"Fish-bird mutant..." said Hieronymus, raising his pale eyebrows just a touch. "Well, Schreiber, I don't think anyone could accuse you of living a boring life. You should write these adventures of yours down, you know." He tapped the book on his desk. "We mortals age and die, but words survive."

Taking the Harmugstahl notes almost greedily, he spent some time poring over them, making various interested noises. Finally setting them aside, he finally remembered himself enough to offer his guest refreshment, though all he had were some stale biscuits and a small jug of wine. Euthymius finally opened both eyes and flew over to the back of Adelbert's chair, examining the newcomer for any mice he might be hiding on his person.

"The city fares much the same," said Hieronymus, lowering himself stiffly back into his own seat. "Mother Constanza still petitions the Lady Sforza to lift her cordon sanitaire, and the lady still refuses. The Shallyans say all those who were taken into the Great Hospital before the quarantine was imposed recovered very rapidly, and the last death that was reported inside the cordon was more than a week ago. But the lady says she wants to be sure. I am not certain if I blame her." He took a deep breath. "There is still a foulness hanging over the city. Some days I feel I can taste it on the air."

"Most importantly, though, the book is safe. I have been checking with Mother Raqiyah regularly. No-one but her has entered the sanctuary since the day it was interred."