For a moment all was still. Then von Krolock placed his hands under Herbert’s arms, supporting his son’s weight without jarring his wound. The trembling was more pronounced now, a sequence of bone-rattling shudders that ran the length of Herbert’s skin.

“I’m dying,” Herbert said. “There’s poison in my blood, and no doctor can draw it out. I don’t want it to end like this.”

He paused to catch his breath. This close, the smell of decay was sharp, mingling with the blood and sweat.

“I’ve had a week since the poison set in,” he started again. “Nothing to do but think. And what I thought is that nothing – not my blood, not my soul, not any chance at heaven I could possibly have – is worth dying like this, before I’ve seen, lived, loved, anything. You said it’s damnation. Let me be damned, father.”