It was nearly as hot inside the Widow\u2019s modest parlor as it was outside in the promenade of Southtree in the towering city of Saska Torn. Sweat beaded and crawled over every part of my body except my mechanical arm, which showed little hesitation in the dim heat of the parlor as I willed it to prepare the holy Sacrament.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Widow stood in the corner, still adorned in her mourning robes and peered bloodshot through her veil at my preparations. Covered though she was, I could tell she had not washed her hair in some time and her hopeful gaze was only slightly encumbered by the weight of the purple skin under her eyes. She had invited me to her parlor to announce the death of a childhood friend of mine named Ploom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Had I known that Ploom lived here, with a wife, I surely would have come to see him, I lied to myself. Surely I would have made an effort at least, I continued lying. But the Widow insisted on meeting in the parlor, insisted that there was something I needed to know. I arrived to her townhome to much fussing and salutations but once we retired to the parlor, her whole demeanor had grown sullen and withdrawn and it was a struggle to get any word from her at all. After a bloated silence, I spoke at last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShall I begin the Communion now,\u201d I offered, hoping to lift her spirits, \u201cor shall we have a moment of prayer?\u201d I told her on arrival that I had only a short while, that I was expected to make an important delivery, and I remember wishing I could take back those words as soon I spoke them. I rubbed the engraving on the top of the delivery urn.<\/p>\n\n\n