“If nothing is sacred, then we are all left to crawl through the mud, and there is no meaning to anything. Since the Heart of the Consequence was ripped out of the churches, even the stars shine crooked in the skies. Everyone goes to church to gossip and envy one another’s hats, but the heart has gone out of it. This country is like an old mother dying, and nobody cares enough to save her because they are too busy going through her purse. Every city is a snake’s nest of pillagers, pickpockets, anglers, cheats, cardsharps, harlots, forgers, smugglers, charlatans, footpads, highwaymen, blackmailers, pettifoggers, hedge robbers, and drunkards—you have seen all this for yourself. How can their soul survive when they have ripped out their Heart?”

The phantom Quillam Mye had paused, pen poised, but she could not tell whether he was rereading his own words or waiting for hers. The wind shifted, and carried Mosca a whiff of remembered pipe smoke.

“And yes, amid this poison smog of the soul that is trying to choke out the light of sun, moon, and stars, we are trying to rekindle a light. It is a harsh light that will dazzle some and burn others, but it will take the world out of this terrible darkness of Disbelief.” So this was Kohlrabi’s true face, pale and strange, older than his years, as if his father and countless others were speaking through him. “I am content to be hated, and bloody and outnumbered. For in this sickened world, it is better to believe in something too fiercely than to believe in nothing.”

Words, words, wonderful words. But lies too.

“No, it isn’t!” shouted Mosca the Housefly, Quillam Mye’s daughter. “Not if what you’re believin’ isn’t blinkin’ well True! You shouldn’t just go believin’ things for no reason, pertickly if you got a sword in your hand! Sacred just means somethin’ you’re not meant to think about properly, an’ you should never stop thinkin’! Show me somethin’ I can kick, and hit with rocks, and set fire to, and leave out in the rain and think about, and if it’s still standin’ after all that, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll start to believe in it, but not till then. An’ if all we’re left with is muck and wickedness and no gods, then we’d better face it and get used to it because it’s better than a lie. Which is what you are, Mr. Kohlrabi.”