"And set a precedent for collecting the corpse of every third rate spell caster we stumble over? Don't be absurd. The value of this evening is in that bound spirit, not in Mr Bradshaw."

This said from lying still in the long, wet grass. At length, Fitcher begins to wipe her hands clean on the overgrown green about her. Speaking as if she is not splattered with every manner of viscera, nor splayed on the ground, nor battered by the buffeting of the freshly dismissed summons: "What was it? Our object of power."