He snorted at such a thought, and spoke again, loudly, his voice echoing up the high stone walls. "How could I not? It was me that did it – me. I've always been rash. Have I grown so mighty that no longer does anything remain to subdue me, even when I am so rash?"
The wind blew in disagreement, mightily, and the last candle, though so protected by the glass, went out, and true darkness fell across the entire church. One could not even see a hand in front of him. Lord Blackwell froze. He could say no more – he dared not. For now there was a physical sensation, a hand on his cheek.
The wind was deafening each time it picked up. It sang in his ears, preventing him from hearing anything but it. It blocked out all but its violent terrible song. It cast up his cape, and grasped at his cheeks. It made nothing more apparent than that which it was.
