He knew of course what had happened. He understood the other man. Had waited, had expected this delay one night. Knife knew it wasn't over.

Knife wrote his love a letter, his hand not needing any light to pour his heart in ink words on the paper.

He wrote her name in large letters on the envelope. Sydney. He laid it on the table by the bed.

To set his ballerina free of the evil that stifled her, to free her of the burden of himself, he drank the wine and slipped into another place where he could see clearly once again.