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WCB █ in the event of death.
[ after her death, Ruby's personal effects can be found in the storage trunk at the end of her bed. a few items in particular are bundled up in a piece of cloth: the Flower of Glory, black bracelet, wedding ring, and ornate key. when the bundle is unwrapped, three pieces of paper fall out. one is a message written in plain but tidy script, the other in elegant cursive; the third is part of a page torn from a novel.
the plain message reads: ]
Give these to Iske van Omerta. Arundel Castle, in the Omerta duchy of Britannia.
This is the only thing I'll ever ask for, so one of you better do it or I'll haunt you forever.
[ the cursive is written with painstaking care, and reads: ]
To my beloved Iz,
I'm so sorry for everything. You were the one who had every right to kill me. I would have liked to die at your hands.
I love you. The time I spent as your wife was a happy dream. Please live well.
Forever yours,
Rudbeckia van Omerta
[ and lastly, the fragment of the novel's page: ]
Deep within her a cold despair remained unchanging and unchanged. No one would ever love her now—she would love no one. The body of love was killed in her after Winifred, there was something of the corpse in her. She would live, she would go on, but she would have no lovers, no lover would want her any more. She herself would want no lover. The vividest little flame of desire was extinct in her for ever. The tiny, vivid germ that contained the bud of her real self, her real love, was killed, she would go on growing as a plant, she would do her best to produce her minor flowers, but her leading flower was dead before it was born, all her growth was the conveying of a corpse of hope.
the plain message reads: ]
Give these to Iske van Omerta. Arundel Castle, in the Omerta duchy of Britannia.
This is the only thing I'll ever ask for, so one of you better do it or I'll haunt you forever.
[ the cursive is written with painstaking care, and reads: ]
To my beloved Iz,
I'm so sorry for everything. You were the one who had every right to kill me. I would have liked to die at your hands.
I love you. The time I spent as your wife was a happy dream. Please live well.
Forever yours,
Rudbeckia van Omerta
[ and lastly, the fragment of the novel's page: ]
Deep within her a cold despair remained unchanging and unchanged. No one would ever love her now—she would love no one. The body of love was killed in her after Winifred, there was something of the corpse in her. She would live, she would go on, but she would have no lovers, no lover would want her any more. She herself would want no lover. The vividest little flame of desire was extinct in her for ever. The tiny, vivid germ that contained the bud of her real self, her real love, was killed, she would go on growing as a plant, she would do her best to produce her minor flowers, but her leading flower was dead before it was born, all her growth was the conveying of a corpse of hope.