The air is fragrant in Efa's eternal spring.

  She cannot enjoy the pungent aromas of new leaves and newly unfolded corollas; she does not breathe through her false bronze nostrils. But she can imagine them, just as she can pretend to feel their sweet tingling on her lips.

  In front of her, beyond the music pavilion, the labyrinth of hedges and fountains stretches as far as the eye can see. Somewhere, even farther, there is another completely flooded labyrinth, where pale crystal swans swim slowly in eternity between the spiral and figure-eight paths. She cannot see it either, but she can imagine it.

  Her field of vision is wider than the statue's blind eye openings would allow: As if she could actually turn her head, she can get a hemispherical view around her captive body. She can catch a glimpse of the sky and see the bottom of the folds, shaped like a robe, from which the little domes of her slippers emerge.

  And the pedestal, immaculate, on which the little one climbs and rests.

  It had wrapped its tail around its belly to keep warm during the night, and now it was slowly waking up. The eyes, the same, immense, good, sad eyes of him, barely opened, search for her face; it is so thin that its head seems bigger than the rest of the body, and when it stands like this, all stretched out to contemplate her, one expects it to fall backwards.

  It can climb when it wants to. Nimble little paws can always find a grip, even on polished metal. But it rarely moves from down there; its favorite place is on the toe of her slippers, or in the hollow between them.

  The hedges and bushes look neat again, there is no debris on the driveways, the grass is mowed and every lawn is clean. It does not take long for everyone to return. She waits, excited and anxious, as if waiting for guests at her party.

  And in the meantime, the little one digs at the edges of the flower bed, peels back a thin layer of reddish soil, pulls out tiny bones that it arranges in front of it and licks its little face.

  It regurgitates something black, striped bites and feathers. And while a distant bird warbles in that arrhythmic and peculiar way, beginning with long notes that end abruptly, another bird, more minute than the blackthorns of the bush that now shades the puppy, is formed from those remains, lies disheveled on the gravel, and is dragged far back by the little one, who first holds it in its hand, then puts it in his mouth and rushes away, faster and more excited, into the thicket of trees.

  She follows it with her eyes for as long as she can. She is not worried.

  Something rustles in the thicket to her left, a creature ruffling the leaves on the branches. In a moment, the little one will return, quickly, running, and with an admirable leap backward, without taking any measurements, it will manage to find its usual position on the pedestal.

  For a few moments it will stand up, alert and curious. Then it will be quiet again.

  We will not leave each other now.

  She already knows how it will go. Until the end, which will coincide with the beginning.

  Thanks to her who did what her masters, the higher gods, did not think she could do. That she had the courage to do. The summoning of an external force, the breaking of the flow of time, in order to regain possession of it. To destroy herself to be reborn stronger.

  One more turn of the sun and here are the antlions, coming to bring back the movable furniture and ornaments of the garden, to scatter the tops of the hedges with silver ribbons and straps, to arrange colorful flags around the columns. They do it sadly, slowly.

  But other people, too, lost and scattered on this cloudy day, wander the paths with agitated steps.

  And to say that she had always loved this almost winter sky that made her long for the coziness of her room, a book by the fireplace, blankets and quilts.

  The broken slat of a fan, with a strip of white lace sewn to it, which had always stood wedged between two stones at the edge of the path to the pavilion, has returned to its mistress, a lady with a wide, billowing skirt who passes by wringing her hands. Her nose is red, her eyes blink irritatedly. She disappears behind her.

  The wind brings back the ribbon of her blond page's cap.

  She knows very well what lies behind her. What she can no longer see, what she does not deserve to contemplate, even to be tormented by regret.

  Her palace, the heart of Efa. Her power, the center of worship and love of which she herself was the object.

  All that she gave up, that she traded for a few moments of happiness that was hers alone.

  She threw it all into the abyss, and she knows it.

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  She would do it again.

  She will do it again and again.

  °°°

  Fifty-eighth Mayor of Nelatte.

  Attan Ze neither expected nor wished to be remembered for anything in particular. Like most of the other rulers who had succeeded each other in that chair, he dreamed of being just a number, the continuation of a chain of good citizens who had brilliantly fulfilled their duty and made the city work well.

  When something works well, you don't notice it.

  The technician stammered out about a dozen syllables before he could get the sentence going.

