It was barely dawn, on a cold, clear winter’s morning. Her grimoire was at hand though she shouldn’t need it. Mirabelle once again drove her tired mind through the exacting series of images she would use to call forth the creature. All the other ingredients were artfully scattered about the room.
A vial of children’s tears rested on the rough-hewn sideboard, within a pink puddle of Aurora’s first light. A malformed and stillborn lamb lay on the table, mouth agape in a silent bleat of pain. Many dead lepers’ rags were strewn about and trodden down into the splintering cracks of the floorboards. Guttering candles of stinking tallow fumed all about the room.
It was time. The bait was well set.
She burned through the first dozen images and spoke the thing’s name. An idyllic field in the summer’s afternoon, bathed in blood: this preceptual scene Mirabelle held fast to as she spoke the name again. The prickling tightness in her bones and lightness in her chest increased tenfold.
Finally, she imagined a snow drenched village, with no fires lit, and a long, winding line of infants’ souls, filing their way forever heavenward. She spoke the lyrical name once more, slowly, and released the static tension filling her thin frame. In a rush of soft zephyrs and golden light, the blood-writ circle was suddenly filled with beatific beauty.
An angel of pity stood before Mirabelle, both tiny and looming, with large weeping eyes. In formal tones, Mirabelle offered forth her carefully crafted terms of release. The aspiring sorceress’s great vengeance was nearly done.
The angel accepted readily, and with a wicked grin. He would cause Mirabelle’s tormentor to become such an exquisitely broken wretch that the outpouring of pity ought to sustain the angel for ages yet to come. He so rarely had a chance to craft such a masterpiece.