The Mark of Euphemia Rowle
I awaken to the sound of an owl outside my window. It is Azkaban’s owl. No one outside Azkaban contacts me. It is too early an hour for Rodolphus; thus, the letter is only from my brother, Thorfinn. He can wait.
I look outside. Beyond the edge of the cliff is a cross sea, textured like grey-blue quilt squares. New weather is on its way then. I debate using the sea state to wreck another Muggle ship. In my theurgy, such a sacrifice appeases the lone female amongst the Princes of Hell. It is Leviathan I serve, for I, too, feel like the lone female amongst my hellish companions. (Bellatrix suffers pitiably in prison, and Alecto, that vomitous thing, owes my family and my god a debt she seems disinclined to pay).
The owl becomes more insistent. I can almost hear Thorfinn complaining about each moment I delay, “Euphemia, damn it!”
Thorfinn is younger than me. Being firstborn, I inherited the house at Rowle Ridge, which sits at the very end of Scotland. It is not far from the prison our ancestor founded only to ironically house many of his descendants. Prior to his imprisonment, Thorfinn owned a finer house than me. He lived too lavish a life, Azkaban has taught him. I open his letter.
Effie,
It burns again. If he lives, this is wonderful news. Does yours burn?
- Thorfinn
No, my Mark does not burn. The Dark Lord’s magic has always found difficulty with my body. This is what happens when one tries to serve two gods at once. I roll my sleeve and press my palm to the scar. Though still pale on my skin, the magic is alive after all these years.
I reply to my brother:-
When the helm moves, Thorfinn, we must answer it.