1.2

M - I write from a small stool inside your workshop, surrounded by esoteric vessels and an apparatus of strange construction. The furnace is filled with cold ash; the various scales and jars are coated with dust. Yet here and there I see a sign of your presence - a thumbprint in a wax candle, a whiff of sandalwood. You were here, once. You were home.

You would laugh at me, I think, if you saw how I traced your footsteps. Standing before the athanor, imagining it blazing with heat. Lighting the candles, sitting at your bench, studying the scraps of paper you left behind. If you had left behind a cloak, I would have worn it.

But now the candles burn low; the light dims. I can just make out this latest scrap - a drawing of your marvelous apparatus, bird cage and all, clearly labeled in your familiar hand. Even as I write, the nearest candle has guttered out.

I will spend the night; then, in the morning, I will search for the note that you have left behind. For you will have hidden a note…somewhere. That much, Marketa, I know.