The seagulls on the Tiber call all night, and call your name.
“Ave!” they cry.
There was no signature, of course.
“Ave,” Grey said softly, “atque vale, frater meus.” Hail—and farewell. And touching the corner of the note to the candle flame, held it until his fingers began to scorch, then dropped it on the salver, where it flared and burnt to ash. He put aside the drawing—to remember.