The willows are weeping; she hears them from here.

  The trunks tremble and groan, bent in the still air, a swaying of hanging branches, little green leaves falling in a whirl of sorrow. The peacocks, on the other hand, are silent, and an unreal silence reigns in the gardens under a sky that is a sheet of lead; the courtiers move like mechanical figures between the hedges and fountains, without seeing each other, without greeting each other, lost and despairing.

  How different was her state of mind the last time she waited under the tarp in the warehouse: her only anxiety was for the little one —a tiny warm mass on her little shoes— and its need for food and care. She looked forward to returning to her subjects, oblivious to what was happening out there without her. She was excited, even happy, to see the sun again, even in this new form. It would not change much, she believed. She would still be with them, a landmark, an object of the usual devotion.

  Now she knows that instead, that somber chime, that shuffling of trembling feet, that languid music is the kingdom's response to the false announcement of her death.

  Efa is not waiting for its Queen, not anymore.

  °°°

  “I'm sorry, I'm engaged, milady.”

  A barely audible sigh from her, little more than a gasp.

  “You didn't give that impression the night of the doctor's party...”

  “I was a bit tipsy, you know. I have always shown great weakness in the face of the graces of a beautiful woman,” he had apologized with a weary smile. “And you wore intoxicating perfume, your hair soft as a cloud, so irresistibly enchanting. Just like now. But now it's daytime and I remember my duties, Ala.”

  She had not taken her eyes from his for a moment, barely blinking.

  But a handhold was what she was looking for, a safety rope to keep her head above water. The seductive posture was a pretense from which fear sometimes emerged, betrayed by the trembling of her hands.

  “What a wonderful evening, wasn't it? Before my aunt's spectacular fainting spell... Oh, poor aunt!”

  “Be brave. This is what I wanted you to understand: there's no need to follow your aunt, to be infected by her despair. I beg you, go, save yourself, run away and reclaim your existence, find out what you really want!”

  An opportunity, a chance. He meant it. Unfortunately, it always took a push from the outside to make important decisions.

  “A great happiness awaits you somewhere,” he had added, and his comforting tone had finally managed to rekindle some hope in Ala's reddened eyes.

  Luoth now sat in the middle of his living room, in the comfortable, wealthy bachelor pad that now resonated like a cave, an empty piggy bank. He no longer bothered to keep his jacket from creasing.

  The living room was the heart of the house, with the fireplace in the center and a large mantel above it that sucked in the smoke, leaving the rooms smelling of resin and fragrant wood without the inconvenience of soot.

  All the other rooms, arranged in a radial pattern like the petals of a flower around a chalice, faced this living room, a place where Luoth loved to read, listen to music, and contemplate photographs and movies thanks to his state-of-the-art equipment.

  Now his beloved and expensive devices waited in vain, attentively surrounding him like a host of plastic servants.

  His family.

  Without moving a muscle from his reclining position on the couch, he could see the immaculate kitchen, the unlit stove in front of which waited the automaton cook with inexhaustible patience.

  The large dining table, its surface carved in plaques like the shell of a large turtle.

  His bed, covered with handmade quilts from the workshop of Madame Contempi, who had been tailoring for more than eighty years, and the study, the walnut desk which held the weight of embarrassing piles of papers, colored folders, binders, and filing cabinets. He always took some work home with him, but he was not so quick to actually do it.

  “Run, Ala, go and enjoy what's left of your youth. Now.”

  The widow had looked at him with a sense of admiration that he knew was completely undeserved. The poor woman must have convinced herself that she had met a man capable of silencing carnal instincts and desires in order to hold fast to moral principles and promises.

  “But what are you going to do instead?”

  An insidious question. Luoth had tried hard not to let anything slip. The imperturbability and impersonal friendliness he had developed over so many years in the profession had come in handy more than ever at this moment.

  “I'm going back to the bank's headquarters in Maccovi. There they will give me another position. That is, if I don't decide to retire instead, we'll see.”

  “You are truly a generous man, Luoth. I will not forget you.”

  “Go and good luck.”

  “May the Water protect you —protect us all.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Water. He had heard that prayer all his life. It was an evocation he used as well, but he had never realized its irony.

  He had nothing to do with the Water. He was its opposite. It could not protect him.

  Generous? Definitely not. He had lied to her just so he could spend his last hours in the best possible company.

  He ran his palms over his eyes, two hot and sore orbs, almost swollen.

  His secretary, dead? His best customers, suicidal?

  Seluma...

