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As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way.
“Go get her,” Gabe told him. Ganelon glanced over, incredulous. “You can’t —” “I can,” said Gabriel, grinning. “Of course I can.”
His jaw clamped down on a scream until the scream pried his teeth apart and came out roaring.
We are each what the past has made of us,
It is the firm belief of this humble revenant that Arcandius Moog is one of the few figures in all of history (aside, perhaps, from Clay Cooper) possessed of the moral fortitude to do what he did next. He gave the cure to everyone. For free.
Moog never remarried, and though I suspect his involvement in one or two covert liaisons, it is clear to all that his heart belongs, even after so long, to his deceased husband, after which he named his miraculous potion: “Freddie’s Finest Curative Cordial.”
She laughed, and Clay could have wept for the sound of it.
Her breath was warm and soft as summer wind on his neck as she whispered, “You’re home.” And finally, he was.
