And, despite the overwhelming disappointment of God, the Saint of Duty had tried to kill you twice since then. But even he seemed to be weary of it. And your wards had held.

At the start of your latest excursion your teacher surprised you: when you landed on the planet’s surface and confirmed that the atmosphere was breathable (“Keep an eye on what you’re breathing in anyway,” said the Saint of Joy. “Planets are dirty.”), she had given you a pack, and a water canister and a beeper, and told you to go away. There had been no room to land the shuttle at the planet’s lush and forested pole, and so you were faced with a short hike.

“You can do it by yourself,” said Mercymorn. She was snappish and fretful, but Mercymorn was always snappish and fretful. She had not become any less snappish and fretful in the last handful of weeks: simply abstracted, as though her eyes already looked to the River. “I’m going to go do the moonlet next door. It’ll be covered in reflected thalergy. Time yourself—don’t let it get away—most of the life on this thing is in the ocean, but if I’ve made a mistake, don’t get eaten by some sort of creature while you’re under.”

You said, “Sister, how am I meant to protect myself when I go under?”

“I’m not the genius two-year-old, am I,” she barked. There were red rings about those hurricane eyes, and she kept wringing her hands together and looking down through her lashes when she spoke. “I’ll be back in about six hours. Goodbye!”

It was the first time you had been left alone on a foreign planet. The earth beneath your feet reeked of moisture, and little worms and beetles moved within it. The foliage was a violent effusion of greens—fresh, lemony greens, and dull dark piney greens, and in-the-middle dun greens, and a rustling, bristling canopy of leaves. The air was hot and wet, like the inside of a mouth. The sun beat down on your head in gouts of ultraviolet radiation—your eyes squinted against the light—and the sweat made your hair start to curl thickly about your neck. It very badly wanted cutting now.

Two days ago God had taken you into his little sitting room and given you a glass of water, which showed that he had learned, and a biscuit, which showed that he lived in optimism. And the Emperor of the Nine Houses had said, “Harrowhark, when the door comes down behind me, I want you in that room.”

You had said, “No.”

“Harrow, there has been no progress. That’s fine. I understand. But I want to give you more time … I want you to have a future.”