“Can you stop the next odd thought that pops into you head?” Isabelle asked. “He wants to live, to be the master of his own body, and the architect of his own destiny, to win great victories and conquer deadly foes. My past lives worshiped him and gave him what he wanted. He’s not used to being opposed.”

“It makes him angry?”

“More like he’s incapable of comprehending it. He is like water. He’ll never stop trying to run downhill—if there’s a crack, he’ll find it—but it’s not because of any intrinsic desire to reach the bottom. I don’t know what will happen when he finally finds a way through.”

“We’ll have to make sure that never happens,” Bitterlich said.

“And how are we going to stop it? There’s no manual for this. None of my ancestors have any idea how to stop it. They were too busy inviting him in and basking in his glory to ever consider how to kick him out again.”

“Can you reason with him?”

She shook her head. “It’s like trying to reason with a character in a play. He’s got his part, his carefully crafted lines, his certain destiny, except now he’s dragged me up onstage. I can’t leave the stage, but I’m not cooperating with the direction.”

“You’ll just have to rewrite his lines. You are the woman who invented Lord du Journal, adventuring mathlogician, and then you managed to overturn analytical geometry. The tired lines from some ancient and inferior playwright should be simple to revise.”

Isabelle laughed and strolled toward him around the orrery. “I did not overturn analytical geometry. It was only one proof.”

She opened her arm. He embraced her. Her new strength was crushing, but in a good way. Her body against his was urgent and alive. The graceful arch of her back was a sublime pleasure to his touch, but his greatest satisfaction was feeling the tension melt out of her body.

Reluctantly he allowed the hug to end. They drifted to arms’ length, though he still held her hand.

He said, “If I may be so bold, why are you wearing a cowl?”

Isabelle ducked her head just in case something was showing. “Because I look ridiculous. I’m fledging. My feathers started coming in, but I still have my down. I’ve never been pretty, but this … Saints, I just feel like the Builder is mocking me.”

“I imagine you look adorable.” Bitterlich asked.

“Adorable,” Isabelle said pointedly, “is a word reserved exclusively to describe rosy-cheeked toddlers.”

He tipped his hat to her. “Point taken, Capitaine. My apologies.”

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Someday, we’ll both get to see all of each other—see and touch—just not today.”