A Catalogue of Spells: If not Sant’Ignazio, then who?

March 3, 1705

Dusk

Constantinople, Turkey

My ever heedful Gidiane,

If not Sant’Ignazio, then who?

Disfigured, rouged cheek troubled asudden below carmine upholstery. Arsenical bloodstone cuff links, espousal to the sunken oculus of an undercroft, Il Gesù, aroused in cream and ebon funerary, perturb of an undulate woe, coagulated into baroque ornamentation, disgorged of listless balustrades of quiescence, necrosis.

And there, amid the threshold of arcane, vaulted patronage, whence copper frescoes embellished one cadaver torturously stirred among the heretics and cornices, clamoring estranged in the alabaster night —  a gulping famish lurched —  tarnished of fealty, subterranean coffers; the last jade requiem of curvature and courante —

For absorbed entirely within the gangrenous carcass of this nameless man, was someone contrarily purported, who, anywise, fell into disrepair over the fetid breath within him.

Suitably,

Birol


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