73.

Once there was a priest, a prince, and a sailor. It was their poetic misfortune to be in love with the same woman. The maiden gave to the man of God her friendship, to the man of State her kiss, and to the sailor… her heart. It was recompense for his, which she’d broken – quite by accident – before he left. (He left.) Hers is something he values, though he finds it very heavy.

88.

Boston is not suicidal, just fatalistic. Fatalistic plus reckless and people automatically assume suicidal. This logic is compelling, but flawed.

Boston lies on the deck, lets the sky rain all over her. Memphis is holding out for the end of the world; but Boston has seen the end of the world, and it is not that great. No drop, no monsters; the map only starts over again, reincarnated blue. Boston isn’t here for the end of the world; she’s here for him, unjaded and spry – unspoiled by cartography.

91.

Memphis has three hundred on The Dark Horse, which is why Boston has chosen to back The East. Saltwater sky bleeding onto the deck, she bolts awake.

“Monsters again?” Memphis is waxing rails.

“No,” says Boston, wanting the blood to drain from her eardrums, back to her ribcage, bludgeoning for it. Her head is all white walls, spattered with AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL signs, geometric courtyards that only lock from the inside. “Are we there yet?”

Everything is liquid, eternal.

“Back to sleep, milady,” Memphis advises with a wink. “You’ll feel the drop.”