"I know the story, I’m a bloody alchemist!" I clench my fists against my legs and count my breaths. I nearly said, "I wrote it!" That wouldn’t go down well. They’d either take me for a madwoman or believe me, and it’s hard to say which of those would be worse. "And being a bloody alchemist, I also know a few things about anatomy, and one of them, if I can let you in on a little trade secret of the mystical community—which is shared only by every butcher, fishmonger, soldier and surgeon in the empire and beyond, so it’s seriously arcane, Julius Marcus, and you better not tell anyone about it—is that people don’t spontaneously split into five parts when they die! So let me ask you again: what is going on? Or shall I drag you in there by yourself and leave you overnight?"