Colonel Hampton woke up the day after Yunks died. Keisha took a flight across the Atlantic to see him at some place called “Walter Reed,” leaving the three of them in the care of Dr. Gus back in the dowdy Welsh cottage. It was a rainy sort of day there—Nadia understood Wales had a lot of those—so they had nothing to do but wait indoors, snacking and making fun of period dramas on the television. Nadia had no complaints.

Fatima, of course, did. “Why’d she leave us here, anyway? We owe the old man, just a little.”

“It was her belief, and I agree, that the Colonel would have preferred to recover on his own, without paraphysical help,” Dr. Gus told her from the kitchen counter.

“He’s as bad as you,” Fatima said to Nadia. “Okay, maybe not as bad—he isn’t gonna die, is he?”

“Not in the immediate future,” the Doctor said, and pointedly went back to his book. Fatima stuck out her tongue at him, then returned to snarking about Queen Anne’s wardrobe. Nadia sat beside her, nodding along, until they ran out of cheese and onion ‘crisps,’ whose flavor had grown on her. Then she got up to go sit next to Dr. Gus.

He seemed intent on his reading, so she sat quietly, watching the rain run down the windows. She would have gotten a book to read herself, only everything in the house was dull. Whoever owned this place was a big fan of trashy romance novels and the kind of silly bloated thrillers that got sold at airport newsstands.

In two minutes he reached the end of a chapter, and folded up a napkin to use as a bookmark. “What can I do for you, Miss Nadezhda?”

She hesitated, unsure of where to begin. Eventually she settled on, “Chansonne. I created her, didn’t I? Or at least, my subconscious mind did. Out of what was left of Ézarine. That’s how it worked, isn’t it?”

“I would say your unconscious mind, but yes, that is essentially correct.”

“And she’s supposed to be what I want to think about the world, isn’t she?”

The Doctor looked pained. “That is … correct, so far as it goes, but simplistic and misleading.” He drummed his fingers on the cover of his book. “Give me a moment to think, please, how best to explain this.”

She smiled agreement, and returned her gaze to the window. The rain wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she.

“I like to use Shakespeare for examples,” he said at last. “Because most people have encountered him already, if only from school. But I am accustomed to dealing with Americans. Are you familiar with Macbeth?”

“Yes. Titus made sure we all read it. A kids’ version, anyway, not in the fancy old English. I think he liked that the man who betrays his king dies horribly. He thought it would be a good lesson for us.”

“Truly, the Bard of Avalon had universal appeal,” Dr. Gus muttered. “Very well. You know how it begins: Macbeth is told he will be king. He reacts, almost immediately, by planning an assassination. Why is this?”

“I guess because it was the easiest way he could think of to make it come true?”

“But why does he need to make it come true? It is a prophecy. He does not know whether it is true prophecy, but if it is, the thing is predestined, unavoidable. Our Thane should not need to take such a mad risk. If it is a false prophecy, likewise, his wisest course is to do nothing. The man himself admits that ‘chance may crown him.’”

“You know, I never thought about it that much. Maybe he was just looking, deep down inside, for an excuse to take power, and it didn’t matter whether it was true or not.”

“I think that was part of it, but not all. I believe it is that the idea of prophecy itself put him in an intolerable psychological dilemma. On the one hand, predestination would be greatly comforting; it promises absolute certainty, with none of the strain and fear for the future most of us must suffer. On the other, it denies us freedom, and says that our fate is not in our own hands. Macbeth’s choice—to believe, or not—is therefore to either trust to a life ruled by chance and uncertainty, or suffer the loss of his own agency, his own freedom. Both are unattractive.

“So he splits the difference, and takes the prophecy as a personal license for megalomania, acting to fulfill or thwart the witches’ predictions as it suits him, and ignoring that this makes no sense. When all is done, and he knows he has lost, he despises his life as ‘sound and fury, signifying nothing.’ Sour grapes. Because it is the only way he can accept what has happened, to deny both his own power and the power of fate.”

Nadia thought it over. “I’m sorry, but you might have lost me. What does all that have to do with familiars, anyway? Are you saying that I made Chansonne because I was too scared to believe something?”

“Yes, and no. I am saying that the dark corner of Macbeth’s mind which led him on his murderous rampage is much the same as that part of you which made your Chansonne, and though we must use it, it can never be trusted. It does not care in the slightest about truth or morality as such; it barely knows what either term means, and sees both as tools to exploit, or knobs to adjust. It wants your mental construct of the world to be tolerable and comfortable for you, and if it must throw whole countries into the sea to do it, it will not flinch.”

