The little one is tiny now. It could fit in the palm of one hand, in a cup. It has no teeth and sleeps most of the time. When it opens its huge eyes, they wander out of focus, poorly coordinated. The body has shrunk more than the head, even the legs and tail seem disproportionate, too big. The belly protrudes from the reserve of fat that has accumulated.

  But it does not cry. It takes refuge in the space between the bronze feet, manages to warm itself, curled up between the metal and the marble. Somehow it knows that it is not alone. The servants take away small bowls of milk that it has regurgitated. The courtiers pamper it even more than before. They extract melting sweets from its sucking mouth and it licks their fingers, eliciting cries of pleasure.

  She watches everything, sipping each moment like a nectar of which she knows she has only a few drops left to taste. Fewer and fewer are left. Maybe she made a mistake; maybe this was not the way.

  Mowr Ees brightens as he scratches the little one's belly, where the tawny fur is embroidered with silver. The same silver as his own, that of the lustrous fur that outlines the edge of his ears, forming a distinctly thicker collar. A mane that, neatly brushed, curls into a triangle at the center of his chest, visible as a light shawl in the neckline of his blouse.

  The damsels gather in front of her pedestal, converging from all directions. Bright stars collect sparks in their hands, harmless toys whose fire will soon be put out. The festive atmosphere fades. Faces become serious and voices lower.

  Are the antlions already behind her with their big sheet? It was all too quick. Too short, and it was already over.

  Motionless eyes pass from one face to the next, overlooking no one. Her subjects were all worthy, all loved, all faithful. And the gardens, the pavilion, the paths and hedges cut into geometric shapes, the flower beds, the distant walls of the kitchen garden. What she knows is behind her: the square with the great fountain, her palace. From the pedestal, at certain moments, she feels as if she has planted her roots in the ground and can feel everything that happens on it, like a tickle on her skin.

  It is Mowr Ees who puts the little one back in its nest on her slippers. He barely bends down, his cloak touching the white stones of the driveway. His hands tremble. With the back of his right hand, he touches one of the shoes, in a secret and perhaps involuntary caress, in front of the whole court, which murmurs in amazement.

  Dark berries bounce like pebbles off the assembled people before returning to the hands of the grassgirls, who have emerged from the ponds to sing with their mouths closed; with green hands they catch the fruit and hang it on their heads.

  The first councilor backs away, unsteady on his legs. He has looked up, his gaze fixed on her face. The thin black lips are pressed together until they look like a line. Mowr Ees takes his place beside Marquis Rilapis, now wearing vermilion tights under a black feathered suit. Baroness De Laconte holds her breath, her small hand on her breast.

  The applause begins, uncoordinated and uncertain at first, then increasingly rhythmic and heartfelt. A collective sigh of admiration and joy. For her.

  And she smiles, unseen, in her bronze shell, though she knows it is a lie. They applaud a memory, a thought, their own longing for the Queen, their own loneliness and insecurity. Not her, whom they believe to be dead, gone forever and oblivious.

  The sheet falls to cover her, starting at the back, like a curtain descending from heaven. It envelops her and the little one, still together in these last moments.

  The cloth is opaque; she can no longer see anything. Even the sounds change, the footsteps on the gravel, the voices, the music have become muffled and distant.

  The inauguration is over; the courtiers will return to their occupations. In a few hours, with the onset of darkness, the servants will come to soften and remove the cement that binds her to the pedestal. They will lift her up and load her onto a covered wagon—the little one, who will continue to sleep beside her, not even opening its eyes in the excitement—they will take her to the secret hall where her destiny will be fulfilled.

  And the next time she will see her gardens, she will be able to walk there. She will be able to talk and joke with the ladies and knights, to applaud the musicians, smile at Mowr Ees, and tease him when he sulks too seriously, when he insists on his too sensible advice.

  But at what price? At what terrible price?

  °°°

  The Oracle's house was at the highest part of Nelatte, one of the few residential buildings to reach the peak, surrounded by rainwater cisterns and light collectors. It was just an impression, but going up to the top of the city —to the top of the world— immediately gave everyone the feeling of being precariously balanced on the edge of nowhere, of breathing rarefied and colder air even though they were actually at the same height as the rest of the world, what the Nelattese called the surface. Even Seluma felt fear and discomfort. She who was equipped to deal with conditions too hostile for humans and who had explored glowing deserts and gigantic mountains in previous lives—even she felt this sense of oppression and dizziness.

  Luoth was pale as a rag. Still reeling from his meeting with the mayor, he didn't need this ordeal.

  They had been silent during the ascent into the elevator tubes, after Seluma's attempts to prod her companion and get more out of him had fallen on deaf ears. The groaning of the mechanism that slowly raised the platform had broken a silence as heavy as a boulder, but it had not seemed to her that Luoth was silent out of stubbornness or bad temper. Maybe he really couldn't take it anymore. If only he had at least taken the time to warm up with his herbal tea, to regain some warmth.

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  On the balcony in front of the entrance to the hourglass-shaped house, they found a small crowd of people trying to blend into the shadows of the night, to give the impression that they did not know each other and had nothing in common. Seluma knew more or less all of them, although she had occasionally exchanged greetings with some of them. In fact, no one looked at her, serious and drawn faces, gray with tension and little rest, glances that passed quickly. Even Luoth, well-liked and respected, received little enthusiasm from the company, as if he had disqualified himself in their eyes by leading a “slug” there.