  “It's possible that the tampering also inserted a behavioral code that—”

  “We can't be sure of anything anymore,” Seluma cut him off.

  The technician blushed, a blackish tint clouding his pupil-less eyes.

  “That's not quite right,” he replied deftly. “Tests should be used to seek an answer, without bias. If you demand confirmation of a ready-made theory at all costs, you will surely find it anyway. Just ignore the conflicting data, repeat the experiment until what you want happens, and...”

  It was time to intervene.

  “Enough is enough,” the mayor ordered. “Gentlepeople, please.”

  Apparently, they obeyed him and remained silent, but in fact Seluma and the scientist continued to stare at each other hostilely, motionless as figurines.

  “Without bias? I wouldn't say that trying to guess what is the most likely interpretation of the data is biased. Instead, I would say that having at least a vague idea of what is reasonable to expect is a sensible line of research,” Seluma recited, composed.

  Attan Ze hid a smile at the technician's disappointment. If the young man had thought he was dealing with a stubborn clueless person, he had found a challenge. Seluma could claim experience in almost every field of knowledge, in science as well as in the arts, not acquired all at once in a single lifetime, but still forming a solid foundation of culture and knowledge in the back of her mind. The fact that at that time she had chosen to do mainly manual work, in contact with people, a seemingly menial activity that left little room for intellectual and spiritual development, should not mislead. It was simply a diversion, a distraction.

  That Seluma remained so stubborn despite all her knowledge was a remarkable contradiction. But everyone, the mayor thought, was the victim of at least one fatal flaw that always dragged along with them, resistant to any treatment, any teaching, any life experience. Just as everyone possessed some incorruptible virtue that would always fly unbroken like a flag untouched by rain and wind.

  The thought of rain and wind threatened to distract him and drag him away to his private dimension of sky and open space. Here he was, flying without weight, without even a body to coordinate, a disembodied essence made up of many individual drops of consciousness, like a swarm of buzzing insects blown by a wind swirling around the trunk of a mammoth tree rising to infinity...

  Not yet, he was working.

  “Data, reasonable assumptions, theories.” He sighed. “Where do they lead us? Do we really think we can understand anything thoroughly?”

  The two turned to look at him. Attan Ze Kosh closed his eyes for a moment, taking a long, slow breath.

  “We are but crumbs tossed here and there by the wind,” he murmured.

  He snapped his eyelids open again and addressed the technician in a harsh tone.

  “Has anyone ever understood why ice forms in the glass and warms my hand on certain days? Can you predict the trajectory of a ball that gets off the ground and starts bouncing like crazy? What causes the rain to fall and drench us all today and, conversely, the water to return to the sky next month?”

  His voice dropped an octave.

  “We don't know anything.”

  Seluma slowly moved the short tentacles on either side of her mouth.

  “We know what can be known. That will be enough for us.”

  The technician did not hide his indignation.

  “Your Excellency, the pink heart is at your disposal whenever you wish,” he declared, and after a stiff bow, he trotted out with the same momentum with which he had entered.

  “What a blowhard,” commented the Lumacid. “I'm leaving as well. I trust your analytical and deductive skills to identify the real problem the city will face.”

  She swayed to turn and exit the door.

  Attan Ze waved her off with a promise.

  “I will come and taste your milk.”

  She hesitated only a moment, the shifting flesh swaying.

  “I will always wait for you.”

  And here he was, alone, as he had so eagerly desired. Why was he holding the pen again? Had he not longed for a free moment to run and enjoy the view from the porthole? No, he had to issue the decree as soon as possible, and he had not yet signed it!

  The nib snapped between his fingers; Attan Ze muttered a few unintelligible syllables as he jerked back to avoid the drops of ink that speckled the desk top and drew a path of ant steps on the back of an envelope.

  He hurried to contain the damage with the absorbent pad. At the moment of wiping the paper, he stopped with the gesture in midair.

  His signature —the initials of his name— had been pierced and wounded by the shattered quill. A trickle of vermilion blood oozed from Kosh's “K.”

  An unprecedented, inexplicable event.

  And an equally gruesome thought made its way to him. An icy finger pressed the vulnerable spot between his second pair of shoulder blades, where the wings no one knew he possessed lay folded and compressed.

  An unrelenting truth.

  Time to go back.