The Deacon spends the night with his face buried between the pages of the Good Book while Jacqueline craves his face buried between the pages of Her good book. She falls asleep alone and alone feels the first crack of doom shear through the brickwork of their marriage. She dreams of strange images coupled with stranger sensations. A river of visions heavy with prophecy; crumpled skirts, the gleam of a blade, snapped links of a cheap chain, an open palm, the torn skin of worn black boots, a star of silver, strings of bright hair stretched between fingers damp with angel's spit. She wakes
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