Steve Shell

The sigils that adorned the black box that was E.P.

Barrow's beer and throne had spread over the years, creeping up the walls and etching their way deep into the marble beneath her feet.

Many of these had accompanied Polly's own conception.

a powerful evocation that had further cracked the foundations of Barrow House, shattering glass up above and nearly shaking the walls apart, and thus had been present all her life.

Others had appeared later, mementos of her father's will made manifest.

As they stepped through the door of the sanctuary, Crane and Churchman each sank to one knee on either side of the door, bowing their heads in reverence.

Across the room, Polly's brothers each held a similar position on the edge of the crevasse into which their father's coffin was sunk.

A heavy crate rested on the floor between them.

It was hewn from the same night-black wood as their father's coffin, carved with runes that the eye couldn't quite settle on, and curiously featured a number of holes cut into the sides along its top edges.

Polly's heels echoed on the cold marble as she approached.

She did not kneel as her brothers did, though she inclined her head respectfully as she greeted their father.

Conrad and Benuel glared at her over their shoulders.

Relations between the Barra siblings had never been particularly warm, and E.P.

's obvious preference for the child he spoke of as his greatest creation had not improved matters.

Duty was duty, however, and Polly's eldest brother, Conrad, was nothing if not an obedient soldier in E.P.

Barrow's service.

He inclined his head to his younger sister in greeting as he spoke.

Again, Benuel grated angrily, eyeing Polly with malice.

If her incorporeal brother could do her harm, Polly didn't doubt that he would.

But Benuel didn't have the juice these days.