[ God, for his part, lifts the rim of the mug to his mouth and murmurs into it. ]

At least there's that.

[ He drinks, and the silence settles. He sets down the mug. The old house is very quiet; there is only the distant pattering of the skeletons, the thanergy signatures of his theorems set to ready their rooms. Empty constructs, simple things. That's all he has to his name, locally.

He regards her over the tea. He wasn't the one dredged up today from some foreign rebirth, but God looks very tired. ]

You've heard some of it from Gideon, but let me try to set things into a more reasonable order. She's right that I've been the cause of your suffering these past few months, Harrow... that, [ he considers a name, but doesn't push it: ] my Saint of Duty pressed you the way he did with my own blessing. Hell, I didn't think it would be so...

[ He gestures, vaguely, as if to encompass how Duty's methods were so. His forehead is creased with pity and an awkward sort of distress. ]

I worried for you, [ he says, softly, ] given the state in which you came to me.

[ She didn't come to him having forgotten her cavalier. The error goes unacknowledged. ]

I hoped it would be better... simpler, safer... if we could... catalyze your readiness. I'll admit, I didn't expect this.

[ Somewhere upstairs, Gideon Nav is restlessly awake. ]