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Alvi plants the third tintinnabulum at the corner of the perimeter, jamming its stake down through gravel into dirt. “Think these will work?”

“It’s a self-fulfilling proposition,” says Ord. “If they’re out there, the resurrection of the body is fact, and these have to work. If not… we’re safe. Right?”

Alvi feels obligated to shiver. The bellpoles over her shoulder clank as they thread among sepulchers; above them, the ruined basilica looms like a thoracic cage, lit from beneath by the candles they’ve scrounged.

Nearby in the hills, Innocents and Clements crouch, ruined eyes attentive, lappets whipping in the wind.