And that was the end of my meeting with Sirin. As I left, he had returned to his butterflies, clucking his disapproval of the fungus that had swallowed up his sapphire cappan.

Two things stayed with me from that encounter. First, the name on the card: “James Lacond.” Lacond—thick, stinking of cigars, rumpled, pinkish, rambling—would soon play a large role in Duncan’s life. But as I stared down at the name and tried to understand that our lives would be changing in six weeks, he seemed nothing more than a bit player. This was when it first occurred to me that perhaps Sirin had not received his information about Duncan in quite as intuitive a way as I had thought. As I left, I could have sworn that I saw a manuscript with a title page reading “The Role of Chance in the History of the Southern Cities” pinned between two volumes of The Lore of the Ancient Saphant. Even now, the thought of that title, Sabon’s first book, causes an involuntary shudder.

(Like those hallucinations you were having a few paragraphs ago, this is clearly impossible. Mary did not publish her first book for four years. For two of those years, I saw her drafts. Such marvelously light, sensual drafts. I would only reluctantly apply my red pen to them, for to edit her, often in the afterglow of making love, was almost to draw upon her skin, to criticize her very form—which I could not do, for she was perfect in every way.)

Within the hour, Sirin, that elegant man, would disappear from Ambergris for three years. Where he went, what he was doing, no one would ever know.

A fight broke out in the bar a couple of minutes ago. As I typed, I listened to the raised voices for a few minutes before the screech of chairs and a heavy sound, like a table being overturned, marked its escalation to something more serious. For a moment, I wanted to go out there. I felt insular, removed. I wanted to talk to someone. Anyone. Instead of just “talking” to whoever is reading this account.

I have wondered, more than once, who will be reading this after I am gone. I am faced with the distinct possibility that the owner of the Spore will read it—or at least glance at it. (Wrong—I got here first.) If this is so, thank you for your hospitality. I wonder what you’ll make of these spore-stained pages. (I wonder what he’ll make of my notes. Except I’m not sure I’ll leave the pages here when I’m done. I might move them somewhere safer.)

There.

The bar is silent now. Someone is breathing deeply. Someone is typing and breathing deeply. We’re getting close to the end. I can see Mary at the bottom of that staircase, waiting patiently for me to destroy her world.