She had not wanted to dig up a corpse, not even in the pursuit of knowledge.

But Persephone Broadmoor had known that she might need to. Fortunately, Orla McLaggen (nineteen, not hideous) had been interred only the morning before. Persy had never been one to believe in fate or destiny beyond that a woman should make her own, but it was almost enough to serve as a sign: the time was right. She could do this. She was older than the last time she had attempted something of this magnitude, wiser. She had searched and researched for years to find the answer, and now she had it. All she needed to complete the ritual was a moment of enough change within the universe, and the turning of the year had seemed just the ticket. That, and a body.

Besides, Thomasin couldn't die twice.

For whatever reason—who was she kidding, it was guilt and apprehension—Persy had not told any of the others what she had planned, had sworn Thomasin to secrecy. The two did not need anyone else, not for this. It had taken a bit more doing to escape from the party she had been dragged from, but that was what apparition liscences were for.

For once, Thomasin had been on time, the promise of new life able to do what early morning classes never had.

Blood. Dirt. Fire. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Runes. At midnight precisely, Persephone had blown out the candle, and Thomasin, too, had blinked out of sight.

It was time, now, to dig.

With a charmed shovel and one of her own (speed was of the essence) she delved into the loosely packed soil, making a mental note to leave some flowers by way of apology in the near future. It was the sort of manual labour to which women like Persephone were ill-accustomed, and she quickly broke into a sweat, the discomfort turning to pain. Eventually, her own shovel was abandoned, the charmed shovel making painstaking work of the remainder of the task, its methodical rhythm and the last, lingering sounds of fireworks and firecrackers the only sounds piecing the night's stillness.

With a thud, the shovel hit wood: the casket.

A wave of her wand removed the lingering soil, a second opened the box.

The box was not empty.

But Orla McLaggen was. Thomasin was not here.

Something had gone wrong.