Goblins gathered. Nonny offered the mask of Zombay. Rownie took it, but he did not put it on, and he did not look away from the bottomless eyes of his brother.

“Do you remember your first line?” Thomas prompted him.

Rownie nodded. “Oldest road. Older brother. Hear me. Please don’t flood.”

“Close enough,” said Thomas. “But you should actually wear that mask if you mean to speak for the city.”

“No,” said Rownie, holding up the mask of Zombay but leaving his own face uncovered. “He has to see that it’s me. He has to know that it’s me.”

The floods pounded against the pylons of the bridge beneath them. Stone creaked against stone. The workings of the clock strained against each other with metallic noises of alarm. Thomas made exasperated noises of his own. “The next line is ‘I speak for the city, and all of the city, the north and the south and the bridge in between.’”

“Please don’t flood,” said Rownie. “For me, and for everyone else, everyone in Zombay.”

The River, who was also Rowan, reached down and poked Rownie’s nose.

“Nice mask there,” he said, with the full roar of the River in the distance of his voice.

Rownie gave him a pirate scowl. “Yours is better,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Rowan. The lines of the River mask flowed on his face. “Thanks for getting me moving.”

Rownie hugged his brother, and his brother hugged him back. “You’re welcome. Please don’t flood.”

“Heard you the first time,” said Rowan. “I’ll have to leave to manage it, though.” He spoke softly, but his voice still thundered.

Rownie wanted to argue. He didn’t. He nodded instead. “Will you ever come back?”

Rowan smiled. “You’ll know how to find me.”

The brothers stood apart. Rowan set both of his hands against the upstream wall. Water flowed from his fingertips and worked its way between the stones, weakening the mortar. Rowan pushed. Several stones tumbled out and down.

Through the open space, Rownie saw the flood. It filled most of the ravine already. Waves tore boulders and trees from the shore on either side.

“Bye,” said Rowan, his eyes vast, his hair flowing as though air were water.

“Bye,” said Rownie.

His brother jumped over the edge. He cut through the air like a fisherbird, and dove down into the surface of himself.

The troupe gathered beside Rownie. They all watched as the floodwaters calmed, slowed, diminished, and passed beneath their feet and the Fiddleway Bridge.

Act III, Scene X

ROWNIE LEFT THE CLOCK TOWER at evening, a greenish gray pebble in his only pocket. He passed several Fiddleway musicians, more than he had ever seen or heard on the bridge at once, but he was too much inside his own head to really hear the music they played.