"See, the gods are waiting for you in the caverns

of the Netherworld!

See, how they crush the heart of your silence!

See them in all their power, and know fear!

The Upreared One!

The Terrible One!

Turned Face!

He of the Coffin!

She who Combs Out!

The Cobra Speaking in Flame!"

". . . Of course, that's probably why he never let any of us know how it worked." Wells' voice was now quite distant, barely audible above the priest's chanting. Hot cramps pulled at Paul's joints, threatening to force them apart. "What was his little joke-term? Reality Enhancement Mechanism. Get it? REM, like when you dream. But damn him, you have to admit it works. Are you feeling it yet?"

Paul could not catch his breath. A black fever was creeping through him, hot and thick as the poppy paste, dark as the caverns of the priest's spell, caverns he could almost see, impossibly deep, full of watching eyes. . . .

"Now, Jonas, I think it's time for you to tell me everything you know about our friend Jongleur." The yellow face of the god returned, floating into the swirling shadows of Paul's vision. "Tell me what happened. . . ."

"Give me the force of his tongue, that I shall

make it a whip to chastise the gods'

enemies!"

the priest said, a triumphant note now entering the drone,

"Give me the force of his tongue, that he shall

hide his secrets no more!

Make me master of his silence!

Make me priest of his hidden heart!

Speak now!

Speak now!

Speak now!

The gods command it. . . !"

"I . . . I don't. . . ." The priest's voice seemed like thunder in his ears, a din so great he could barely think. Images whirled past, fragments of his life in the tower, Ava's sad dark eyes, the smell of wet greenery. His own words were echoing both inside and outside his head. "I'm . . . I'm. . . ." He could see himself, could see everything, and the past tore open, ripped like flesh—painful, shriekingly painful, as the memories came tumbling out.

The darkness fell away, dropping him into something deeper still. He heard his own voice speak as if from a great distance.

"I'm . . . an orphan. . . ."

NETFEED/MUSIC: Horrible Animals to Reunite?

(visual: Benchlows entering hospital for presurgical exploration)

VO: In what even their staunchest fans admit has become a rather bizarre saga, onetime conjoined twins Saskia and Martinus Benchlow, founding members of My Family and Other Horrible Horrible Animals, who had themselves surgically separated a few months ago to facilitate the breakup of their musical partnership, are now contemplating reattachment.

S. BENCHLOW: "Even after we broke up, we were spending all our time together arguing. My new manager said, "What's with you two, it's like you're joined at the hip," and, well, it got us thinking. . . ."

M. BENCHLOW: "The whole separation's been utterly weird. I never knew it could be so lonely going to the toilet."

He said it again, caught on some incomprehensible cusp. The momentary blackness was fading, but his voice echoed strangely, as if he stood outside himself, listening. "I'm an orphan. . . !"

"Sorry you had to find out about it like this, lad." Niles sounded genuinely troubled, but his face on the screen was as unreadably reasonable as ever. "For some reason the hospital couldn't get through to you there in the States, so they called me. I suppose you must have put me down as a backup or something."

"I'm . . . I'm an orphan," Paul said for the third time.

"Well, that's pushing it a bit, isn't it?" Niles spoke kindly. "I mean, I think you have to be an actual child to qualify, don't you? But I really am sorry, Paul. Still, she had a good run, didn't she? How old was she?"

"Seventy-two." He'd been in America for over half a year, he realized. "Seventy-three. That's not old at all. I thought . . . I thought she'd be around a few more years." I thought I'd get back to see her. How could I let her die alone?

"Still, she wasn't well. Kindest thing, isn't it?"

For an instant, Paul hated his friend's handsome face and easy sympathy. Kindest thing? Yes, if you come from the sort of family that shoots its old dogs and horses, it probably seems that way, A moment later the rush of fury was gone.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he said heavily. "I should call and make the arrangements. . . ."

"Done it for you, mate. It was all in her records, anyway. Do you want the ashes sent there?"

It was such a strangely repellent idea that Paul actually considered it for a moment. "No. No, I don't think so. I don't think she'd like Louisiana. I suppose she'll want to go in that place next to Dad." He couldn't for the life of him think of the name of the so-called remembrance park, had never visited his father's resting place—if a cubbyhole with a door in a fibramic wall made to look like marble could really be dignified to that extent. "I'll look up the details and call you tomorrow."

"That's fine. We're at the Oaks." Which was a breezy way of saying Niles' family were having one of their semiannual bivouacs at their country house in Staffordshire.

"Thanks, Niles. You're a good friend."

"Worry not. But how are things going on your end? I had sort of a strange call from your Americans a while back."

"I know." He debated telling Niles the whole story, but he was already in his friend's debt—how much did you actually owe someone who arranged to have your mother burned, anyway?—and did not want to descend deeper by keeping him on the phone listening to complaints and suspicions and just plain weirdness. "Things are okay here. Lots of stories to tell when we get together. A bit odd, I guess, but basically everything's fine."

Niles gave him a quizzical look, but with his usual deftness swiftly turned it into a smile. "Right. Well, stay out of trouble, old man. And I am sorry about your mum."

"I'll call you tomorrow. Thanks again."

He was embarrassed he'd said it in front of Niles, but as the elevator shot soundlessly upward, the word would not leave his head.

Orphan. I'm an orphan. I've got no one left. . . .

It was a bit overblown, perhaps—he hadn't seen Mum since leaving England, and while he was there he hadn't exactly moved heaven and earth to keep her at his side once she'd got sick the first time—but now that she was gone, something had definitely changed.

Who do you have, really? Niles? He'd be just as kind and efficient if it was you who'd snuffed it, and then he'd get on with his fabulous life. "You remember Paul Jonas," he'd say to his friends, who wouldn't. "Chap I've known since Cranleigh—we were at university together, too. Worked at the Tate? Poor old Paul. . . ."

She met him in the antique study, her fine features so rigid they seemed almost a mask, and gave him a very small, very polite smile. "Come in, Mr. Jonas. I've been looking forward to our lesson."

He paused in the doorway, disconcerted by the gleam in her eyes, a hint of excitement or even fear. "Miss Jongleur, I. . . ."

"Please!" Her laugh was a little too shrill. "We should waste no more time! You are already a bit late, dear Mr. Jonas, although I do not criticize. You must understand that time weighs heavily on me between activities."

He allowed himself to be pulled inside, yanking his hand through just in time to keep it from being caught by the closing door. Before he could even take a breath she had thrown her arms about his neck and was covering his face with kisses.