I have been wrong, perhaps about many things, but most importantly about myself. I had thought that I was beyond the influence of this book, as if I were too intelligent to be drawn into a childish fairytale. I know little of what intelligence derives from but it is undeniable now that I am just as all the others before me have been. Sigmus had ended his writing in The Fiftieth Leaf with a very stark suggestion, that he now feared the book and was considering its destruction. I know, as well as you do, that this never happened as I hold the very book which Sigmus held within my own shaking hands. All is quiet now in my home. I am deep into the night with no chance of sleeping. In a way, The Fiftieth Leaf is the end. There is much more to this book, page upon page, inserts, drawings in the unread sections. But it seems different to me now. Several hours ago I lifted this book, actually quite eager to learn the fate of the unlucky King. Even then I knew that there was so much more, and that the King seemed to be in the midst of decisive action. I use a bookmark in this project so that I will not become accidentally absorbed in sections not yet discovered, for I hold these new discoveries as special. This bookmark is something so innocuous and silly that you might question my seriousness, but I ask you not to consider me so. I have treated this responsibility with a care I reserve for few things in this busy life. I grasped this trifle, smiling at its playfulness and remembering how it had been given to me as a gift by my son, but when I turned the page it was instantly clear to me that something significant had changed and my mood was quickly darkened. The steady, flowing penmanship of the King was gone and, in its place, replaced by strange symbols and drawings, burnings and cuttings in the paper, or whatever material made up this leaf. What had happened? Could this be the work of the King? It seemed highly unlikely. And though I've told you that it was my decision not to look forward in the book, I did so at this time to see if this page were merely an accident, some unpleasant interruption of my quiet studies. It was not. The next several pages were likewise illustrated and as I turned page after page my heart fell, for the King, and maybe for myself. I eventually did find that these symbols and drawings came to an end and were replaced by writing once again, but the writing was not from Sigmus and I understood none of it. I could not understand what had happened. Had the King so quickly followed through with his plan to destroy the book? But why was it not destroyed, and into whose hands had it fallen? And though it sounds strange to say it, even to my ears, a sadness came upon me and I now thought of my brother once again, how he had been so distraught that night when he came to my house. He too had lost an agent. He had followed Sorren for many months. He had read his words and, perhaps more importantly, had thought deeply about them. I now was beginning to understand what I could not understand then, that this lonely study had meant so much to him, and so much to me. But this is not all that I have to say, for what happened next is even more inexplicable to me. I lay the book down, slowly, carefully walking away from it. I sat down in a corner chair, intending to unravel the mystery before me, but sleep came quickly, and with it came the dreams. What I write next is what came to me then, alone, in the dark, when I was dreaming of Sorren.