Not far away, on Waterloo Bridge, went Richard Storm, his heart leaden. The city; the city—the Big Smoke, the gray lady, London—so beautiful all around him: it was tearing him apart. Look, look at it! he thought. The dome of St. Paul’s blossoming into a haze of spotlight to the east. A flock of birds wheeling and diving in perfect harmony around it, brushing their balletic patterns on the dew of night. The Houses of Parliament at his other shoulder—the clock tower, finials, spires and fletch spearing and doodling on the dark. And the bridges launching themselves over the river. And the lights hung like bunting above the riverside walk. The ships, towers, domes, theaters and temples—all this crushed him as he barged south across the water, his hands in his trenchcoat pockets, his soul racked with longing.

Because he wanted to be here a lifetime and he didn’t have a lifetime left. Because he wanted to be here with Sophia, wanted the churches and the bridges and the spires to be the backdrop for their kisses and intimate conversations. And he couldn’t even run the movie of it in his mind because it was so impossible, because the impossibility hurt too much. He kicked the pavement as he went, butted the cold, damp air. He had been free! he kept telling himself. He had been out of it. He had cut himself loose from life and desire. He’d been Buddha. He’d been Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. The Goodbye Guy. He had been ready to go. Now this.

Trolls, he thought. That’s what it was. Religious people believed God ran the world. Atheists figured it was indifferent nature. But it was trolls. Sadistic little homunculi in leather jackets with lots of zippers. Hiding behind the scrim of being. Working the machinery to maximize human suffering for their own amusement. Thumbing their noses, wagging their puds. He could almost hear them laughing at him.

Yeah, and they were good, sweetheart. They were real good at their jobs. When he’d crossed the bridge, when he reached the southern embankment, when he saw Sophia there—the exquisite arrow of pain that went through him: it was a masterpiece of natural cruelty. Fucking trolls.

She was leaning against the stone balustrade, under a string of lights. Looking quietly down at the muddy banks of the Thames. She straightened and turned as he approached her. Her cheeks were pink with cold above the lifted collar of her navy coat. A kiss-me curl was blowing from beneath the silken kerchief on her hair. She was as he’d seen her first, cool and superior. Her stance relaxed but straight. The line of her mouth firm, faintly ironic, faintly smiling. A ball of white vapor broke from his lips as the full effect struck him.