“Yes. It’s called The Inflammation of Aan Tribal Wars. I’ve had a look at it, and it’s excellent. Very well researched. She’s a credit to the school.”

As Duncan was not, went the tired old, silent old refrain. (Bonmot never forgave me, not even at the end. I couldn’t understand that. I’d have forgiven him had our situations been reversed, but, then, I am not a priest. I did see him sometimes, in the last few years before he passed on. When I took walks in Trillian Park, I would discover him sitting on a bench as I turned a corner. He would look up, and our eyes would meet before he could turn away. Those few times, I would see a peace within him that faded as he recognized me. I wouldn’t stop to talk—it was too painful, too maddening, to understand that he could not move past my lapse of judgment. Later, back in my apartment overlooking Trillian Square, I would sit on my balcony drinking wine, analyzing the moment in the park, searching my memory of our brief encounter for some hint of recognition on his part that did not include bitterness or rancor. Sometimes I convinced myself, sometimes I did not.)

Bonmot—to his credit, or perhaps not to his credit—never realized that I might prefer not to hear such details, such confirmation of Mary’s success. Later, when he better understood the humiliation of having to stand outside of her various residences and tell tourists about her, Bonmot stopped telling me. He must have realized by then that her ascent was self-evident.

“That’s nice,” I mumbled. “I am sure it is a very interesting book she has written.” Through a mouthful of my chicken sandwich, looking out of the corner of my eye for my bumbling tourist charges, to make sure they had not gotten into too much trouble.

We studied Truffidian religious texts at lunch sometimes as well. I found them soothing. My God, keep my tongue from evil, my lips from lies. Help me ignore those who slander me. Although I could no longer bring myself to attend services in the newly renovated Truffidian Cathedral or any other enclosed space, I took some measure of comfort from the hymns and sayings. Guardian of happiness, in whose presence despair flees, with Your great compassion grant me the ability to welcome what may come with calm and grace, to experience happiness and joy. When I read them aloud before sleep, the nightmarish images would recede, the red mist of Sybel’s death dissipate. May You find delight in the words of my mouth and in the emotions of my heart. The sensation, when I went to bed, of lying down among a row of corpses would lessen, become tolerable. The wise must die, even as the foolish and senseless, leaving their possessions to others.

“Do you like being a tour guide?” Bonmot asked me at one lunch.

“I do,” I said, before I could think about it. If I’d thought about it, I would have said no.