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small. Her pale skin. Her chopped red hair. Her eyes gone wet.
    It was for you, Moses, she says. For you.
    *
    Impossible, says Moses Todd. You got to know what it is – to hear such a thingand crave for it so to be true but also know at the same time that it ain’t. The
more wished for some words are, the more unlikely they are to carry truth when finally uttered. Language is criminal that way. As though your wishin for something is the very thing that makes it
impossible. We should none of us ever wish on anything – shootin stars or dandelions or eyelashes or pennies in wells.I say no more wishing. That’s my covenant and my directive. Life
comes. It comes willy-nilly. It’s best to open your eyes to it and cease the buildin of lofty castles in your head – or you could blind yourself with earnest prayers.

Eleven
    A Christening » Fletcher’s End » The Destruction of the Gasworks » An Identification by Boots » A Death » The Compass of the Self »
Nature » A Dream of Dolphins » A Search » A Vision
    It ain’t true, he says and shakes his head in absolute refusal. My brother’s still here. I can feel it.
    Then the Vestal spins on her heels and unleashes her full fury, like a poison capsulebroke into a cup of water.
    Goddamn you, Moses, she says. Why don’t you just for once in your life shut up about your piss-ant brother. You want to die here, then die here. What’s happening out in the world
ain’t nothing compared to the civil war you got in you, Mose. Jesus, you’d follow those little codes of yours straight into your grave. You don’t always have to take the bait, you
know.Sometimes you can just let it go.
    She walks to the door, still talking as her back is to him.
    I ain’t dying here, Moses. I’m dying all right – but it ain’t gonna be here. And if it is, I want it to come from the back as I’m boltin to get the hell out. See
you in heaven, Mose – I hope it’s designed to your specifications.
    She is nearly out the door before Moses Todd calls to her.

    Hold up, he says.
    She stops, but she does not turn to face him. Her back is to him, and she grips the handle of the door.
    Your name, he says. What is it?
    My name?
    I know it ain’t Amata. And I know it ain’t that other name Fletcher calls you. So what is it? Your true name.
    You want to know my name?
    She says the words to the door in a voice so small he can barely hear.He wonders how long it has been since she has last said her own name – how long since she has been simply
herself.
    Yes, he says. Your name. I’d like to – I’d feel privileged to know it.
    There is quiet for a moment – a brief interim in which even the sounds of the battle outside seem suspended – as though the whole world takes a breath and waits on the exhale.
Everyone is heartbeatsin their ears.
    Then she says something, but it is so low and mumbled into the door that he can’t hear it.
    What? he says. I couldn’t—
    Mattie, she says, turning towards him and showing him her painted, sparkled face one last time. Her eyes are wet and shot through with pinpoints of brightness – as if all her fears, so
many of them, bleed out like trapped light. My name’s Mattie.
    He opens his mouth to speak, but there are no words. He would like to take the name and affix it to his cudgel as another blade to rip and tear at the world – and then he could feel the
whole true talon sharpness of it.
    The only thing he can say is her name, a repetition that is just as questioning as it is confirming:
    Mattie.
    Do you believe me? she asks.
    Is it true? he replies.

    Goodbye, Moses, she says.
    She goes through the door, leaving it open wide. The light reflected from the snow outside makes a portal through which it looks as though angels might spill. She said she would see him in
heaven, and it was a joke. But this is something he knows deeper than all things: there are doors to heaven everywhere.
    *
    Outside there is no sign of the Vestal.He scans, momentarily, the tree line at the hill, but there is no trace of her. It is as if she has stepped out into the light and been
spirited up – a recalled angel in gaudy ribbons.
    But something is happening on the grounds of the gasworks. The uniformed men, the soldiers, seem to be retreating. They take stances behind dense stands of machinery, fire off a few shots and
then fall backto other locations. They are receding from the valley with slow deliberation. It is not that they are overwhelmed – their