Caravaggio St Jerome

Caravaggio St JeromeCaravaggio NarcissusCaravaggio Madonna di Loreto
There was another shrug that almost vocalised the thought: why not?
What else have I got to do?
If someone had told me a month ago, Windle thought, that a few days after I died I’d be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman hiding behind a door and accompanied by a kind of negative version of a as the first proto-rat, it was also less than a day old and still feeling its way as a Death, and it was possibly aware that a deep, thumping noise that was making the building shake was the sound of brandy starting to boil in its barrels.
The thing about boiling brandy is that it doesn’t boil for long.
The fireball dropped bits of the inn half a mile away. White-hot flames werewolf . . . why, I probably would have laughed at them. After they’d repeated themselves a few times, of course. In a loud voice. The Death of Rats ?rabhnded? up the last of his clients, many of whom had been in the thatch, and led the way through the flames towards wherever it was that good rats went. He was surprised to pass a burning figure forcing its way through the incandescent mess of collapsed beams and crumbling floorboards. As it mounted the blazing stairs it removed something from the disintegrating remains of its clothing and held it carefully in its teeth. The Death of Rats did not wait to see what happened next. While it was, in some respects, as ancient