He had lips that would always be full and yet empty of expression or inflection. A serious mouth, without even a hint of an upward or downward curve to reveal whether he was an optimist or pessimist. Because of that alone, he might someday become a good reporter, I thought. Or a good card player.

But now he was sitting there, waiting for my answer and sweating, the sweet young scent of him filling my apartment.

“It was a war,” I told him. “A lot of people died. A lot of buildings were destroyed. It was hell—and for what? I don’t think anyone knew why after a while.”

He nodded as if he understood. But how could he, really? We’d been reporters during wartime and we didn’t even understand it. As my father always said, a reporter is a mirror, not a window, which makes it doubly painful. You don’t just let it flow through the glass of your perspective; you stare back at it.

Already a lump was forming in my throat. My apartment looked unbearable. My leg was heavy and inert and aching.

I rarely tell any reporter what I remember—to them I give platitudes, clichés, spirals of brave words that mean nothing. Because it’s painful. Because we lost so much during the war.

“No one makes it out.” Those were among Samuel Tonsure’s last written words, according to what Duncan had uncovered at the fortress-monastery of Zamilon, and it’s a good piece of life advice: No one makes it out. Enjoy what you can while you can.

I was tempted to repeat Tonsure’s wisdom to the reporter, but I had already begun to feel self-conscious, and irrelevant. Besides, he had a question.

“And what about the opera?”

I smiled and leaned forward, staring into his pretty face and untroubled eyes.

“What I remember about the war,” I said, “is that right in the middle of it near the very epicenter of the conflict, when hundreds of men, women, and children might be blown up or turned to spores in the next week, the creative powers that be in Ambergris decided to stage the most ridiculous folly in the city’s entire ridiculous history: an opera.”

And what an amazing enterprise that was, the opera described in advertisements as:

THE ROMANCE OF

AMBER & GRIS

Authored by: Anon

Sponsored by: Concerned Citizens

Directed by: Sarah Gallendrace

Staged at: The Trillian Opera House

—if still standing

Starring: Various & Sundry Talents—as available

A Wicked “Mutual Satyricon” of Both Parties to the Current Conflict, whilst Containing a “Poignant Love Affair” Stolen Whole from The Distant Past, by way of Subterfuge and Subplot. An Opera—with what Music can be Spared From The War Effort—Overseen by Sarah Gallendrace, the Genius Behind the Production of Voss Bender’s Opera Trillian.

Price of admission negotiable at the door.