The air is fragrant and warm; she feels it in the vibrations that make her both alert and drowsy. Sparks of delightful enjoyment of the present moment, with all its quiet satisfactions, alternate with impulses of pure energy, running through her like an electric current, spreading through the metal to the floral bas-reliefs of the pedestal. Her joy is expressed in the carefree restlessness of the little one chasing its own tail.

  It has become softer; the proportions of the body have changed. The head still dominates the trunk, but the belly is rounder, the amber eyes are immense, often unfocused, the face childlike. It hardly speaks. Not that it ever learned more than a few simple nursery rhymes and the names of objects around it.

  Who knows what it was like before it returned to her, what it was like when it grew up? If its father took care of it, gave it an education. If he was able to do so —of his will she does not doubt— in that place unknown to her, where they no doubt found refuge and safety, and lived a long happy life together.

  She was not allowed to see it grow. She does not know what she has missed.

  Who knows if it has become learned and powerful, or even just a worthy, dutiful individual? She has entertained herself with a thousand fantasies, although she knows how dangerous it is to fly too far.

  And now the speed with which it is regressing is a black spot that stains her happiness. She did not expect that these months together could fly away so quickly, disappearing like sand between her fingers. As the evening brightens in the sunset, the light slowly increasing and the shadow of his statue shortening, a question arises to disturb the calm sea of her thoughts.

  Why does something always have to change? Why does someone always have to be lost?

  It is like a building, she thinks. Everyone's life is like a building, a house. Too big and complex to be understood at a single glance, and from whatever angle you look at it, there is some part that remains hidden, inaccessible.

  Fortunately, Mowr Ees comes to visit her. He does so often, sometimes lingering by sitting on the bench, stealing some time from his responsibilities. Who is in charge now? From the chatter she hears, she guesses that no one has replaced her. No one could, really. But there are things to be done in the kingdom, daily life to be maintained, the perfect balance she had planned from the beginning. The courtiers and the antlions need to be given something to do, and who could do that but the First Counselor?

  Poor Mowr Ees. She created him that way: capable and conscientious, but modest. So he never wanted to be the center of attention; in fact, his role sometimes weighed on him a bit. And then life was easier. Now there is a subtle change in her subjects, even in the gardens, that she has not yet identified.

  Will it be the disorientation of being without the Queen, without the leader the kingdom has always counted on, over the centuries, forever? Of course, for them it must have been as if the sun had become sick, as if the gardens had turned into a desert.

  Mowr Ees has crouched at the edge of the flower bed, playing with the little one, and seeing him smile warms her heart. Tiny ochre paws cling to strong gray fingers, and lo-and-behold, the little one is lifted by the weight of the adult's hand with minimal effort.

  But a shadow passes over the First Counselor's muzzle, and he becomes serious again, his dark lips tightening. He stands and takes a loud breath that never ends.

  His cheeks are wet again, as they have not been for a long time. She trembles every time, feeling guilty. Who is making him suffer, why?

  “We threw it all away,” he mumbles, finally, head down.

  A flock of ducks passes overhead at high altitude, squawking, drawing a curve in the turquoise sky. A pale quarter moon is an oblique smile, a slice of the evening sky that suggests another space beyond the bright.

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  “We had to be content. We had the life of the whole kingdom, all the time undisturbed.”

  We still do, she protests. Mowr Ees has always been too timid, cautious to a fault. But not out of fear, she is sure. On the contrary, as his words show, he always worries first about the consequences of his behavior on others. That's right, that's why he exists.

  “We had eternity in our hands, my lady!” he exclaims in a half voice, his hands cupped and his gaze fixed on her expressionless face. He ignores the caresses of the little one clinging to his ankle.

  He takes a step back, his lips set in a stubborn grimace. But he quickly relaxes, or rather lets go. Tired, he runs his fingers over his eyes. His deep voice is a whisper.

  “My only consolation is to know that at least you are at peace now.”

  The silence bursts like a ragged bubble of nothingness between them.

  If she still had lungs, they would be empty now, waiting achingly for a breath that would slowly regain its rhythm.

  “It is fitting that I be left alone to bear the burden. I will not escape the suffering I deserve.”

  Destroyed, shaken as if she had been thrown into a frozen river while still alive, she can no longer think, cannot reason. The words of her lover pass through her. The bronze that surrounds her is a non-existent shelter, crumbling under the impact of these words and what they imply. Her soul falters, a miserable flame in a sudden wind.

  He does not know.

  Mowr.

  He does not know that she is still beside him, that she can still hear him.

  Mowr, it's me, I'm here!

  It has all been just an illusion.

  “I tell myself every morning that it's my fault,” he mumbles. “I don't know how, but I did it.”

  All this time, while she thought they were spending peaceful hours together despite everything, Mowr Ees spoke to her only in pretense, as if praying, thinking aloud. His looks were expressions of sorrow and remorse, not messages of love. He believes that his Queen has abandoned him after ruining his life, that she has taken refuge in the easy escape of death. He thinks he has been left completely alone. Yet he still loves her.

  He knows nothing.

  He knows nothing about the child.

  How could she remain unaware of so much suffering before her eyes, without understanding its nature? How could she not understand, not even hear those painful words the first time they were addressed to her? Did she have to listen to that desperate speech in reverse now to recognize its meaning?

  “It's my fault,” he concludes, clenching his fists, barely a hiss escaping his tight mouth, the hint of a suppressed moan biting his lips.

  I am here!

  Mowr Ees caresses the pendant he wears around his neck, the royal seal that symbolizes the power he has left, and now he doesn't know what to do with it; his fingers feel it, as if fighting the temptation to tear it off, to tear it to pieces, as if he might want to tear apart the insulting statue in front of him which mocks his feelings with this unholy image of life...

  And after a moment, he leaves, a silent look at the little one who has risen to greet him. He goes.

  Mowr Ees...

  What's the use of this power, what's the point of having the keys to eternity if the only thing that matters is excluded, and if instead our only role was to guard eternity, why allow us to have earthly desires?