Softly, “I’m not a Cousin anymore.”

“Codswallop!”

Silence.

“You really are the most far gone thing, aren’t you?” The Headmaster peered hard at the face, which did not peer back. “Dominic is very talented.” He sucked a deep breath through his teeth. “Tricky, tricky.”

The door relented now, and a young aide peered around the corner. “Headmaster?”

“Time flies.” Faust stretched. “Well, if Dominic’s had you for several weeks, I don’t suppose I should expect to fix you in five minutes.” A frown. “You didn’t even ask to join us in there, did you? You know that’s probably why Donatien brought you here, so you could see it too.”

Still silence.

“Come in. If five minutes with me won’t cut it, we’ll see if the best sensayer session in the history of the world can’t thaw you a touch, eh? No objections!” the Headmaster snapped, too fast for there to be any. “There are bodyguards enough to carry you in by force if I ask them, and don’t imagine Donatien brought you here just so you could spend the rest of your life kicking yourself for not walking through that door. Come. Come!”

Faust had to grab Carlyle by the wrist and haul her from the seat, but when resistance was more effort than obedience, she obeyed. I, within, was glad when Carlyle entered. The sight of Caesar in his death-black suit had destroyed my last hope for peace, but hope, like mold, grows back in many miniatures once the parent’s removal spreads the spores. If I could not hope for peace, I could hope for smaller things, for Carlyle, for some healing effect from the shower of spoken treasures traded here by shamans and imams and Brahmins and bhaṭṭārakas and rabbis and lamas. Carlyle was silent in the council, uninterpretable like a sullen child, but from time to time I thought I caught a glimmer in her eye, something warmer than diamond.

The only other interruption worth mentioning was that Madame’s confessor, two hours into her recital, attempted to bludgeon her to death with a censer. It was inevitable, in retrospect, particularly since he was a Spaniard. The lady escaped with minor burns, but the priest was not so fortunate, since Madame learned self-defense from prostitutes, and is no stranger to clawing eyes. I heard recently that all his physical injuries have been repaired; his mortal sin may take longer.

There were many at the conference I should have liked to speak with afterward—Jehovah, Carlyle, perspicacious Julia, the Pythia, Noam Ben Aharon, Leigh Mardi, Bridger, Dastur Jobs—but as the pope was working around to thanks and farewells, Jehovah whispered some few things to Achilles, then ordered that I be seized. The guards were quick, and silent Achilles watched without surprise or sympathy.

“Why?” I cried. “Ἄναξ!”

My Ἄναξ answered: “Because you would rather die than let Me do what I do now.”