  And a shopkeeper.

  Did they think she didn't know what they thought of her? How they viewed her? She was better educated than any of them could have hoped to be by studying all their lives. She came from a respectable family, but she had chosen to mix with the common people. She never moved in the right circles; in fact, she spurned invitations as if she had better things to do.

  Indeed, she would not have attended that evening had it not been for Luoth.

  At a prearranged signal, the procession began to march in eerie silence through the small, dimly lit gate and under the archivolt that led to the foyer of the bizarre dwelling. And now Seluma had many doubts. The prospect of what might happen inside filled her with an uneasiness as thick as syrup that congealed in her throat.

  Shame, she said to herself, she who had been down there so often without fear. In the non-place that it is better not to name. Where everyone thinks you can only go once, because they get there by accident and do not know the correct procedure for opening the portal, even if you have not been called.

  The flow of pilgrims was slow; the insatiable need to have their illogical hopes confirmed had given way to fear, even timidity. These characters, arrogant and self-confident in their daily lives, looked at each other as if to count how many of those present could remember and perhaps tell in the future that they had seen Vice-Chancellor Cigaola, Dr. Fapy and Rector Miarull seeking advice from a charlatan, humiliating themselves and trembling with fear like ordinary poor people at the mercy of fate.

  Seluma stifled a bitter laugh. They all hated each other, these beautiful humans. Once again, she was glad not to be part of their circle of false smiles; she was proud of it.

  But not Luoth, she found herself thinking. He was all right. She watched him with tenderness as he passed her, taking a few steps ahead and then pausing to wait for her, knowing that her movements could not change pace to follow the gait of other people. The banker stayed with her to be one of the last to reach the center of the first floor of the house, which was occupied by a hall at least a dozen feet wide that housed a domestic model of an elevator pipe.

  The two vertical halves of the building were completely separate. The tube that formed the thin neck of the hourglass was the only way up. The platform could only hold four or five people at a time. A line quickly formed.

  “Have you been here before?” Luoth murmured to her, rubbing a reddened eye.

  Seluma moved her neck in a vague, swaying gesture, avoiding an answer.

  The whispers of the conveners, muffled and dry, created echoes in the empty room that made them resemble sobs, animal whimpers. Some had decided to face the embarrassment head-on and spoke in normal voices, hands in their pockets, showing a quiet confidence in anticipation of the show. If anyone had asked, they would have said they were only there at someone else's insistence, or for a laugh.

  She could almost hear them.

  “I couldn't let my wife come alone!”

  “My uncle was always fanatical about these things.”

  “They're fantasies, yes, but come on, they can't hurt!”

  Oh yes, they can, she was about to blurt out. Being here, wasting your time instead of thinking about saving your families or doing something useful for the city, that's how much it hurts. These may well be the last hours we have left, the last hours Nelatte has left.

  The last few hours Seluma was not going to waste being bothered by these arrogant people.

  She only moved towards the lift when she and Luoth were alone.

  So they emerged on the upper floor when everyone had already taken their seats, silent, along the circumference of a new hall almost identical to the first, except for the lower, rounded, and edgeless ceiling. They found themselves at the center of every gaze as they exited the tube, and Seluma was painfully aware of the slowness of her movements as she tried to reach one of the few remaining unoccupied areas.

  The end of the pipe did not reach the roof; it stopped just above the cabin, perhaps a few meters. The ceiling was completely clear, except for the drawings. Irregular geometric shapes were also reflected on the floor, a surface of square stones of a uniform dark gray, smoothed by use and somewhat uneven, like the pavement of a road. It looked as if someone had drawn on them with clear chalk, tracing the outlines of objects that could not be easily identified. Many of the guests had taken refuge in the evenly spaced recesses of the walls, intimidated by all the empty space and the almost total absence of furniture. The semblance of hospitality offered by a dozen or so wooden benches, covered with very worn red cloth, was not enough to ward off the unpleasant sensation of cold.

  There were no doors, only two small vaulted passages diametrically opposite each other, from which a salty draft emanated. No one had dared to look out of these openings, which led into the thickest darkness. The visitors remained huddled around the globular lamps on the wall, the women clutching their fur collars, the men rubbing their hands and clapping their fists.

  Luoth let himself fall onto the bench, exhausted and limp. Seluma settled down behind him, trying not to lean against the wall, which she did not want to risk staining with her juices.

  Now that everyone was silent, there was a low, steady sound, a rattling, the crawling of something on the rock.

  They did not see it enter, nor did they notice when the glowing symbols lit up. The long-necked manta appeared in their field of vision as if it had always been there, and only at that moment did a reflection of light in the play of shadows make it visible, detached from the uniform background of the ceiling.

  The creature took up most of the room, thin and ephemeral, the consistency of a veil and the color of a curtain of smoke. It swayed and rippled like liquid, following the lines of the ceiling itself.

  Seluma stared at them intently, stretching her antennae as far as they would go, and saw that they were changing, forming as they became more defined. They gave the idea of sheet-covered furniture in an uninhabited house. A house turned upside down.