He gathered all this into a large sack, and after consideration returned to his bookshelves to add more. If the woman Kai was right, then soon history might weasel into his garret. Newspapermen would archive this scene for posterity. The room was his colophon, his epilogue. Best edit now, for he would have no chance after he went to press. He hoped to offer friendly biographers no embarrassments, and unfriendly biographers no ammunition. He added his Velasquez and Keer hardcovers to the stack, that post-mortem reviewers not sneer his verses were sentimentalized by a taste for swashbuckling romance. A few Alt Selene flimsies too joined the pile. A deck of well-shuffled cards, that he not be seen as frivolous. Of course the slender folio of Shining Empire prints he had bought in a back-alley shop in Chartegnon, a simple brown leather edition without label or insignia—the covers gave no hint at their contents, which was hint itself he supposed. The folio’s curvilinear beauties deserved better than a trash heap, but perhaps some passing patron would rescue them before they reached such extremity.

Editing complete, he hefted the sack downstairs, almost spilling its contents first over the balcony, then onto the street. A crepe seller on the corner stopped mixing batter and stared at Margot, who nodded gruffly in reply and waddled past under the weight of his cast-off life. Three blocks should be distance enough, on the sidewalk beside a few trash cans, the sack’s drawstring loose to display the riches inside. He stopped at the crepe wagon on the way back, and ordered one with mango and powdered sugar, and a coffee.

“You moving out,” said the man as he spiraled batter onto the griddle, “or cleaning?”

“Both,” Margot said, and laughed as if he’d said something funny. The man laughed, too. Mostly Margot took meals in his room, but the sun felt less furious today. He stood by the cart and ate the crepe, which the man cut into rolls for him. Mango juice glistened on his knife.

“I don’t remember seeing you here before,” Margot said after eating half the crepe.

“We move around,” the man replied, and stroked the cart with his full hand, like Margot had seen men pat their horses. “Don’t like to stay in one place long.”

“People don’t get to know you if you move, though.”

“Maybe it takes longer for them to know you. But if you want to be famous, you have to leave home. Who wants to stand on the same block forever?”

“Some people might,” Margot said.