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famine and plague, were useful enough to seem holy, divinely ordained. We began in the Catholic countries, the deaths and trials began to fall back, and soon enough even the Calvinists set aside their dislike of Papal authority and created Aegidian orders of their own, different in name but identical in role. Christendom was, miraculously, almost united on an issue. On the first of September, St. Giles’s Day, everyone gathered at church, lycos and nons alike, to pray for protection and to give thanks.
    Quite a few of the churches in the city have shrines to St. Giles, even now. I used to go and pray at them, sometimes, when I was little, and I thought no one was watching me. They’re a monument to an earlier, bloodier age, that’s what some people think. Certainly it’s the older churches that have them. Nowadays, of course, we have social benefits and atheists, and St. Giles doesn’t get as many prayers as he did.
     
    I catch a bus over to Albin’s part of town. When I sit down, I’m careless. There’s a welt on my palm, a deep slash from the last moon night. The lune ran at me and forced the pole into my hand. As I sit there, I’m studying it, prodding it with my thumb, testing the edges for pain. The inside of my hand is visible. The man I sit down next to sees it, and gets up to move to another part of the bus. Nons don’t have calluses on their palms like lycos build up after a few years of nights on all fours. Our hands are smooth, pale inside: it doesn’t show that much unless you’re sharp-eyed. When it comes to spotting nons, people are. Most of us get into the habit of curling up our fingers to hide it, so our habitual hand position is a fist. The man settles himself on another seat, watching me out of the corner of his eye. My hand moves to my pocket to get my gloves out, but I stop it. I’m damned if I’ll put them on in front of him.
    I put them on for the walk to Albin’s place, and when I get there I take them off. There are bay windows and a front yard full of ever-greenish plants; it’s a detached house. Lots of garden. It’s not unlike the area I grew up in. Very unlike the area I live in now. I rap the polished door-knocker, and then see there’s an intercom: I’m about to ring it when a voice sounds from it. “Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice.
    “Hello. Is Mr. Lewis Albin at home?”
    “Just a moment.” The intercom clicks off. I wait just long enough to get impatient, then Albin’s voice sounds.
    “This is Lewis Albin.”
    “Mr. Albin, my name is Lola Galley. I’m from DORLA. May I speak to you?”
    There’s a silence. “DORLA? What do you want to talk about?”
    “Mr. Albin, I’d like to come in.”
    The intercom clicks off. I study the ivy that’s climbing all over the façade; it’s got a grip on the house with little tentacles. Just as I’m wondering whether he’s going to make me ring again, the door opens.
    Albin is in his early thirties, I’d say, about average height with broad shoulders. Smart-casual clothes: the kind that you wear for years because they’re too well made to fall apart and too expensive to go out of fashion. His face isn’t handsome. It’s quite ordinary of feature, but with good skin and an intelligent expression: he’s brighter than the dull-eyed lost souls I’m used to dealing with. What you notice about him is how little you notice the scar that runs from eye to mouth on his left cheek. An ugly thing, yet somehow, with his manner, it barely shows; on another man, it would stand out a foot.
    His hand rasps against mine as he shakes it. “I’m Lewis Albin,” he says. “Won’t you come in?”
    Plants in the hallway, muted colors, sanded floorboards, sub-rustic decor. Taste. I am escorted to an upstairs living room and seated on a sofa. A woman in floaty clothes sits cross-legged on the matching one.
    “Would you like some coffee?” Albin says. When I accept, he nods to the woman. “Sarah, would you mind?” Sarah unfolds her