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    Summary

    “A mora for your thoughts?” Wriothesley asks.

    Neuvillette lifts his gaze from the docket in front of him, shaken from his reverie by the question. Time has sauntered by him, the minutes vanishing into the ether; he has ever been a poor judge of its passing. And he wonders if he sees the shadow of Death hovering over Wriothesley’s shoulder or if his fears are getting the better of him, for not even he can see Death as it draws ever nearer.

    “They are macabre and unpalatable, I’m afraid,” he admits, setting the docket aside.

    Neuvillette wrestles with his fear of Wriothesley's potential death.

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