Once more Alice found herself in the overgrown and charred remains of the Crone Farm.

Once more she was bare save for the tattered -- burnt -- black robe. Still smelling of ash and gas and fire. Betwixt her bare breast's still -- and always will -- lay a red crescent sliver moon. A sharp contrast to her bone pale, porcelain complexion.

Standing there, proud, anthame in one hand, poise against her wrist.

Her ghostly locks once still begin to move, gently at first as the breeze's breath gently kisses them. Then as her smile appears, then grows, the force of the kiss deepens. Her hair whips around. Being pulled hither and yon.

"Euros!
God of the East Wind,
God of the blood-red leaves,
The golden blades of grass, by the palace of the sun you dwell.
Change is in you, O Euros!
Change in the world is yours, O capricious one.
Most needful one,
in your season,
We honor you!"

Alice drags the blade against her wrist, her blood-scent fills the air, and misses the ground.