"Herbalist, you said you were preparing a resurrection potion, right?" Cyril asked the alchemist and accepted a cup of drink from Dyck.

"Yes, I did." The herbalist said. "With these herbs, I can finish the potion. And by the way, I was thinking of offering you another job."

"Enough of work! Let's drink!" Dyck slammed his fist down on the counter.

"Boss, with all my sympathy." Cyril said. "This is important for me. What kind of work?"

He turned to the alchemist, leaving Dyck gritting his teeth. The alchemist looked at Dyck, swallowed, and turned to the naked Cyril.

"I need someone to test the potion on." He said, glancing at Dyck and then back at Cyril. "Can you dig up a couple of fresh bodies for me?"

"I'll make a corpse of you if you don't drink!" Dyck said, and slammed the bar again.

"Boss, are you all right?" Cyril looked at him, worried about his boss. "You've changed a lot."

Dyck glanced at the herbalist with displeasure.

"Of course I've changed." He growled through his beard. "I opened my soul to you as to my own brother, we're so close, Cyril. And you brought this worm here. He reeks of flattery and cunning from a mile away!"

"Dyck." Cyril raised both hands. "I know you're not happy, but I need this herbalist. Didn't he just give you money? Even if the herbalist is a crafty worm, which I agree with you, he does us good. Let's not just drive a man out into the rain, okay?"

Dyck grunted in his beard, twitched his big nose, and nodded in agreement. He scooped up five silver coins and hid them somewhere under the counter.

"But we must have a drink." The bartender said stubbornly.

"Then you'll go to bed." Cyril said slowly and firmly, as if he were trying to convince a child.

In fact, he would have fallen asleep right there. He had been digging all day, starving, learning to control his emotions and body, and then he had finally eaten, and now the firewater burned in his blood. A strong brew gradually replaced the vigor with healthy fatigue.

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"Good." Dyck muttered and really reminded a child.

"No need to dig anyone." Cyril said to Kalim, raising his cup. "I have just the right body."

"Let's have a drink." Dyck said.

Kalim nodded still sheepishly, but raised his cup.

"For resurrection." The herbalist smiled.

For death. Cyril thought to himself, but said nothing.

He didn't want to tell either herbalist or Dyck that he wanted to die as soon as possible. He realized that the longer he stayed in this world, the more connections were formed, and the more difficult it would be to leave all these people. Cyril saw the change in Dyck's attitude towards him. He could see how much Freya had hoped for him. He felt that he had almost fallen in love with that dragonfly Clara, because she had the energy of life that embittered Cyril lacked. And yet, he had to use their trust to achieve his only goal.

Sooner or later I must die. He said to himself. This farce can't go on forever.

He drained half the cup in one gulp, and the heat of the moonshine filled every vein in his body. Dyck did not even wince, as if he had drunk plain water. The herbalist cautiously raised his cup to his mouth and looked at Cyril and Dyck before deciding. Finally, he closed his eyes and began to swallow from a full cup, and tears started to form in his eyes.

After a few seconds, the herbalist tossed the empty cup on the counter and let out a loud sigh.

"Ahhh!"

He rubbed his hands together, grabbed the basket, and got up from the chair. Dyck raised an eyebrow in surprise, and Cyril grinned.

"Come on!" The herbalist said. "Where do we go?"

"Carpenter street." Cyril said, also getting down from his chair. "Craftsmen district."

The herbalist's face immediately changed, and he was clearly embarrassed again.

"We can't walk there." He said. "We need a wagon."

"Let's go." Dyck said suddenly and got down from his chair. With a loud belch, he left the bar and headed for the exit.

"Where are you going, boss?"

"For your wagon." Dyck rumbled, and Cyril thought it reminded him of something. Dyck turned and raised an eyebrow. "Why are you standing up like a statue? I have a tavern, after all. I don't carry water on my back, do I?"

Fucking logical. Cyril agreed, and thought that Dyck must have a horse and cart somewhere.

"Oh, by the way." The herbalist suddenly looked at Cyril. "Did your bruise disappear so quickly? It was quite fresh."

"A bruise?" Cyril didn't understand, but then he cought it up.

A musket shot, of course. Cyril remembered. A black eye usually hangs for a week. But it's only been two days, and mine is gone. Does my body also recover faster?

Cyril thought that while it was a pleasant trait, it wouldn't help him die, either. They were still standing inside the dim tavern, and Dyck had disappeared in the rain. Cyril didn't want to go out naked to the cold, but he didn't see any other options.

A minute later, there was the sound of hooves outside. Cyril looked out and saw that Dyck had brought a small donkey harnessed to a modest cart to the entrance of the tavern. He held an oil lamp in his hand and lit the entrance. A nasty drizzle was falling from above.

"Cyril, why are you naked?" Dyck raised an eyebrow.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Cyril was surprised by the boss's observation. "I've been walking like this all night."

"I think I'd better get some sleep." Dyck said, and shook his head. "I haven't had a drink in five years. Here, cover yourself."

He set the lantern on the edge of the cart and took out a rolled-up cloth to hold out to Cyril with both hands.

"Thank fucking you." Cyril grumbled, accepting the blanket. He draped it over his shoulders and wrapped it around his body, holding the edges with his arms crossed in front of him. "Kalim, let's go!"

The herbalist went out into the rain and climbed into the cart. He helped Cyril up, because the blanket prevented him from clinging to the side of the cart, and took the reins. Kalim jerked the reins, and the sleepy donkey pulled the creaking cart.

The bartender hiccupped loudly and disappeared into the tavern building. A street lamp hissed somewhere nearby.