He raised his bloody fingers to his bloody brow. Dragged them down over his cheeks, smearing the blood. He groaned out, “Cruelty!”

And a spasm of nausea racked him. He clutched his stomach. Turned his head. Tried to retch, but couldn’t. Sobbed.

Cruelty, he thought, has a human heart,
And Jealousy, a human face;
Terror, the human form divine,
And Secrecy, the human dress.

Well, yes, that too, Harper said.

“Secrecy,” Bernard whispered.

Yes.

He lay back again, trying to breathe, trying to support the weight of darkness. All right, all right, he thought. Where was I? Secrecy …?

Mercy, she said.

Right, right.

For Mercy has a human heart … Didn’t we do this already?

No, no. It’s still good. It’s still right, Bernard.

And Pity—Pity, Pity—a human face. Pity.

And Love, she said. Love has the human …

“The human form divine,” Bernard whispered, hugging himself, inhaling the stench of his offal, choking on the stench. And Mercy …

And Peace, she said.

Mercy, mercy.

These fragments …

Mercy.

These fragments you shall shore against your ruins.

“God!” Bernard screamed. Or tried to scream—it came out a rasping gasp.

These fragments … These fragments …

“God, father, father in Heaven. Help me!”

And then—as if in answer to his call—there came those sounds again. Did they? Did they come? He clutched himself. Opened his eyes—tried to—couldn’t tell if they were open or not. Lay with his jaw dangling. Listened.

Yes. The clank of a lock. The rattle of a latch. The creak—oh, the creak of a door opening. The thud as it swung shut.

And footsteps. Footsteps on stone. Approaching.

Bernard peered up into nothingness. His entire body was a prayer.

There was a pause. And then the voice—the voice like smoke—swirled down coolly over him.

“Are you ready to listen now, Bernard?”

Pity has a human heart, a human heart, a human heart …

“Yes,” he said, shuddering, crying. “Yes. Please. Please. I’m ready.”

16

“By Jove, Prendergast,” Hedley cried. “A stairway!”

Harper’s eyes sank closed, her body leaned forward. She and her dragon stick seemed about to pitch off the edge of the bed to the floor.

But she jerked her head up, her eyes open. Forced herself to stare at the TV screen.

By Jove, she grumped. Cobblers.

She continued to watch Storm’s movie as the appallingly ridiculous detectives descended into the vaults beneath the ruined church. Under jutting shadows, under skewed stonework, under hanging arches, they went, following the repeated clang-clang rising from below.

Even now, she could barely remember that she had ever seen the thing before. Could not remember where she had watched it or when. Certainly not why. Which was not all that odd really, considering the quality of the piece.