Dull yellow candlelight invaded his vision, prying Lyle's eyelids open, like a person forever nested in the darkness seeing light for the first time, all he felt was its blinding effect. Not until his petrified brain, like rusty gears, began to turn again did the congealed imaginings in his mind start to melt and flow into inconspicuous corners, like a dream.
Lyle realized the ceremony had ended.
The remaining soup potion retained its warmth, its viscous colloid sticking onto his coat, the slippery feel conveyed to his brain by every pore, and what made him most uncomfortable was the bits of chives stuck to his coat, clumping together like a plate of stir-fry arranged on his belly, quite a considerable amount.
"How do you feel, Plague Doctor?" the gentleman inquired with concern, while Miracle and Inspiration seemed more preoccupied with the bits of chives, staring long and wordlessly at the whole green clump congealed on the belly.
