Page 45 of Sullied Saints

And tried to climb to the light

For space to dry its wings.

That’s how I was.

Somebody found my chrysalis

And shut it in a match-box.

My shrivelled wings were beaten,

Shed their colours in dusty scales

Before the box was opened

For the moth to fly.”

I frown, sitting back.

“It’s from a poem,” Howie says, instigating us all to look back at him. “By Adlington.”

“You read poetry?” Dean asks.

Howie gives him a look. “There is more to literature than case files.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “So what? Cocooner is taking this chance to recite poetry? Or…”

“It’s a message,” I conclude, and looking back at it, I ascertain. “The moth in prison… it’s got to be Needler.”

“And opening the box…”

“Releasing him. To her,” I conclude.

“That’s what we thought.” Dean sighs. “We were hoping you’d have a different interpretation.”

“A less problematic one.”

“If she knows we’re reading this too, it could be a demand,” Dean points out.

“She knows,” I say with a sigh. She must. Looking back over my shoulder, I meet Howie’s eye. “To do what with, when she gets him?”

“I suppose that depends if blood really is thicker than water.”

Sitting back stare blankly at the screen. “I guess her followers haven’t been turned off by the reveal of her being Needler’s sister?”

Chloe answers this one. “Some dropped off, presumably afraid, but the ones who’ve stayed… well, they’ve stayed.”

I bite my lip. “Tristan said he’d take us to her.”

That is met with silence. I stand, suddenly wanting to be away from that screen. “How does the poem end?” I ask Howie.

Squinting, recalling, he recites,

“I don’t believe in God.

I do believe in avenging gods

Who plague us for sins we never sinned

---