His heart was broken, and the man followed after.

He was where he said she would find him, still and cold, looking and smelling of death, as in life. It was up to her to, trembling, take the ring from her finger, and place it within the stiff grasp of his own, already clasped over his chest (a cavernous space within, where once a heart had toiled for her). Gently, so as not to wake a sleeping man, she traced her fingertips - lightly, ever so lightly - over a death's mask of a face, now maskless. She stood back, closed the lid, walked away.

The beaded moisture on the walls of the passages through which she walked trickled down, through basement and sub-basement, ever further away from her as she wound her way up. The droplets diverged, conjoined, and in thin streamlets found their ways, eventually, into the great lake upon which the house was built.

Within the house, within his bed (such as it was), the ruse complete and the phial having worked its charm, the eyes of the man flickered within their shadowed lids. The lidded coffin creaked open, pushed upward by a pale hand clutching a thin circle of gold.

She had returned this gift, but he had given her one greater yet. The gift of love (of another, yes, but no matter - the gift of being loved), of protection (by another, but no matter, no matter) would follow her always. The gift of his death, to her, would ensure this.

The ruse done, he was free - the story told - and so was she.