attic space with a sloping low ceiling. It was filled with forgotten furniture, leather trunks and wooden crates. She stepped around them to access the circular staircase to the roof through a low door, ducking her head to pass through. At the top of the steps, she opened yet another door and stepped onto a balcony built onto the back of the roof. It was meant for moonlight dinners and romantic evenings. Tonight, it would be used for quite another purpose.
    Fingle was the last to emerge onto the roof. He carried a brass brazier supported by long brass legs. He set it up in the middle of the terrace and backed away to stand behind Bryn.
    â€œTell your dog to leave,” Lazarus snarled.
    â€œI say he stays. You have your support.” She indicated Sister Mary Francis. “I will have mine.”
    Lazarus narrowed his eyes. “Very well. He is a powerless creature anyway.”
    He pulled a small bag out from under his robe and dumped its contents into the brazier. It ignited at the point of his finger sending off a rancid scent that made Bryn gag. Drawing the nun close, he pushed her purple cloak off. It puddled at her feet and Bryn saw a red stain on her white collar. Lazarus had already fed from her. She was ensorcelled, completely under his power.
    â€œIs she a willing participant in this?” Bryn demanded. She would not suffer this young woman to be used without her consent.
    â€œShe came to me quite willingly, begging me to take her. In fact, when she discovered I am Lazarus, she became my slave. But what right have you to question my methods? I am doing you a great service. We are actually exchanging services. You have skills I need and I have this small talent you need.”
    Bryn closed her eyes. “Just do it.”
    Fenix seemed to sense her unease and began fussing. Her golden eyes filled with precious tears like crystalline drops gleaming in the moonlight. Lazarus removed a long shroud from another pocket in his robe. “Wrap the child in this.”
    Bryn took it. The gauzy linen felt ancient in her hands, the fabric crackling like dry leaves. The threads were stiff with blood in places. She handled it carefully, terrified it would crumble to dust. This had to be the shroud Lazarus had been buried in. “This was yours, wasn’t it?”
    He nodded and waved his hand for Bryn to continue.
    When the shroud was wrapped around Fenix, she looked at Lazarus. He had pushed the nun’s wimple and headdress off and Bryn was startled by the resemblance to Fenix as she had appeared when she was an adult. She could only wonder if it was intentional. The expression of trust and devotion in her face as she stared at Lazarus had never been on Fenix’s face. Her light brown eyes were not the true gold of Fenix’s, but were wide open as she stood quietly for Lazarus while he removed her habit. When the nun stood in her old-fashioned pantalettes and chemise, Lazarus held out his hands and took Fenix from Bryn.
    Bryn’s throat closed as she handed her sister to Lazarus. She didn’t trust him and handing the baby over took all of her willpower. Lazarus held Fenix in the reeking, oily smoke issuing from the brazier and chanted in a strange language Bryn did not recognize. She clutched Fingle’s forearm, held her breath and swallowed a flood of bile.
    Lazarus’s face reflected extreme concentration. This ritual was not easily accomplished. He took the nun’s habit and draped it over Fenix. The baby lay unnaturally quiet under the shroud and the robe. Lazarus took a small poniard out of his sleeve and stabbed the vein in his wrist. Thick, black blood dripped slowly from the wound onto the robe and shroud covering Fenix. When the blood