There are two possessions of the Dillingham-Youngs in which they both take a mighty pride. One is his gold watch, which was his great-grandfather’s; the other is her hair.

Each of them, harboring a fond wish for vitality eternal, naturally chooses to invest their soul in a phylactery. She pours the sands of her life into the gears of his pocketwatch. While she sleeps, he weaves the strands of his own fate into her tresses.

Their enemies wither before them. Undying, unliving, the Dillingham-Youngs rule a kingdom of shambling corpses.

They are the wisest. They are the magi.