He took a final taste of the cigarette, exhaled, and in one quick motion crushed the lit end with his bare fingertips and placed the remnant delicately on the edge of his plate. Then he took up his cup and sipped the steaming tea.

“What will you do after you’ve put an end to Julian Outis?” asked Fae.

He sighed. “I won’t stop writing, if that’s what you mean. Giving that name up is very freeing for me, do you realize? People had come to expect a certain style from the Outis pen. I was getting bored. Perhaps I could indulge in poetry for a change. Listen.”

He set down his cup and took a self-mocking pose, back upright, hand on breast.

“The sons of patience steal shadows from the dead,

rule as kings and gods from age to age,

breaking one habit of power with another,

but chance is born of will and not misfortune.

He will provoke envy among many;

angels covet his death, men his immortality.”

He stopped declaiming and looked at Miranda expectantly as he returned to his tea. She stared back, stunned at the realization that this too was an undying in human form, sitting placidly in her house and talking serious matters in verse. And undying seek his life, she completed the poem in her head, remembering how viciously they had been attacked, how close they had come to annihilation before Patience had saved them.

Fae shook her head, but her face still showed admiration. “I have no ear for poetry. It sounds like it’s good, but I don’t understand it.”

“That’s the key, at least in these lands. Good poetry must never be easily understood. Now, in my own country I could never get away with that. At least two or three meanings are required per stanza, all set in the traditional meter and framed by appropriate art. It is a very serious business to be a poet in my country. I wouldn’t risk it, personally.”

Fae smiled sadly. “More of a risk than being a writer in this country?”

“To the reputation, certainly. To the pocket, both are hazardous. For example, I wish to write a novel set in the City. I breathe the air, speak to the people, eat the food. Then I write my book, you see. But those who have not the wherewithal to visit the places they would write of, how authentic can they be? The discerning reader will sniff you out, or worse yet, they may simply not be interested in any other story but the familiar. No readers, no money. I at least have no need of money. If you do, I would advise another line of employment, or at the very least a rich husband.”