“So all the men praying for the Beloved’s advice felt a great big wind about them which swiveled their wigs an’ blew their garters right off so their stockings came down. They run out of the cathedral with Beloved swarming all over ’em, like bees over a beekeeper, all buzzin’ their wishes at once. The men run straight to the river an’ jumped in, but the Beloved hung on. When the men was almost goin’ mad with the sound of thousands of voices, they covered their ears and yelled for the Beloved to leave ’em to decide everythin’ for themselves. The Beloved said they were needed there to keep the moon-blot beetles out of the lanterns, an’ peel the skin from the milk, an’ stop the snarps stealin’ children. But the men told ’em to leave the world anyway . . . an’ the Beloved did. And nothin’ changed at all, ’cause there never were any Beloved, just people making their voices up in their heads, the way I often do with people.”

“That is a very charming story, Mosca. Never tell it again.”

“My father didn’t believe in the Beloved, but he didn’t believe in the Heart of the Consequence either—he wasn’t a Birdcatcher. Mr. . . .” Mosca had been about to say, Mr. Kohlrabi worshipped him but he’d got him all wrong. But she was not ready to think about Kohlrabi yet. When she thought of his name she felt nothing, but she felt nothing in a way that hurt.

“No, from what you say your father was an atheist, an out-and-out unbeliever. Atheism will see your head spiked on a church spire just as soon as Birdcatchery.”

Mosca was silent for a few moments.

“But, Mr. Clent,” she said at last, “what if he was right? What if it’s true?”

“I think we will have to leave the clerics and scholars to decide that.”

“Why?” Mosca slowed her pace.

“Who else should?” Clent gave her a sideways glance. “You perhaps? Ah, I foresee frightful things when you are old enough to work your will on the world. Cathedrals torn down, mention of both the Consequence and the Beloved banned from the common speech, and children brought up to believe in an empty, soulless heaven . . .”

“No, I . . .” They were passing a cluster of shrines. As she watched, a group of grateful citizens trooped past the shrines, dropping different thanksgiving offerings before each icon. A biscuit for Goodman Blackwhistle. A mackerel for Goodman Sussuratch. A shiny coin for Goodman Grayglory. The little gods looked so good-humored, sitting side by side, none of them fighting to have all the worshippers to themselves, and Mosca felt a rush of weary tenderness for the Beloved. It was so different from the cold, inhuman zeal of Kohlrabi. Perhaps, as her father had thought, the Beloved were toys that a childish world needed. Perhaps too the world was growing up, and even now was starting to put them aside, affectionately but forever.