She could thank me. She could say something. It’s not like I need to come here. Except that I do, I guess. Still, she could, I don’t know, acknowledge me, say something to let me know that it matters. What I’ve been doing for the Duchess matters. On my way down the big front steps I grind my teeth and don’t cry at all.

The chapel’s empty when I stick my head around the door, so I take a seat in a pew by the entrance and roll a joint. It’s a good place to get your feathers smooth. The stone walls and floor are always cool. The air feels more still than it does outside, as though even the oxygen molecules get all respectful and know how to behave in here. I can just sit and break up buds with my fingernails and breathe and let it go. I didn’t really think she’d say yes, but I asked. I said it. They need to have their bizarro separatist society and I need to respect that. Or get the fuck out.

The bulletin board says there’s a lecture starting soon—Lesbian Sex, Arthritis, and You—so I don’t linger. Even though I’ve only been in the chapel for a few minutes, it takes a couple of blinks to get used to the warm and bright of outside. I spark up and make my way back to my little house on a shitty half-assed cliff on the southern tip of Swan.