He had been too long among the gulden, first at Pakt’s merry house, then in Chay Zanlan’s glorious palace. His eyes had become accustomed to riots of blues and purples and passionate pinks. He expected tapestries, rugs, stenciled walls, painted mouldings. Here everything was neutral, subdued, elegant, and sterile.

And sound.

Pakt’s house had been alive with children laughing, voices calling, furniture being shoved from one side of the room to the other. And in Geldricht he had only been alone for those brief times when Kit had been called away to Chay Zanlan’s presence. Of course, there had been many times during those days when she did not speak to him, but still, she had been a presence there, moving about in the other room, her personality so compelling it had seemed to shout to him even through her determined silence.

But here there was nothing. No commotion, no signs of life. Nothing to remind him that he was not alone in the world.

He went out at dark to forage for food. He bought prepared meat and dried fruit at the corner grocer; he didn’t think he could remember how to cook a meal. There were half a dozen other young men about his age picking out menu items in the other aisles. He recognized all of them by sight, even knew some of their names. A great loneliness washed over him, and he felt an almost irresistible desire to go up to one and say, “Hey, come back to my place for dinner. You wouldn’t believe the adventure I have just had.”

But with whom among his friends or acquaintances could he share this story? Not even those closest to him would understand or approve. He left the store by himself, having exchanged only three words with the clerk. He wondered if he would live in unbroken silence for the rest of his life.

Back in his apartment, he consumed his meal while standing over the counter, flipping through his mail. Bills, magazines, letters from his mother and Leesa, notices about neighborhood sales and citywide events. He would have expected something more drastic, after such a long absence, but none of these missives stirred him to frantic action. He did sit down and write quick notes to Leesa and his family, blaming the Centrifuge and the disrupted city life for his failure to respond more quickly.

There would be more, at some point, to tell Leesa. But he could not envision how that conversation would go. He could not, at any rate, put what he had to say into a letter.