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sun.
    The bell in the church’s high bell tower began to ring. Its deep, rolling voice sang through the summer air, crying out the joyous news for any who had not seen the signal light, and Timothy nodded around a bright, lilting bubble of happiness. Then he began walking towards the church himself, nodding calmly to the people he passed. He was, after all, Lakeview’s mayor, which gave him a certain responsibility. More to the point, he was one of Lakeview’s slowly but steadily declining number of Adams, just as his wife Sarah was one of the town’s Eves. That left both of them with a special duty to maintain the proper air of dignified respect, adoration, and awe due one of the immortal servants of the God who had breathed the very breath of life into their nostrils.
    He reached the church, and Father Michael was waiting for him. The priest was actually younger than Timothy, but he looked much older. Michael had been one of the very first of the children brought forth here upon Safehold in response to God’s command to be fruitful and multiply. Timothy himself had not been “born” at all, of course. God had created his immortal soul with His Own hand, and the Archangel Langhorne and his assistant, the Archangel Shan-wei, had created Timothy’s physical body according to God’s plan.
    Timothy had Awakened right here, in Lakeview, standing with the other Adams and Eves in the town square, and the mere memory of that first glorious morning—that first sight of Safehold’s magnificent blue heavens and the brilliant light of Kau-zhi as it broke the eastern horizon like a dripping orb of molten copper, of the towering green trees, the fields already tilled and rich with the waiting harvest, the dark blue waters of Lake Pei, and the fishing boats tied up and waiting at the docks—still filled his soul with reverential awe. It was the first time he’d ever laid eyes upon his Sarah, for that matter, and that had been a miracle all its own.
    But that had been almost sixty-five years ago. Had he been as other men, men born of the union of man and woman, his body would have begun failing long since. Indeed, although he was four years older than Father Michael, the priest was stoop-shouldered and silver-haired, his fingers beginning to gnarl with age, while Timothy’s hair remained dark and thick, untouched by white, although there were a few strands of silver threading their way into his beard here and there.
    Timothy remembered when Father Michael had been a red-faced, wailing babe in his mother’s arms. Timothy himself had already been a man full grown—a man in the prime of early manhood, as all Adams had been at the Awakening. And being what he was, the direct work of divine hands, it was to be expected that his life would be longer than the lives of those further removed from the direct touch of the godhead. But if Michael resented that in any way, Timothy had never seen a single sign of it. The priest was a humble man, ever mindful that to be permitted his priestly office was a direct and tangible sign of God’s grace, that grace of which no man could ever truly be worthy. Which did not absolve him from attempting to be.
    â€œRejoice, Timothy!” the priest said now, eyes glowing under his thick white eyebrows.
    â€œRejoice, Father,” Timothy responded, and went down on one knee briefly for Michael to lay a hand upon his head in blessing.
    â€œMay Langhorne bless and keep you always in God’s ways and laws until the Day Awaited comes to us all,” Michael murmured rapidly, then tapped Timothy lightly on the shoulder.
    â€œNow get up!” he commanded. “You’re the Adam here, Timothy. Tell me I shouldn’t feel this nervous!”
    â€œYou shouldn’t feel this nervous,” Timothy said obediently, rising to put one arm around his old friend’s shoulders. “Truly,” he added in a more serious tone,