Ulkra clutched the book close to her chest. She had to. It held her heart. She ran her thumb affectionately down it’s old spine and tutted as her nail caught on a thread. She tried to pull away from it but it held on to her. She tugged. A final attempt of freedom.

Her nail ripped off.

Blood dripped down her hand and she opened the book.
You have failed me
The writing that appeared on the page was not gothic or printed. It was normal, simple handwriting. A drop of blood landed amongst the tear-drop shadows.
“I’m sorry, master.” she whispered to the book’s brown binding.

The pages fluttered like an angry sigh and the book closed again, trapping Ulkra’s finger within it.
“I’m sorry.” she repeated. She wanted to let it go. She would die if she did. “I’m sorry.”
Her rush of emotion for the little collection of papers caught her unawares and tears began, landing on the weather stained cover.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t want to disappoint it. It was wisdom. It was like a parent.
“I’m sorry.”

The book fell.