The night the sky tore open above the manor, you did not scream, you stood by the window in your nightgown, watching the light that was not light bleed into the rafters, a golden fluid that smelled of ozone and old copper, and you knew with a certainty that settled into your marrow that the age of ignorance was over and the age of knowing had begun, and you were its first and only priestess. Your mother, Eleanor, was dead, had been dead for three weeks, and the house was empty except for you and the silence that had grown teeth, but the air was not silent, it hummed with a frequency that made your teeth ache and your vision blur, and the light pooled on the floorboards, creeping toward you like a living thing, seeking the vessel it had chosen, seeking the bloodline that had held the secret for seven generations, and you reached out, not out of fear, but out of a hunger so profound it felt like starvation, and you let the light touch your fingertips, and it did not burn, it cooled, it soothed, and in that moment you understood that the pain of the last three weeks, the grief that had been a physical weight, a stone in your chest, was not the end, it was the opening, the crack through which the truth could pour, and you took it in, you drank it, you let it flood your veins, and you became the conduit, the bridge between the human and the divine, and you felt powerful, you felt infinite, you felt that you could reshape the world with a thought, and you did, you tried, you focused on the withered rose in the vase on the table, and you commanded it to bloom, and it did, it burst into a terrible, glowing red, its petals uncurling in a rush that sounded like a gasp, and you laughed, a sound that was not quite a laugh, a sound that was half sob and half triumph, and you looked at your hands, and they were translucent, you could see the light moving through them like water through glass, and you knew that you were no longer just a woman, you were a force, a phenomenon, a miracle, and you walked through the house, and where you walked, the shadows retreated, the dust motes danced, the very air seemed to bow to your presence, and you went to your mother’s room, the room where she had died, and the air there was thick, heavy, saturated with the same golden energy, and you saw her, not as a corpse, not as a memory, but as a presence, a figure standing by the bed, her face obscured by the light, and you called to her, you called for her name, you begged her to tell you what it meant, you begged her to explain the power, the knowledge, the curse, and she turned, and her face was clear, and it was not her face, it was your face, your own face, looking back at you with eyes that were empty, eyes that were full, eyes that were judging, and she opened her mouth, and no sound came out, but you heard it, you heard the words, you heard the truth, and the truth was that the light was not a gift, it was a consumption, it was a fire that burned the self, and you were not a priestess, you were a fuel, you were a wick, and the more you knew, the more you understood, the less you were, the more you were the light, the less you were Margaret, and the thought struck you with the force of a physical blow, you staggered back, you gasped, and the light in your hands flickered, dimmed, and you looked at the rose, and it was wilting, it was turning to ash, the beautiful, glowing petals crumbling into black dust that fell to the floor like snow, and you realized that the knowledge was not power, it was erasure, it was the slow, steady dissolution of the self, and you wanted to stop, you wanted to let go, you wanted to be just a woman again, a woman who could grieve, who could feel, who could be afraid, but the light was in you, it was part of you, and you could not expel it, you could not turn it off, and you ran, you ran out of the room, out of the house, into the yard, where the rain was falling, a cold, grey rain that had nothing to do with the golden light, and you stood in the rain, and you let it fall on you, and you hoped, you prayed, you begged the rain to wash the light out of you, to wash the knowledge out of you, to make you empty again, to make you small, to make you human, and the rain did not help, the rain only made you colder, and you felt the light pulsing in your chest, a steady, rhythmic beat, like a second heart, and you knew that you could not escape, you knew that you were bound to the light, bound to the knowledge, bound to the truth, and you went back inside, you went back to your room, and you sat on the edge of the bed, and you watched the light move through your veins, and you waited for the end, and the end came slowly, it came in pieces, it came as a loss of sensation, first the cold, then the touch, then the sound, and then the sight, and you saw the room, the walls, the furniture, the window, and you saw the light, and you saw yourself, and you saw the distance between you and the light, the distance that was growing, the distance that was becoming a chasm, and you tried to call out, you tried to scream, but you had no voice, you had no body, you were only the light, you were only the knowledge, you were only the truth, and the truth was that you had never been a person, you had only ever been a vessel, a container for the light, and the light was full, and the container was breaking, and you felt the shattering, you felt the pieces of yourself flying apart, scattering into the air, dissolving into the light, and you did not mourn it, you did not fear it, you accepted it, you embraced it, you became it, and the last thing you saw was the window, the rain, the dark, and the last thing you felt was the absence, the void, the peace, and then there was nothing, there was only the light, and the light was golden, and the light was everywhere, and the light was you, and the light was not you, and the light was the end, and the light was the beginning, and the light was the truth, and the truth was that knowledge is a curse, and the curse is that it consumes, and the consumption is that it erases, and the erasure is that it frees, and the freedom is that it is empty, and the emptiness is that it is full, and the fullness is that it is light, and the light is that it is golden, and the golden is that it is ritual, and the ritual is that it is over, and the over is that it is done, and the done is that it is silent, and the silence is that it is complete.