It was midnight in Makendha, and two figures were in conversation near the well. This was a common enough scene except for the time of night and the nature of the individuals. They were similar enough in size to stand comfortably side by side, but after that all resemblance ended. One mimicked humanity in both attitude and attire, but his ordinary white cotton tunic and trousers, so like a peasant farmer’s, contrasted with his fantastical bluish purple skin. The other made no effort to appear human at all, remaining a blur of wings and eyes spinning through a multidimensional topography accessible only to immortals and theoretical physicists.

“We are sure you understand why we called you in to handle this situation,” said the angel. “It is the question of the human element in conjunction with the undying element. You are reputed to be an expert.”

The undying one, son of Paama, who sometimes allowed himself to be called Chance, looked uncomfortable. “Awkward. Very awkward. I would prefer if you dealt with it at your level, but I suppose you have your reasons.”

“Yes,” said the angel. “We do.”

It could have been a rebuke, a reassurance, or simply a mild joke. It was not only the tone that was ambiguous; the double meaning inherent in the angelic plural added another layer of intent and interpretation. Chance found that some angels, particularly those who were closer to the human world, accepted the limits of communication and enjoyed being inscrutable. Still, being inscrutable to him, given his far greater capacity for understanding, was something of a nose tweak.

“Uriel will take over from us,” the angel continued. “It is their department, after all. Furthermore, they are a little easier on mortal eyes. And—just a warning—watch out for the Other Side. They are unusually invested in this. We think they are intrigued.”

A rare expression of worry crossed Chance’s face. “You do not expect me to—”

“No, not at all. Only be aware. Be careful. It can be hard to tell us apart. You know what it can be like among the undying ones. We are not so different from you.”

Chance gave them a disbelieving look.

“It is only a difference in scope,” the angel explained.

They flashed, fluttered, and vanished abruptly, having said all that was needed. Chance raised his eyebrows in instinctive surprise. Farewells were such a human habit, but one to which he had grown too accustomed. He shook off his feeling of foreboding and concentrated on the details of his duty, a trick that required him to focus all of his attention on a point in the present so that the probabilities would emerge clearly. What he saw made him smile. He understood why the angel had been so teasingly secretive.