The whole room was filled with the sickly sweet smell of dying roses, candles with melted wax gave off charring wick smoke. The windows had become foggy after the days sweltering heat matched by the frosty night. Stale incense smoke wafted around the room. A chair was placed in front of an old wooden table, on the table laid a very large book, bound in leather so old it had withered, the pages yellowed, delicate and musty, holding secret after secret. The room got brighter with each candle that was lit, casting dancing shadows on the walls, floor and ceiling. The chair scraped against the floor, a small bag was lifted from underneath the table the contents clinking as it moved. A new smell entered the room, a smell of earthy plants, some sweet some bitter. The book was opened and slight dust came wafting up catching the candle light and illuminating like tiny gold flecks. The mixing of the plants was assaulting, scary and dangerous. Shadows danced as the concoction was created, it was made ready, and consumed. The life taking mix was ready to be surrendered to. There was a large stone, rectangular and cold box in the room. The lid had been moved aside, pale lips and lifeless skin it did contain, the box was about to be accompanied by another, everything in its place.