There was a quietness where Sartore was sitting. He was in the middle of the library, watching as the people around him drifted back and forth, like ghosts forever haunting the same halls. There were books lying open on different desks and tables, Some people hunched over them with dark expressions over their faces, and a sense of disarray—as though someone had shaken the room up and tried to put the pieces back together. Whoever had done it had done a pretty poor job of it.

There was another shout from the back room. Sartore was pretty sure it was Maisero. He looked back, and thought he could see the door bend from the force of his shout. Sartore turned back around. What else was there to see? The small balcony that he sat on, overseeing the dust that draped over the tops of the bookshelves, the dead insects that lay there, cocooned in something he couldn’t quite make out. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes. The sun was still up, spearing his eyes when he turned to it. He could recall Maisero from, what, a few days ago? Meek, he thought; perhaps a little strange, but meek. Who was there screaming in the room now.

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“Sartore.”

Sartore turned around, saw Anastasia standing in the doorway, more disheveled than before. Maisero’s face was bright red. The others sat, sweating, their faces seeming clammy, and looking back at him. Maisero, for Sartore’s benefit, wasn’t looking in that direction.

“You can come back in now,” she said, her voice sore. Sartore stood, up, his legs shaking a bit, and walked back into the room.