Faith on the corner of Providence and Flame was a tangled net, a self-propagating snarl at Kos Everburning’s core. Lord Kos was born from His people, and grew with them. He changed them, and they changed Him, through time.

So if the crowd was confused, and angry, so too was the God—and hurt, and scared. A small core within Him revolted against Himself.

Abelard prayed through chaos and uncertainty. The many voices clashed and cackled, senseless.

—Cannot believe what she’s selling—

—they think they are, that’s not how God—

—can’t be, impossible—

—tear them off that stage and show them fire—

They need to hear this song, Abelard prayed, and felt Hildegard and other priests throughout the crowd join him. They must know its truth.

—wish that I could hear the part—

—we should just rush the fucking stage—

—how can I get out of here—

—just have to do—

And the fire sang.

*   *   *

When the crowd hushed, Gabby heard new voices.

The guild recruited evensingers from the best choirs in the New World. They could memorize a piece faster than a scribe could copy it. Even Gabby, who knew how to listen, could not identify an individual breath in two hours of performance. They shaped notes to perfection, matched sound to sound with crystal purity.

No human choir could match them.

The new voices were not human. Nor were they, exactly, new.

Streetlight gas lamp flames unfolded above the crowd, and within each stood Gabby’s choristers—their voices grown within the fire.

Some in the crowd looked at the lamps. Others stared farther up.

Into the clouds.

Which the sunset stained red, and which shaped themselves as she watched—oh God—into her, and her choir, miles tall, singing with flame-touched tongues.

Singing her story. Seril’s story.

Some in the crowd fell to their knees. Gnarled fingers framed the sign of the Lord.

Gabby wanted to kneel as well. But when her beat faltered, so did the song in the sky.

An unfamiliar warmth filled her.

She was not the target of this miracle. She was its vessel.

Gabby set aside shock and glory, and focused instead on sound, speed, rhythm. The amplified voices screwed with her blend. Cacophony loomed, discord overlapping chord, dynamics squelched as delays crushed rests. And the mix had to slip a little: amplification goosed the tenors and shrilled the soprano line.

Yes, she prayed, like that, but softer on the high end, and if you can do something about the delay—

She coaxed the singers with her fingertips, shaped their sound, invoked the basses, and ushered sky-borne echoes back into the blend.

Skein voices spun into song.