  Except for the light from the lamp on the low coffee table next to the sofa, the only illumination was in the kitchen, through whose open window the darkness of the night came in, a misty, solid mass creeping towards him.

  Would it have helped to light a fire in the fireplace?

  Who would sleep in Nelatte that last night?

  Not him. He had to get up, move his legs, take another breath, and another, and another.

  His old bones creaked, and his muscles stiffened with fatigue, sending him stinging messages of protest.

  But there he stood, before the unlit hearth, in the middle of a silent house.

  His right hand reached for his hat.

  On his way out, in the antechamber, Luoth saw another object on the dresser, picked it up, and placed it in his pocket.

  °°°

  Inviting the last few customers to leave and really closing the door was something that had to be done automatically to keep emotions at bay.

  Even dismissing the bartender had not been so difficult.

  “Put yourself at the service of those in need. You can help people move out. I don't need you anymore.”

  The automaton walked out without a word, with the usual vacant smile on its fake face.

  Attan Ze Kosh had given her the photo.

  Seluma had accepted it without a second thought, had left thinking of other things, of the Pipers, of the Swallows, of Fuig. But only now, at home, did she understand the meaning of the gesture.

  Attan Ze had said goodbye to her like that; he would not leave. He had given her an object that was dear to him. And she had only been able to tell him what should I do with it, in a rude tone.

  The pain of his loss was a hard, heavy core like a stone in her stomach, but she would bear it.

  She thought she had achieved serenity, a detached peacefulness. She had made her decision too, hadn't she?

  So different from the one of those that had jumped into the void?

  Seluma took a long breath, sucked in from every pore until she felt her mind clear. The worst had to be over.

  Placid, the only one left in the restaurant that would never reopen, who knew why she went to the pantry instead of her private rooms.

  The shelves were still full of supplies. Cans of preserves, barrels of wine, chains of sausages, packets of sugar, and baskets of fruit surrounded her on all sides, watching her like excited children waiting to be opened and consumed.

  In the senseless silence, she let out a moan, a vibration of the sheets that modulated like vocal cords in her throat.

  There alone in the middle of the big cold room, in her oversized shell, Seluma dissolved into tears, oozing salty humor from every pore and softening amorphously on the floor.

  All that wasted stuff, the jam waiting to be spread on bread, the sausages wondering when they would be roasted... but no, a futile wait and then nothing, and they hadn't even had a choice...

  Selfish old woman!

  An unknown voice, from inside. It belonged to no one Seluma remembered. She had never heard it, but she had no doubt that it belonged to someone who would never have a life because of her, not even the illusory one of waiting and hoping, who would never breathe or see the light of the sun.

  A stinging discomfort on her upper back, at the base of her neck, quickly became a painful burning sensation.

  “I'm sorry,” she sobbed aloud to the ceiling. “You're right, everyone, I'm so sorry!”

  Don't cry, Seluma. It's not true. Nothing is useless; we do not see the whole picture.

  The cool sensation of a tentative mental caress rose from the most unexplored and chaotic recesses of her being, along with another voice, quite different, melancholy and comforting. Seluma fell silent, trembling. She twisted, trying to get back into the corset that was about to slip off her like an empty shell and roll beside her. The pain eased.

  Myriaky?

  Were those words he had said to her in life, before he had joined her, that her memory brought back to deceive her? Or was he really talking to her, trying to help her?

  Then why did he never answer when she was the one looking for him? He had completely abandoned her during those terrible days. Several times, she had felt the sting and the acid burn of her first husband's anger, but the second one was as if he did not exist.

  Come, Seluma, let's go.

  She sat up, struggling. She felt her skin pulling and burning, salt from the tears crystallizing on it. For a moment she thought they were trying to force her to leave this place forever, to leave with everyone else. But immediately she had a clear vision of what was being suggested.

  No. No more, she rebelled.

  If she had not known that it was impossible, she would have suspected that Marghi was imitating Myriaky's voice to incite her to harm herself again.

  This time, yes, it makes sense. Even I can feel it.

  But...

  The thought of crawling all the way down to the depths, of wedging herself into the depth of the shell to repeat the absurd ritual that no longer gave her any confidence, aroused her disgust. Even the idea of leaving the pantry, of going anywhere.

  No need. We are invited, Myriaky announced.

  And the portal appeared between her and the small, dusty window, a flat, glittering oval, a thin black sheet with shining outlines, into which Seluma threw herself, breathing deeply with every pore of her shaking body, stretching from the effort.