It's a different kind of laughing now. It tastes of salt and breaking glass. Under my feet, a shifting and a rumbling as we fly headlong into the night. Rattle and thud, rattle and thud, the Lady is coming to drink of your blood. Hush, Miss Edith. We've a long way to go yet. My poor Spike. He doesn't taste of anything anymore. There's not enough of him left. Oh, I knew; I knew what would become of him, poor lamb. Little lightnings in his head, little whispers in his heart, wearing him away until all that's left is the longing for her. She'll never understand. Will she, Miss Edith? Rattle and thud, rattle and thud. So swiftly we're flying! But the moon flies even faster, and she'll be there before us. She whispers. Can you hear her? Clap hands, daddy comes, with his pockets full of plums. Do you hear, grandmother? Wind the clock for a killing hour; it's nearly time. Clap hands, daddy comes. Falling down and down in a storm of diamonds. No one to hold his hands or kiss his hurts. Will you be there to watch him fall? Poor Spike. No one there for him either, now that I've flown away again. And him with no wings to fly. Rattle and thud, rattle and thud, the Lady is coming to drink of your blood. Don't fret, Miss Edith. It'll all come right in the end.