“Sacred Hand,” said another voice, “forgive me. It was his order that she was not to be touched. There were no allowances; there were no riders.”

The first voice said, “There was no opposition when I ordered the shuttle. Nor to my preparations.”

“The order regarding Harrowhark Nonagesimus was specifically stated by him, Holy Finger, Holy Thumb.”

The voice above Harrow said, “And is my order suddenly not God’s order? Am I no longer Lyctor of the Great Resurrection, the second saint to serve the King Undying? Have I lost my rank among the Four—or, now, as I so horribly find, the Three? Am I not the last sister serving in a charnel house of dead sisters, all of whom gave their long and dutiful lives so that your squalling children and their germ-ridden children’s children’s children could bask in the light of Dominicus?”

The other voice paused. “No,” it said. But then it added, and there was a hint of stoic wretchedness: “Most Holy Saint of Joy—forgive me—I still ask you to please wait until the meeting is done.”

There was an explosive sigh. “It’s all right,” the voice said, quite normally. “It’s all right, Lieutenant, I understand. You’ve only met this baby and the other baby. You’ve never met a Lyctor. You’re not to know … even if you’re in his presence, it’s another thing altogether to understand…”

The voice trailed off, and the person standing behind your chair crossed over to the person in front of it. You were distantly interested in what happened next, if only because you were not used to being granted a front-row seat. You beheld one normal person before you—the other was a black hole, and now you knew why—and that person had two kidneys. A sudden one-two punch of thalergy emerged from nowhere, as far as your senses were concerned—no, not punches: a stiletto, an unutterably focused dart, a syringe—and each kidney was hosed with angiotensins. A perfect spike. Blood pressure plunged. A body joined the shoes and trouser bottoms in front of you as the officer fainted, and the chair was wheeled around the neat human pile.

The voice behind the chair was muttering:

“Horrid … just vile! Erebos placements never do have any horse sense … told him time and time again to rotate them each decade … just a nightmare. My presence ought to have the same effect as a fire alarm … I do not want to wait … I do not want a cup of tea. I am not asking for feudal submission; I am asking for understanding!”