I draw. Sorry.

A beggar who had stolen the lamp a small one, rotten lemon coloured, stitched badly because she’d been careless that afternoon. He lit it to provide himself a little warmth and comfort to stave off the wretched stench of an uncaring cold world. The poisoned light crept out anyway not caring for warmth and comfort or the uncaring cold world (sorcery rarely does) slid under his bedroll, climbed the walls like an infection. When they found him, he was sitting ramrod straight, eyes open and throat collapsed inward as if he’d tried to swallow his own tongue.

The lamp was intact.

Knives were crude. Poison was provincial. Magic explosions bored her stiff. Gunpowder stiffer still. But light here light was intimate. Light went everywhere with everyone.

She refined her designs.

Some lamps were spindly narrow throated creatures, their waxen paper stretched tight as a drum, inked with women of almond complexions and almond eyes lounging on tropical vistas. These were excellent for suffocation.

Others were round bellied and garish, generous, painted in reds as cinders and ambers like ready to burst juicy overripe fruit. These heated gently, lovingly. Skin blistered first. Eyes clouded. Flesh cooked without flame as their eyes trickled down their cheeks. People often smiled as they died this way. The sorceress found that both charming and humorous.

She signed none of her work. Artists who sign murders are amateurs.