From his midsection he eliminated the knife he had taken from the examination and given it to Paulina. “Should anybody of the Family think that you are here, you should kill Giselle and afterward yourself. I understand this is a brutal order. However, trust me, you will both experience less that way.” She looked at him through strands of light hair, as mutely worshiping as a dog. He was alienated by her resolve, and this estrangement was not identified with what her identity was, he understood, yet to the personality of the relationship, a similar relationship he had with Giselle. It struck him as unchallenging now, without interest. The delight he had once taken from such predominance appeared to be whimsical, and taking a gander at both of them, he got that however they were helpful to him, neither of them, not even Giselle, was pretty much as dear as he would have suspected. It was Alexandra, a person for whom now and again he could make a generous scorn, and whom he was presumably going to attempt to kill, who tested and charmed him. Alexandra who terminated his creative mind. Alexandra whose strange and without a doubt neurotic fixations invigorated his own fixations. Taking everything into account, he had arrived at a state of advancement from which there was no returning; every one of his revelations of affection and obligation regarding Giselle had, he saw, been a method for clutching the recognizable, the known, a fence against the vulnerabilities of his new life. He wouldn’t concede to this totally, disclosing to himself that by speculation thusly, he was endeavoring to pad his sensibilities against the probability of Giselle’s passing; yet as he arranged to enter the Patriarch’s chambers, he felt that this would be a last splitting and was overwhelmed by his overall absence of feeling, the watered-down nature of his culpability and friendship. It appeared he was more drawn in by the possibility of confronting an unsafe future than he was of sticking to the security of his past. “Be vigilant,” he said to Paulina. “You mustn’t nod off.” He thought there ought to be another thing to advise her, something that would give her confidence in his inevitable return; however it was not in him. Nor could he force himself to take a gander at Giselle, embarrassed by her immovability and her penance. He simply needed to leave them, to put them from mind for some time at any rate. He removed a speedy advance, yet as he began along the adit Paulina made up for lost time his hand and kissed it, and would not deliver him until he had kissed her consequently and helped her with lies.On going through the secret entryway, Beheim ventured out onto a stone dock stretching out from the lower part of a tremendous chamber—somewhere in the range of 300 feet in stature, he figured; maybe a large portion of that at its greatest—and was met with a sight that, as its specifics came clear, spiked his spine with cold and prickled the hairs on the rear of his neck. There was no light source, to some extent none he could identify. However there was light. The chamber was loaded up with a creepy, grainy, blue brilliance; it appeared something similar to the murmuring quietness and the cold and an ozonelike smell, as though light had been changed into a fluid with these equivalent properties. The brilliance was adequate to project obscure shadows, yet was faint to the point that it required a few minutes before he could make out a significant part of the detail of the spot: bats making circling trips in the cobalt comes to; explicit bas-reliefs on the dividers, many having a liquefied look, similar to cave rock formations, giving the feeling that they were regular creations of the stone that had not yet completed the process of coming to fruition; the different docks and the ways opening to a great extent above him, some with monstrous iron-bound entryways, others simple breaks; a greater amount of the omnipresent sculpture—none of the figures he could see had faces, recently clear ovals resting on middles both inhuman and human. The most inquisitive of these prides, be that as it may, covered the floor of the chamber, which lay somewhere in the range of twenty feet underneath and had been chiseled into a portrayal of tons of dyed, turned, undernourished bodies with struggled highlights. The figure had been delivered with a particularly amazing active inclination, Beheim envisioned that the bodies were crawling along, crawling one over the other, all moving a similar way, all attempting to arrive at a similar unguessable objective. And afterward, sadly, he saw that, for sure, they were moving, they were not stone yet tissue, alive in some action, charged up, maybe, by a ring of the Patriarch’s will. As he remained there, shuddering in the crepuscular light and damp air, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, Beheim understood that the chamber couldn’t be viewed as customary even comparable to the exceptional possibilities of Castle Banat. The spot was Mystery itself. He could feel it.