She thought of dead Yuri in the ashes. “I think I know what you mean. A little. So … Chansonne really isn’t any better than Ézarine, is she? Only she is my hunger, my weakness, instead of Claude’s.” And Chansonne wanted God to punish, and set things right. Not because it was really true or because Nadia expected it to happen. Just because it was what she wanted to believe.

“That in itself means a great deal. You cannot know how it disgusts me, after my long career, to see this crude stapling of dead men’s desires to half-formed souls. Such terms as ‘necromancy’ do not begin to cover the outrage of it. You have had far too many fingers pressed into you, poor lump of clay that you are. It is time you shaped yourself.”

“Even if Chansonne is just as dangerous as Ézarine?”

“Oh, they are all dangerous, and they are all, one way or another, lies. They cannot help it, and it is no good worrying about that sort of thing. But there is a definite virtue in their being your lies. As long as you do not mistake them for the actual truth.”

Nadia gave the rain on the window another long look while she mulled it over. No good. It still didn’t make any sense. “Is that what you do, then? Help people come up with dangerous lies?”

“Perhaps ‘lies’ is too far. They are models of the world. Some are more accurate than others. You might say ‘stories.’”

“Stories. Is that all?”

“You need not dismiss the idea. Everything is a story. Human consciousness is only a story telling itself. Through the miracle of language, our stories become entangled, and we participate in one another’s lives. Like a thousand hair-thin strands braided into an unbreakable cable, the end result is surprisingly powerful. It can reshape the universe.”

Nadia glanced over at the couch, where Fatima had switched to haranguing Ruslan about the TV, for lack of anyone else to talk to. Ruslan smiled and guffawed along, but not in a sucking-up way like he might have done once. He actually thought it was amusing. She hoped it wasn’t too cruel to think that almost getting killed was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

On a whim, she got up and fetched a styrofoam cup of curry-flavored instant noodles, and started the kettle on the stove. It would be a little more like a real meal than the ‘crisps.’ “So, if they’re so powerful, why didn’t you get a familiar yourself?”

“By the time emissants came along, I was rather past the age of military service. Even if I had not been, I do not think I would have given up my powers as a clairvoyant. I am more comfortable observing and learning about the world, trying to understand, than trying to change it. Call it long habit, or an old man’s laziness.”

“Maybe.” She got down a mug and a teabag to set next to the noodle cup and the kettle. Rainy days were good for tea. “You don’t want to change the world?”

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“The world is too complicated to change. Just understanding it is work enough. Fixing it without understanding it first would be folly.”

“But what if you never understand it? Does it stay unchanged forever, and problems never get solved?”

He smiled, and nodded approvingly. “Yes. That is the problem, isn’t it? That is where courage comes in, and good judgment. Action is best left to the young. Arthritis notwithstanding, young people do not know how little they know. It gives them the courage to act, when action is necessary, not appreciating their peril.”

“You know,” Nadia told him, “that sounds like a very convenient way to say that you, an old man, should come up with the ideas, and young people should just do what you understand to be right.”

“God forbid, Miss Nadezhda. I am very nearly retired. That level of responsibility would kill me.”

The kettle started whistling. She got up to pour it. “I feel like you aren’t taking me very seriously.”

“Maybe so. But you are taking yourself very seriously indeed. I can understand why, given the way your life has gone. But now, when you are out of danger, might be a good time to reflect, and consciously change your habits.”

“See, everyone says thing like that. Like I can just snap my fingers and go back to being an ordinary, normal child, after everything that has happened.”

“Perfectly normal? No. But the resilience of young minds is remarkable; your reborn familiar is proof of that. I still cannot rule out the possibility that she will change again.”

“To a different silly story.” She hunted for a fork, found—of all things—actual chopsticks sitting in the drawer next to them. They looked reusable, polished and glossy black and gold, not bamboo takeout disposables. Why not? She felt like trying something new.

“Some stories are closer to truth than others. A learned theologian has said that true faith is a continuous dialogue with doubt, because our every image of God is an idol in need of smashing. In that respect, the quest for God and the quest for truth itself are much akin. You have found one model to be in error, and discarded it. Nothing more.”

“And that tells me what? That I will go back to faith in the end?”

“I have learned better than to predict the answer to that sort of question even for my usual inquirers, and they are older and more settled in life than you. You may find God at the end of your road. Or you may find something else entirely. I am trying to tell you that the journey will be messy and difficult, but all the more important for it. You have been given the chance to tell your own story. That does not prevent you from making that story a bundle of self-serving nonsense if you like, but it is nonetheless precious.”

