to the ceiling beam in a moment and watched from on high, then escaped through a secret door or window, but Douglas had the foresight to play it safe. He had made a secret path in the attic compartments and now used them alone to climb out of the tower. So he crouched on the ceiling beams and watched what was going on below in the throne room. He was not afraid of heights; a special ointment made from the bones and flesh of strange creatures or babies gave him the ability to fly. It was difficult to make and even more difficult to find all the ingredients, but it served its purpose. He felt like a feather flying in the wind when he rubbed it on his body. The unpleasant tangy smell permeated his body and was impossible to wash away, but the sensation of flight was worth it. It was worth dying for a moment in the air, let alone rubbing a disgusting ointment on it. Douglas valued his means of witchcraft. His entire sorcerer’s arsenal consisted of rare and hard-to-find remedies. He excelled at many things. Surely not even the School of Witchcraft had such diligent students as he. He was proud of the fact that he had taught himself everything. He needed no one’s guidance or help. He proved his independence and giftedness. But the legend of the place where black power was bestowed still drew him in. If he had caught the star in his net and clutched it in his fist without fear of being burned, its light would have shown him the right way.
