Khabir moved first. He got to his feet, stepped forward far enough to stop the passenger from approaching any farther, and spoke, admirably calm and almost humorous. “Haven’t you heard that you’re dead, Mr. Outis?”

The passenger raised his head only slightly. “I have. Oh, I have. I am well acquainted with death.”

Forget melancholy, thought Miranda, that’s despair. In an instant she went from being afraid of Outis to being afraid for him. Whatever paths he had been walking, they had brought him no peace.

He tipped up the brim of his hat with one finger, a slight motion that could have been done with flair if the hand had not been trembling. His face, his eyes . . . he looked like an addict with one foot in delirium and the other in the agony of withdrawal and no clear idea of which way he intended to step. He turned away from Khabir and faced Miranda. She was unable to move or look away, transfixed by his pain.

“I killed you once,” he muttered. “It was in a busy street. You hardly even looked at me. I pushed a scalpel tipped with poison between your ribs. You were startled at the sharp elbows of the people in the crowd, but you kept on. Only a few more steps, and you fell. Another time, I stood on the sidewalk with my blade unused and watched you die, struck by an omnibus, scarcely three meters away from me. You died there in the road. Another time, I read in the paper that you died days later in the hospital. Another time, I heard that you had killed yourself, drowned in a pool.” He peered through the entrance gate into the small atrium and pointed. “That’s it there, I think.”

The concluding comment jolted Miranda. She had been expecting to hear him say that she had drowned in the hospital pool.

He sighed a little. “I am so tired. I have been back and forth and back so many times.”

He stretched out an arm, dragging the sleeve up for them to see. It was a dramatic gesture—overly so, thought Miranda at first—and then her eyes began to understand what she was seeing . . . or not seeing. His arm was no longer solid flesh. It was . . . unraveling, gaping with holes like a swatch of fabric with a thread or two pulled in the wrong place. The holes were pure darkness, shifting streaks like ink curling in clear water. Khabir began to back away.

“Behold!” Julian Outis laughed with quiet but poignant hysteria. “I am devoured by the void, consumed by silence, made nothing . . . uncreated . . . undone.”

“Undying essence,” Miranda murmured.

The words cut short his moment of melodrama. He glared at her. “Of course. You should know.”

“Why are you so desperate to kill me?” Miranda asked him.