The Bone Staircase

We went with some degree of trepidation up the stairs and with good reason. Just above half way the stair changed from the traditional oak planks to bone. Hundreds of bones. So many, in fact, that it began to resemble the bone cathedrals of Poland and Laverstone (though I suspect without the well-meaning artistic licence behind those places) or the graphic art of Swiss technomancers.

I pointed out two small skulls. "There's the answer to what happened to the children."

Meinwen looked faintly sick and Winston's face took on a grim set. It was almost humbling the way these bags of earth and water cared for each other. They were genuinely upset about the fates of two children who may well have grown up – given their father's disposition – into serial killers or politicians.

"Onward and upward," I murmured.

"I can't," said Meinwen, modulating her voice from its usual high squeaking. "I don't want to walk on their bones."

"Nor I." Winston shook his head. "It's not right."

"I can't do anything about it," I said. "We don't have the time to dismantle it piece by bone."

"Then allow me." Winston opened a gate to the dead again and the dry wind whipped Meinwen's hair about her face, giving her the appearance of a reluctant gorgon. Several of the Elven spirits appeared at the gate and he said something to them in their dark, guttural language. Spectral hands reached out and within moments the stairs were bare on bone. He closed the gate and the tempest ceased abruptly, leaving Meinwen's hair looking like a used bog brush.

"Right," I said, somewhat cheered. "Who has a needle to sew up that rip in the fabric of reality?"