“All roads lead to the city at sunrise.

All roads lead from the city at sunset.

And I, who live in the heart of the city,

must suffer teeming days and lonely nights,

surfeited and starved on humanity.”

It was terrible how tired she was, how much in need of a good bawling cry she was. And there was still the report to write. She dragged herself up and gathered herself for the day’s last bit of professional pretense: the walk home.

The City could be beautiful at twilight, when the sky was still bright with gold and purple but the sea and land were dark and the sounding waves invisible as you went along the boardwalk. But early morning was lovely too, because the sun was still low and golden and kind, and you could lean carefully over the rope railings and look at the old cannons poking out of their recesses, thick-painted against the salt spray, never to fire again. When it was high tide, the waves smacked hard enough that you might have a good excuse for a salt-wet face when you straightened up. That was half the journey, the boardwalk.

The rest was less picturesque and consisted mainly of dodging traffic in the most tangled and congested thoroughfares of the City. Worse, it required alertness, an alertness that Miranda might feign but did not have. She wavered for a moment on the sidewalk, dashed to a central island between two lanes, and waited. It was the usual zoo: big omnibuses; nimbly buzzing scooters steered by risk-embracing students; small, fast cars driven by impatient young men; and large luxury cars with chauffeurs in front and sleek, comfortable bosses in the back. All were departing, as was expected of those who were not Freemen of the City, a privilege that neither wealth nor fame could buy. Miranda felt a wave of unwarranted pride for the accident of birth that had led to her ownership of the little town house overlooking the bay, not quite at the heart of the City but close enough.

A space appeared in the line of traffic. Miranda began to step out, and in that moment she saw something so shocking that a pulse of adrenaline overrode the remaining blur of alcohol, sharpened her awareness and immobilized her completely.

A woman appeared at her left hand. She was wearing the same clothes as Miranda, which was bad enough, and the same face, which was unconscionable. The strange twin smiled at her—a quick, reassuring smile—and then, while Miranda stood frozen in disbelief, she ran deliberately into the path of an oncoming omnibus.

—