Her eyes did seem made for weeping. Crying, they attained an odd but truly spectacular cast, as if the tears magnified and yet distorted some truth that seemed irreconcilable with the words she was sobbing. “I knew it was a lie,” she said, this time as if condemning herself beyond all hope of salvation. “And yet,” she began, and as she spoke, her tears stopped abruptly. She lifted her head proudly, staring at the astonished Oversoul Seven, and moved her arm in a triumphant gesture. She was suddenly so authoritative that Seven leapt back just a step, and Will just stared. Mary’s voice now was strong; almost hard. “And yet, the lie was the truth, and I knew that, too. Or the lie became the truth. Or maybe it was the truth all along, and I had to pretend it was a lie. But in some way, I am the Mother of God.”

As she spoke, the air in the room seemed to shimmer. Seven thought uneasily that something could happen that could disturb worlds or disrupt them prematurely if Mary remembered … if Mary remembered what?

But she didn’t. She almost seemed to have forgotten what she’d just said, for that matter. Dejection once again settled down upon her doll-like features. “So we shared the same delusion,” she said in a sad voice. “It was so bad finally that Jesus attempted suicide. They took the knives and forks and all silverware away from him at the rest home. He’s not allowed any sharp objects at all.”

Seven felt a twinge of guilt for having thought that Christ and Zeus were gluttonous when he saw them eating without forks: He blushed.

Will stood in the center of the room and said, “Well, that’s it, all right. If Christ contemplated suicide, it shows he’s not all mad, Madam. Still, it does make you think twice, doesn’t it? When the gods can’t stand existence?” He started to giggle. He couldn’t help it. He put his hand over his mouth, and sat down on the floor, holding his stomach.