He sensed Stephen’s footsteps about a hundred meters away, on the catwalk. There was a clinking sound: he was bringing a drink, with ice. He watched Stephen gingerly balance the glasses as he descended the steep steps, and he accepted the glass with a smile. It was iced tea: Stephen detested tereré and yerba mate in general, but he greatly enjoyed the Misiones tea, much more than its hardworking cultivators ever did.

“Good morning,” said Stephen as he sat on the sand. Juan downed the tea in two gulps, and the cold drove a sharp pain into his left eye. “They want to talk to you today. Of course, they’ll respect your decision if you’d rather put off the meeting.

“No,” said Juan. “The sooner the better.”

Stephen complained about the heat and took off his dark shirt. He hadn’t seen the sun in a while, and the thick, freckle-dotted skin on his shoulders was pale, though his forearms were tanned, like a truck driver’s. On his back, twin scars began below his shoulder blades and extended to his waist, thick and protruding. Juan caressed them with his fingertips: he had opened and closed those wounds himself.

Stephen had first traveled to Misiones with his mother. He had been fifteen, and Florence had judged him old enough to attend. Juan was twelve at the time, tall and thin, and in those first Ceremonials he still hadn’t understood that feeling in his hands, that desire to mark. Stephen showed him the way when he knelt down before him, turned around, and offered his back. Later he’d told Juan that the cut had been fast and painful: Juan remembered how his golden nails had collided with Stephen’s ribs. Stephen hadn’t screamed or trembled, just clutched at the grass with his hands. He had also later described the relief he’d felt when Juan’s hands closed the wound, the nails like a caress. Juan remembered how Florence had cried with joy. She considered it a blessing. She felt a little envious, she’d admitted. Oh, she would have worn scars from the golden claws with pride. Florence knew the mark was a commitment between Stephen and Juan, a scar of fidelity. The idea that her oldest son’s allegiance was divided between the medium and the Order wasn’t entirely gratifying, but Florence respected the decisions of the Darkness and didn’t question them. It was an honor that the Darkness had touched her older son, and a misfortune that it had spurned Eddie, her younger son, the greatest failure of her life. And it was a shame it hadn’t chosen her.