A scrap of paper comes fluttering down. The Library contains no records of such a volume.

Konstance gazes down the unending rows of shelves. “But I thought you contained everything.”

Another NoLight, another printed First Meal, more lessons from Sybil. Then she climbs back into the Atlas, drops into the sunbaked hills outside Nannup, and walks Backline Road to her father’s house. Σχερία, says the hand-painted sign.

She crouches, twists, presses as close to the house as she can, the view through the bedroom window degrading into a quivering field of color. The book on the nightstand is royal blue. The cloud city in the center of the cover looks faded by sun. She goes to her tiptoes and squints. Beneath Diogenes’s name run four words in smaller type that she missed the first time.

Translation by Zeno Ninis.

Into the sky, out of the Atlas, back to the atrium. She takes a slip from the nearest desk. Writes: Who was Zeno Ninis?

LONDON

1971

Zeno

London! May! Rex! Alive! A hundred times he examines Rex’s stationery, inhales its smell. He knows that handwriting, squashed at the tops of the letters as though someone has stepped on the lines: how many times did he see it scratched into the frost and dirt of Korea?

What an absolute miracle to receive three letters from you all at once.

You could pay a visit if you’re able?

Every few minutes a fresh gust of lightness sweeps through Zeno. There was that name, Hillary, but what of it? If Rex has found a Hillary, bless him. He made it out. He is alive. He has invited Zeno to “a bit of a function.”

He imagines Rex in a wool suit in a tranquil garden, sitting down to write the letter. Pigeons coo; hedges rustle; clocktowers soar past oaks into a wet sky. Elegant, matronly Hillary comes out with a porcelain tea service.

No, it’s better without Hillary.

I can’t tell you how glad I am that you made it out.

A holiday of sorts.

He waits until Mrs. Boydstun goes out for groceries, then calls a travel agency in Boise, whispering questions into the telephone as though perpetrating crimes. When he tells Amanda Corddry at the highway department that he’ll be taking his vacation time in May, her eyes double in size.

“Well, Zeno Ninis, I’ll be shoveled sideways. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were in love.”

With Mrs. Boydstun, things are trickier. Every few days he slips it into an exchange as though spooning sugar into her coffee. London, May, a friend from the war. And every few days Mrs. Boydstun finds a way to spill food on the floor, or get a headache, or locate a new tremor in her left leg, and end the conversation.