You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
62
The Caul­dron was absence and pres­ence. Dark­ness and … what­ev­er the
dark­ness had come from.
But not life. Not joy or light or hope.
It was per­haps the size of a bath­tub, forged of dark iron, its three legs—
those three legs the king had ran­sacked those tem­ples to find—crafted like
creep­ing branch­es cov­ered in thorns.
I had nev­er seen some­thing so hideous—and allur­ing.
Mor’s face had drained of col­or. “Hur­ry,” she said to me. “We’ve got a
few min­utes.”
Azriel scanned the room, the stairs we’d strode down, the Caul­dron, its
legs. I made to approach the dais, but he extend­ed an arm into my path.
“Lis­ten.”
So we did.
Not words. But a throb­bing.
Like blood pulsed through the room. Like the Caul­dron had a heart­beat.
Like calls to like. I moved toward it. Mor was at my back, but didn’t stop
me as I stepped up onto the dais.
Inside the Caul­dron was noth­ing but inky, swirling black.
Per­haps the entire uni­verse had come from it.
Azriel and Cass­ian tensed as I laid a hand on the lip. Pain—pain and
ecsta­sy and pow­er and weak­ness flowed into me. Every­thing that was and
wasn’t, fire and ice, light and dark, del­uge and drought.
The map for cre­ation.
Reel­ing back into myself, I read­ied to read that spell.
The paper trem­bled as I pulled it from my pock­et. As my fin­gers brushed
the half of the Book inside.
Sweet-tongued liar, lady of many faces—
One hand on half of the Book of Breath­ings, the oth­er on the Caul­dron, I
took a step out­side myself, a jolt pass­ing through my blood as if I were no
more than a light­ning rod.
Yes, you see now, princess of carrion—you see what you must do …
“Feyre,” Mor mur­mured in warn­ing.
But my mouth was for­eign, my lips might as well have been as far away
as Velaris while the Caul­dron and the Book flowed through me,
com­muning.
The oth­er one, the Book hissed. Bring the oth­er one … let us be joined,
let us be free.
I slid the Book from my pock­et, tuck­ing it into the crook of my arm as I
tugged the sec­ond half free. Love­ly girl, beau­ti­ful bird—so sweet, so
gen­er­ous …
Togeth­er togeth­er togeth­er
“Feyre.” Mor’s voice cut through the song of both halves.
Amren had been wrong. Sep­a­rate, their pow­er was cleaved—not enough
to take on the abyss of the Cauldron’s might. But togeth­er … Yes, togeth­er,
the spell would work when I spoke it.
Whole, I would become not a con­duit between them, but rather their
mas­ter. There was no mov­ing the Cauldron—it had to be now.
Real­iz­ing what I was about to do, Mor lunged for me with a curse.
Too slow.
I laid the sec­ond half of the Book atop the oth­er.
A silent rip­ple of pow­er hol­lowed out my ears, buck­led my bones.
Then noth­ing.
From far away, Mor said, “We can’t risk—”
“Give her a minute,” Cass­ian cut her off.
I was the Book and the Caul­dron and sound and silence.
I was a liv­ing riv­er through which one flowed into the oth­er, eddy­ing and
ebbing, over and over, a tide with no end or begin­ning.
The spell—the words—
I looked to the paper in my hand, but my eyes did not see, my lips did not
move.

After decades of a tumul­tuous and glam­orous life, Eve­lyn Hugo finds solace in a sta­ble but pas­sion­less mar­riage with Robert. Fol­low­ing Celi­a’s trag­ic pass­ing and the end of her dynam­ic years, Eve­lyn’s life tran­si­tions into a serene rou­tine, cen­tered around phil­an­thropy and her affec­tion for her daugh­ter, Con­nor. The nar­ra­tive nav­i­gates through Eve­lyn’s shift from the lime­light to a more sub­dued exis­tence in Man­hat­tan, along­side Robert, focus­ing on char­i­ta­ble endeav­ors, par­tic­u­lar­ly in sup­port of LGBTQ+ caus­es and lung dis­ease research.

As the sto­ry unfolds, Con­nor’s pro­fes­sion­al jour­ney is highlighted—her ini­tial suc­cess in finance, her sub­se­quent dis­il­lu­sion­ment, and her dar­ing career switch to teach­ing at Whar­ton. This piv­ot is sup­port­ed qui­et­ly by Robert, show­cas­ing a deep famil­ial bond unmarred by expec­ta­tions or con­di­tion­al pride. Robert’s even­tu­al pass­ing brings Con­nor and her boyfriend, Greg, clos­er to Eve­lyn, under­scor­ing famil­ial sup­port and the com­plex­i­ties of inde­pen­dence and care.

Eve­lyn’s nar­ra­tive takes a poignant turn with Con­nor’s dev­as­tat­ing can­cer diag­no­sis, unveil­ing the raw, incon­solable grief of a par­ent. Eve­lyn’s reflec­tions on her life’s pur­pose and the pro­found bond with Con­nor are deeply touch­ing. The chap­ter delves into the per­son­al tri­al of watch­ing a beloved child grap­ple with ill­ness, embody­ing the themes of loss, love, and remem­brance. Through her car­ing and advo­ca­cy, Eve­lyn finds a seclud­ed peace in giv­ing, lives rede­fined by char­i­ty and art col­lec­tion, savor­ing the enrich­ing moments with Con­nor.

Eve­lyn’s life, marked by grandeur, con­tro­ver­sies, and an unwa­ver­ing allure, tran­si­tions to a qui­etude filled with love, reflec­tion, and even­tu­al heart­break over Con­nor’s ill­ness. This chap­ter encap­su­lates the essence of life’s unpre­dictable journey—highlighting the tran­si­tion from a pub­lic fig­ure enveloped in scan­dals to a life of mean­ing­ful sim­plic­i­ty, under­scored by the endur­ing love for her daugh­ter. It’s a poignant reflec­tion on lega­cy, famil­ial bonds, and find­ing solace and mean­ing in life’s lat­ter stages, even as Eve­lyn faces her great­est loss.