Carlyle describes the Emperor’s stare as graphite dark, not pure black like his Son’s, but a darkness which threatens to spread its dark across the room. “Remember, Foster, the mad Roman Emperors had themselves proclaimed gods, and inflicted unspeakable horrors on their subjects, but the sane ones were proclaimed gods too, and they did fine.”

“Then… Caesar, you know what Jehovah thinks they are?”

MASON would acknowledge no more. “You are needed too, Foster. Had you forgotten?”

Carlyle had forgotten so completely that she had no idea what the Emperor might mean, so she flushed red with guilt as she saw, at MASON’s heels, the frantic and loving mob of her own bash’mates. They had dropped everything, the rest of the Foster bash’, to come at Caesar’s summons, routed through Kosala, the two guardians of Gag-genes quick to answer the pleas of these loved ones who had been listening madly to their trackers for any word from their stray sheep.

“Carlyle!”

“You idiot! Are you okay?”

“We’ve been going mad looking for you!”

“We saw you on the news.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Vanishing for three days when the world’s falling apart!”

“You’re coming home. No arguments!”

“We’ve made your favorite, salmon and ravioli.”

“You’re coming home!”

I do not know them, reader. I imagine a swirl of Cousin’s wraps cocooning Carlyle as they drag her door-wards under the gentlest arrest, but Carlyle rightly will not let me bring their names or details into this. The bash’ is our oasis, the one innovation of our golden age which even O.S. does not make sour. In the coming dark do not, like Carlyle, forget to turn to yours.

Only one thing made Carlyle drag his feet. “J—” She caught herself. “Tribune Mason! Let me know if you find Bridger!” She strained against the net of loving arms. “I need to know! There’s so much no one’s been able to understand about Bridger, the source, the limit of their powers, why they exist at all, but with what you can tell just looking at people I’m sure you’ll be the one to solve it. Please, I need to know!”

What is the lag before Jehovah speaks? Is it just language? Complexity of thought? Or, as I suspect, is it some disconnect between His eternal timeless Psyche and His sentences, which are designed to convey human thoughts, forged in the cage of time? “I will tell everyone.”

Home would wait no more. Carlyle’s bash’mates hauled her bodily to the car, and the comforts beyond.

“Quid need, Pater?” Jehovah asked, mixing English and Latin freely in the company of a father long accustomed to Him.

“I need Mycroft Canner,” MASON answered. “We both do. The police are asking me fresh questions about Apollo’s Iliad, and—”

“You listened,” Jehovah interrupted.

Caesar will never feel at ease relying on Jehovah, as no ruler can rest whose cities thrive upon a riverbank, which could, at any moment, flood. “Yes,” he confessed. “Mycroft is mad. A child that can bring toys to life is mad, but…”