“If you say so.” The noodles would have to sit for a few minutes. It was startling to think that cheap instant noodles were all she was waiting for. They had nothing planned yet for tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Nothing was threatening them, nothing needed fixing. It wasn’t that she missed danger, but to really have nothing at all on the horizon made her slightly dizzy. She wasn’t used to it.

Three minutes passed, and she tore off the lid. The noodles were just as not-quite-cooked as she remembered, but the spice was fiery. Just as well that she could barely get one noodle up at a time with the chopsticks; it gave her mouth time to cool off. Dr. Gus watched her struggle for a while, then leaned across the counter and adjusted her grip for her. It helped, a little.

“You know, it’s funny,” she said, halfway through the cup. “Chansonne saved me, in the end. I don’t think Ézarine would have come out to drive Yunks away. She was only angry at other people. Chansonne let me want to punish myself.” She could look back on it calmly now, because she’d seen Yunks die. Maybe the Doctor was right about resilience. The sore spot in her ribs hurt more than the memories. “You’re absolutely sure I’ll never be rid of her?”

“As much as I am ‘absolutely sure’ of anything. Yes.”

“Then, is she going to change me the same way Ézarine did? Am I going to want to bring down thunderbolts from Heaven on anyone who crosses me?”

“From what you have said, that is not exactly what Chansonne wants.”

“No, I suppose not.” Empty cup in the trash, chopsticks in the sink. “But, still … am I supposed to simply accept that my emissant is going to change my mind for me, because that’s what she thinks will keep me quiet?“

“Your familiar will wield some influence over your thoughts. You have the right and the ability to push back. In time, you could make her change. Unlike an adult emissor.”

“Fine. I can accept that.” Her tea had been steeping too long; she pulled the bag out in a hurry, singeing her fingers a bit. “I just don’t know where to even start. Do you believe in God, Doctor?”

“I absolutely refuse to answer that question. I tell you, you have been squeezed and poked far too many times already. Find your own answers.”

“Hmph.” She considered going back to the TV, and decided against it. She’d had enough time in front of the screen for one day. There was a nice, squishy armchair by the window, with a table beside it for her mug. She settled in there instead, and let her eyes rove aimlessly over the bookshelves on a pleasantly vain quest for anything worth reading. The act was almost hypnotic, skimming over the same shelves and titles over and over again. When she got to her third complete scan, she looked up, and saw Dr. Gus sitting on the windowsill, his book in his lap.

“When I was a boy, perhaps Ruslan’s age, or a bit older,” he said, very quietly, “my mother was in the habit of feeding the stray cats around our house. As usually happens, we attracted quite a number of them, and before long several of them had kittens. One morning, I woke to the sound of mewing, and saw one of the cats in our driveway, crying over one of her dead children. My father had not looked behind him backing out, and run the poor creature over.”

He paused, looking somberly down at her over his glasses. “Go on.”

“I got my mother, who came hurrying out. The mother cat refused to move from the body, and tried to drive her away with hissing threats, though she could do nothing for it. She only moved back, reluctantly, when my mother started weeping. She still did not understand, but she could recognize human grief, and that was enough to win her trust.

“There was a field near our house, where wildflowers grew. Mother sent me to dig a hole, while she wrapped the kitten in a blanket. There was no ceremony, no words to say. Just a burial. Still, the absurdity of it struck me, as I shoveled the soil back over the corpse. It was a kitten, one of ten thousand who are born and die every day around the globe. Even by my day, in my country, they were often drowned, to prevent a nuisance.

“I felt sorry for it—but the gap between us was prodigious, impossible to cross. We could share grief, but even the stained blanket we wrapped it in was the product of thousands of years of history, of men learning to work the soil, grow and breed crops for textiles, then develop newer and better looms and dyes. The cat knew none of this, and as for a burial, what could that mean to her? Her child was dead, and we took it away, and it vanished. But that too was heir to traditions stretching back millennia; long before civilization, we buried our dead with flowers, in caves. I had read about it. From weeping Neanderthals to a cat in a flowering field.”

He was still looking at her intently. “So what? What are you trying to say?”

“It came to me, in that moment, that I would not know what it looked like, for a god to grieve. I could not even say for certain that I would recognize it if I saw it. And neither would you, maybe. The world is a dark place, full of ghastly accidents. There are forces and powers at work in it that would break you as easily and as carelessly as my father’s car running over the kitten. I don’t need to tell you that, do I? No. In that, you are fortunate. You will not know for certain what the story means before it ends, and perhaps not even then. It is a pitiful thing, to be only human. But more pitiful still, to be only a cat.”