Doughael was in his chambers kneeling on his bed, praying to the great witches who brought him back to life. His enormous wings moved with the wind that came through the windows, casting restless shadows upon the stone walls. The cloth that covered his eyes shifted with the breeze, but not enough to reveal the gaze hidden beneath. The black-gray halo behind his head glimmered faintly, and the floating forks of the St. Pastry Order circled like watchful sentinels. The violet-blue flames of his candelabrum flickered, bending toward the whispered words of devotion. In that moment, the chamber itself seemed to breathe, as if the world was listening to Doughael’s prayer. Those who entered could not tell whether they were beholding a lone Cookie in solitude—or the living embodiment of the Whole Dough, already conjoined with eternity.