Approximately nine months after the world ends, Lavi receives a letter from Allen Walker. It comes on plain, off-white paper with a stylized Marian Cross embossed on the lower-right corner, thin but expensive, smelling mildly of sunflowers. The envelope lies sliced open on the desk, Allen's careful printing across the back and a return address to somewhere in southern France. Lavi catalogues all of his emotions and settles on the mild curiosity, because it is the safest, and unfolds the paper.

Dear Lavi,

he reads, and lets out a breath. The gaslight in front of him gutters and the lump on the bed behind him rustles the sheets.

Dear Lavi,

I apologize for not writing sooner, but Cross left me to put all of his affairs in order, and it was—well, it was about the magnitude of mess I expected, to be honest, but it still took me what felt like forever to sort out. It surprised me, I will admit, to find that you were still in London rather than the Vatican City.

In any case, I wanted to let you know that I believe I have found what you were searching for, in terms of lost records, and would like to extend an invitation for you to come view them here at the villa. I didn't want to send them, because many of the texts look too delicate to be moved, and you'll see when you arrive that there are quite a few more than could comfortably be sent. I will wire the money for your passage to you.

Yours,
Allen Walker

And there is the single inkspot on the otherwise pristine paper, blotted hastily directly preceding the postscript:

I don't suppose you've had word from anyone else from the Order?