She opened the door, and the silence fell.

The crowd filled the square, filled Providence, filled Flame beyond. She stepped, helpless and proud as a bowsprit carving, onstage.

She’d done this before.

Admittedly, not in front of so many people. Each member of the Crier’s Guild had her own specialty. Gabby wrote music and reported stories to match that music. She sang to keep her voice in trim. And, rarely, for pieces she could not bear handing off to Madison or Sternbridge or Yao, she directed the choir.

But this was bigger than the Ash Riots or the dreamglass crisis. These people were angry and scared. They needed security, which her interview with Aev and Cat and Seril did not offer. She would challenge their faith at a time when they yearned for its comfort.

She was about to set this crowd on fire.

She turned her back on the audience. The choir stood in mixed formation. Cross, the deepest bass, had vomited for several minutes in the bathroom before warm-ups. Thank gods and demons alike for mouthwash and toothbrushes. But a choir was a corps. They had discipline. Even faced with such a crowd, they held together.

She raised her hands, and they sang.

*   *   *

Seril Moon-mother did not die in the wars.

Abelard listened.

He knew this story. He’d lived the tale’s unraveling. But knowing did not prepare him to listen while the Crier’s Guild recounted his life in counterpoint and fugue. In the goddess’s own words, no less. And Aev’s.

We returned to see our Lady carved into a mockery of self.

I was diminished, a lost voice among the trees.

Seril’s voice twined soprano and bass; Aev, alto and tenor.

The music was masterful, but mastery could go only so far.

The crowd rumbled. “Bullshit” was the word the man before him whispered.

The first cry of “Blasphemy!” came from back on Prospect, but others took it up fast. The crowd chanted against the choir.

They should have done this earlier. They should have trusted the people earlier. There was no time to convince them now.

They needed a miracle.

“Pray with me,” he told Sister Hildegard.

*   *   *

Onstage, her back to the audience, Gabby heard the anger. Her shoulders tensed, and the beat her hands carved in the air slipped. The singers looked scared.

Should she stop? They’d almost reached the restatement of the theme; the piece’s harmonics weren’t yet resolved, the story half-done—she had to explain Seril’s return. Failure to finish might make the situation worse.

Curses filled a brief fermata; she invited the choir to sing louder, wrecking the dynamic effect. Soon they’d throw things at the stage. She hoped for rotten fruit. It was soft.

Stop, a wise voice inside her urged. Or change the story. Give these people what they want to hear.

Fuck what they wanted to hear.

This was news.

*   *   *