Blackwater Val
“Anyone? Our illustrious youth?”
The old man walked about, reflecting, awaiting an answer he knew wouldn’t come. He faced the pews in his ankle-length crimson raiment.
“Ecclesiastes tells us, ‘Remember him, before the silver cord is loosed and the clay pot doth break . . . for the dust returns to the ground as it was, and the spirit returns to the creator who gave it.’ ” One bony finger jutted toward the vault of the chapel ceiling, and Simon Julian stared out. “Good stuff, yes?” There were scattered chuckles. Richard caught himself smiling, his arms still crossed. He detected a hint of accent but wasn’t sure what it was.
Bab Populer