In a tiled room underground I saw the heat rise into the fan-blades. I had said nothing about the death of a friend of mine twelve months and a day previously. A woman with a name like mine sang. Unprompted she sang 'The Unquiet Grave', which talks of grief twelve months and a day after the death of the beloved. I knew then that she was a Sibyl, but said nothing to anybody else in the room. When I returned two weeks later an acolyte pressed into my hand a recording he had made that night, again unbidden. I was forced to admit her strength.
Since then, her Sibylline power over me has increased. Days after I finished writing on cannibal songs she sang 'The Ship in Distress', and I saw the ship bear down like the sun a-glittering on the boy about to be eaten. Barely half an hour after I had been talking about 'The Silver Dagger' with someone else out of her earshot, she sang that song. And my father is a handsome devil, so I await her next song with nervous feverishness.
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