Margot’s small room was bedchamber, study, and kitchenette combined. His desk, bed, sea chest, and chair occupied most of the floor space, and clutter consumed the rest. Stacked books and newspapers supported mugs of tepid tea. Clothes wadded and piled on the cheap carpet. His few possessions were spread in a thin film over every surface save the desk, which was bare but for leather mat, inkpot, and pen stand in which two pens stood straight. “Apologies for the mess,” Margot said. The man himself looked even sloppier than his room. A red-burned scalp showed through failing mousy hair. He wore a billowing white shirt and green velvet slacks, poorly mended and shiny with age. Toes jutted through the straps of his leather sandals; the hem of his open bathrobe swept against his calves. He swayed, he paced, he turned, never quite looking at her. “I rarely host visitors.”

“More than usual, recently?”

“No.” Too fast for an honest answer, but she didn’t want to press him on this, when she had to press him on so much else.

“M. Margot,” Kai said. “You were wrong, before, when you called me a Craftswoman. I am a priest.”

“Of what god?”

“Of no gods,” she said. “I’m a priest of Kavekana’ai.”

“I know your Order,” Margot said, “by reputation. Purveyors of false faith and strained promises.”

“We’re not so bad once you get to know us,” she said. “I think you’re in trouble. I think I can help you. But I need to hear your story first.”

Margot turned and fixed her with a bright, hungry stare. Again, she remembered her mother’s advice about drowning men. He began to pace again, hands stuffed in the pockets of his ratty robe. He didn’t try to kick her out, though. A good sign.

“You’re blocked,” she said. “You haven’t written new poems in months.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

He chuckled, meanly. “Never ask a poet to tell you the truth. We have ten different ways to describe a drink of water, and each is true and all lie.” With his toe he nudged a crumpled shirt on the dirty carpet. “This room says all you need to know.”

“You can think of ten ways to describe a glass of water. I can think of ten paths a man could take to this room. Which one’s yours?”