It's a brilliant, cold day at this altitude, above all but the thinnest of clouds; Aphel Aura humming through the stratosphere. Billy sits on a walkway in the heart of the city. He wants to watch the ground below but his stomach tightens at the distances, his head spins.

He climbed Babel himself, the tower of legend, each step a blow to the Words he knew by heart. And here in the city of sinful hermits, the sun is shining and the queen is a tiny ancient girl, and life is much the same as any other city.

Bart sits down beside him, hanging his feet over the edge-- reckless at this improbable height, restless with the wind in his hair and the sunlight in his eye. Too bright by half, Billy thinks, unable to look directly at him.

"I was wrong," he says, too quickly, to forestall the unasked questions he sees alighting on Bart's half-open lips. He thinks of his orphans, and the Ethos' teachings, and a hundred wels lying bleeding at his feet. The words fight their way from him, as if they must push against the weight of the entire sky. "I was wrong about everything."