The sound of my breath, stealing in and out of my empty nose, is the same breath going over itself without stifling me—but I do sink a little each time—the breast falls deeper, rises lower; not dying away, but almost sinking into the ground. What I am is seeping up like wisps of vapor—remember placing drops of alcohol on small pieces of ice, watch, the viscous steam ooze from the alcohol bead ashen with frost and just so the essence of me climbs in a suppressed breath from snow white writings and flows among the marks.

You are made of the strongest stuff, icy matter and black ichor, and as a follower you are always the first to arrive. You were summoned to be an eyewitness, but in being summoned you were cut off from the underworld that is the only place you actually can live in, that allows you to enter any place and see any scene. Some witnesses are called to see and testify, and others to be watched and kept, although it’s not always only the one way or the other.

Now he’s asleep—draw near—your life is in him—draw on it, with rootlike fingers outstretched, and the wrenched crescent of your sickle mouth slopping ink down a scored face.

A hand on my shoulder wakes me and I gaze madly up into the lieutenant’s quizzical face, sallow and blue in the dark.

“It’s only me,” he says a little irritably, some sleep still in his voice. “We’re on duty now.”

No Thrushchurl there on the floor as I collect myself—where has he gone?

Back out into seeping chill, soft crush of our feet on the clay between the houses. The lieutenant seems to know everything, leads me to a thin track that runs along a broad river of clear water lined with streaming, almost glowing fronds of green. Despite their luxurious growth I can still make out the rows; the only plants that grow around here grow underwater, and these were cultivated. The current is swift and lays flat the vines, but the riled surface is silent. Likewise we are silent, baffled in sleep and fog.

Our path takes us through an enormous brick building with empty arches and a vast floor of tamped clay. The roof has vanished without a trace, if there ever was one, but the fog respects the walls and remains above them. These bricks are red, and of the usual size. The place feels imported. The lieutenant looks around avidly, but he and I both are awkward and nearly stagger against each other so that I can make out the sparse bristles on his cheek, the little circular scar on his forehead. He chuckles a little.

“How stupid we are,” he exclaims softly, and yawns so that I can hear his jaw creak.