You had written this understatement of the myriad when you thought that highly strung Mercy was easily out of patience with the sillier and more frivolous Augustine, in those first few weeks. He cultivated a specific expression whenever Mercymorn was talking: an expression that was meant to say to all assembled, At least we suffer together, and that more than once you had seen Ianthe smother a laugh at, so comical was the mouth. But that was the painted-on expression. The plex had been shaped differently. Though you often saw them pass in the hallway as if the other did not exist, you once spied a different encounter while safely ensconced in an alcove. They’d stopped in front of each other, with Mercy trying to pass left—Augustine made himself intangibly too much left to pass—Mercy trying to pass right—Augustine made himself intangibly too much right to pass—and Mercy saying, tightly: “Get out of my way, you miserable ass.”

Augustine had said something you did not catch, but then something you did: “—back to the bad old tricks of decades past.”

“Oh, as if you’re my keeper, you chattering imbecile!”

“But does John know, my child?” said the Saint of Patience, smiling.

Mercy had bristled, the nacreous whites of her robe visibly shivering. “That,” she said, “is a foul implication.”

“I’m not implying anything. Does John—”

“—and it’s obscene the way you call him that when—”

“Mercymorn!” said Augustine lightly. “I won’t fall for any of your worn-out tricks, my girl. Now, look: do I have to kill you before you get us both in trouble, or not?”

From your vantage point, you could see that the Saint of Joy’s face was a stiff white oval. Those hurricane eyes roiled within a face that was trembling and fixed. You could not see Augustine’s.

She said, “Don’t threaten me.”

“Or what? You’ll tell Daddy?” His tone of voice hadn’t changed. “Good grief … You wouldn’t get close enough to touch me, Mercymorn. No, I am not afraid of you. You are not very nice, but you are also not very clever, when it comes down to it. I’m going to give you three recommendations. One is to be in my airspace less. Two is to stop messing around with Cyth’s body. Three is to stop playing the rather dangerous game you’re playing—the one you said you’d stop.”

“I won’t do a thing you say.” She sounded tearful now.

“Don’t pull that face. I know you like I know my own soul … you’re thinking, If I move now, can I touch his neck before he can stop me? And heigh ho, there goes my trachea! It wouldn’t matter even if you were quick enough on the draw, you know.”

“As though you could ever—”