So she had gone.
Where? Anywhere. Wherever the narrow corridor ended for her, no longer two weeks but only two days long.
In a flash of insight he understood why. If he hadn't been drunk last night, he would have guessed.
One of the oldest and best-established types of conjuration in the world. Transference of evils. Like the medicine man who conjures sickness into a stone, or into an enemy, or into himself—because he is better able to combat it—she had taken his curse upon herself. Shared his drink last night, shared his food. Used a thousand devices to bring them close together. It was all so obvious! He racked his brain to recover those last words she had said to him. "Everything you have is mine? All you have is mine?"
She had meant the curse.
And he had said, "Yes."
And then, without her formulas and her Protective Screen, the curse had proved too strong for her.
He wanted to run out into the street, to shout her name.
But the pool of ink had dried to glistening black flakes all around the margin. It must have been spilled hours ago—as early as last midnight even.
He beat his temple in a rage at his own impotence.