Began to cry. To weep. Slumped over. Head leaning toward his lap.

“Oh, there’s nothing to cry about, Finch. Nothing at all,” the Partial said. “We’re just having a conversation. A kind of meeting of the minds. If it makes you feel any better, those sounds you hear—they’re your rebels, Finch. They’ve abandoned you. They’re attacking the tower. It won’t work, but I almost wish it would. Except there’s no place for me in their new world, either.”

“I’m sorry the gray caps. Betrayed you.” Mangled the words. Parched. As if he could drink forever and not be satisfied. But the Partial had only given him boiling water.

“Are you?” the Partial asked. “Really? Because all I ever got from you before was contempt. An aura of deep contempt.”

“Not contempt. Ignorance.”

“Ignorance?” Incredulous.

“Of what. You had to go through. To become a Partial.”

At some point during the interrogation, if that’s what it still was, Finch remembered consoling the Partial. Couldn’t keep it straight in his head. His brain felt like it was outside of his body. Exposed and raw.

“It’s nice of you to pretend,” the Partial said.

If I ever get free, I am going to put out your eye with my hands.

Another flash. A recoil. But the attack seemed blunted. The explosions of light less frequent. Saw the Partial’s serious, pale face in the half-light.

“I’ve told you all I know,” Finch said. “Anything you needed to know.” But not Sintra. Not Rathven. Not the Lady in Blue. Hadn’t given them up. Still, couldn’t be sure anymore.

She said she’d have watchers on me. She lied.

The Partial ignored him. “Don’t worry, Finch. We’re almost to the end. Almost to dawn. Just another couple of hours. You might even make it.”

Couldn’t help himself. “Fuck you. Fuck you. You psychotic little prick. You cock-sucking psychotic bastard. You fucking coward!”

Thrashing in his chair until it fell over onto its side.

Silence then. Waiting.

The Partial lowered himself against the floor next to Finch. Looked him in the eyes. Said, “We’ll keep going until I see all of you. All of you.”

Finch tried to spit in his face. All that came out was a trickle of blood.

Am I dying? Is this what death is like?

The rest dissolved into a kind of distant burning.

A kind of despairing, raging ache.

Back on the Spit. On the roof of the houseboat. Dusk now, the sun almost gone, but lingering.

The Spit smoldered. Thick with flame and smoke. The towers were silent. From that angle, he couldn’t see what lay between them. But strange birds flew out between them. Like parrots, but different. Flashes of green-blue-orange. Beyond that, the city, in an agony of bronzing light.