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〃So who was it？〃
〃I don't know。 I've thought about it over and over。 I even made it into a story； to tell the child； so that when I'd gone he'd have the mystery for himself。 But I don't think I ever really wanted to know。 I was afraid my heart would burst if I ever knew the answer。 I was afraid the heart of the world would burst。〃
She looked up at Jude。
〃So now you know my shame；〃 she said。
〃I know your story；〃 said Jude。 〃But I don't see any reason for shame。〃
Her own tears； which she'd been holding back since Celestine had begun to share this horror with her； fell now； flowing a little for the pain she felt and a little for the doubt that still churned in her； but mostly for the smile that came onto Celestine's face when she heard Jude's reply； and for the sight of the other woman opening her arms and crossing the room； to embrace her like a loved one who'd been lost and found again before some final fire。
22
If ing to the moment of Reconciliation had been for Gentle a series of rememberings； leading him back to himself； then the greatest of those rememberings； and the one he was least prepared for； was the Reconciliation itself。
Though he'd performed the working before； the circumstances had been radically different。 For one； there'd been all the hoopla of a grand event。 He'd gone into the circle like a prizefighter； with an air of congratulation hanging around his head before he'd even worked up a sweat； his patrons and admirers a cheering throng at the sidelines。 This time he was alone。 For another； he'd had his eyes on what the world would shower on him when the work was done： what women would fall to him； what wealth and glory would e。 This time； the prize in sight was a different thing entirely； and wouldn't be counted in stained sheets and coinage。 He was the instrument of a higher and wiser power。
That fact took the fear away。 When he opened his mind to the pfocess； he felt a calm e upon him； subduing the unease he'd felt climbing the stairs。 He'd told Jude and Clem that forces would run through the house the likes of which its bricks had never known； and it was true。 He felt them fuel his weakening mind； ushering his thoughts out of his head to gather the Dominion to the circle。
That gleaning began with the place he was sitting in。 His mind spread to all pass points； and up and down； to have the sum of the room。 It was an easy space to grasp。 Generations of prison poets had made the analogies for him； and he borrowed them freely。 The walls were his body's limits； the door his mouth； the windows his eyes： monplace similitudes； taxing his power of parison not a jot。 He dissolved the boards； the plaster； the glass； and all the thousand tiny details in the same lyric of confinement and； having made them part of him； broke their bounds to stray farther afield。
As his imagination headed down the stairs and up onto the roof； he felt the beginnings of momentum。 His intellect； dogged by literalism； was already lagging behind a sensibility more mercurial； which was delivering back to him similitudes for the whole house before his logical faculties had even reached the hallway。
Once again； his body was the measure of all things： the cellar； his bowels； the roof； his scalp； the stairs； his spine。 Their proofs delivered； his thoughts flew out of the house； rising up over the slates and spreading through the streets。 He gave passing consideration to Sartori as he went； knowing his other was out here in the night somewhere； skulking。
But his mind was quicksilver； and too exhilarated by its speed and capacity to go searching in the shadows for an enemy already defeated。
With speed came ease。 The streets were no more difficult to claim than the house he'd already devoured。 His body had its conduits and its intersections； had its places of excrement and its fine； dandified facades； had its rivers； moving from a springing place； and its parliament； and its holy seat； The whole city； he began to see； could be analogized to his flesh； bone； and blood。 And why should that be so surprising？ When an architect turned his mind to the building of a city； where would he look for inspiration？ To the flesh where he'd lived since birth。 It was the first model for any creator。 It was a school and an eating house and an abattoir and a church； it could be a prison and a brothel and Bedlam。 There wasn't an edifice in any street in London that hadn't begun somewhere in the private city of an architect's anatomy； and all Gentle had to do was open his mind to that fact and the districts were his； running back to swell the assembly in his head。
He flew north； through Highbury and Finsbury Park； to Palmer's Green and Cockfosters。 He went east with the river； past Greenwich； where the clock that marked the ing of midnight stood； and on towards Tilbury。 West took him through Marylebone and Hammersmith； south through Lambeth and Streatham； where he'd first met Pie 'oh' pah； long ago。
But the names soon became irrelevant。 Like the ground seen from a rising plane； the particulars of a street or a district became part of another pattern； even more appetizing to his ambitious spirit。 He saw the Wash glittering to the east； and the Channel to the south； becalmed on this humid night。 Here was a fine new challenge。 Was his body； which had proved the equal of a city； also the measure of this vaster geography？ Why not？ Water flowed by the same laws everywhere； whether the conduit was a groove in his brow or a rift between the continents。 And were his hands not like two countries； laid side by side in his lap； their peninsulas almost touching； their landscapes scarred and grooved？
There was nothing outside his substance that was not mirrored within： no sea； no city； no street； no roof； no room。 He was in the Fifth； and the Fifth in him； gathering to be carried into the Ana as a proof and a map and a poem； written in praise of all things being One。。
In the other Dominions the same pursuit of similitude was under way。
From his circle on the Mount of Lipper Bayak； Tick Raw had already drawn into his net of dissolution both the city of Patashoqua and the highway that ran from its gates towards the mountains。 In the Third； Scopique…his fears that the absence of the Pivot would invalidate his working allayed… was spreading his grasp across the Kwem towards the dust bowls around Maike〃。 In L'Himby； where he was soon to arrive； there were celebrants gathering at the temples； their hopes raised by prophetics who'd appeared from hiding the night before to spread the word that the Reconciliation was imminent。
No less inspired； Athanasius was presently traveling back along the Lenten Way to the borders of the Third and skimming the ocean to the islands； while a self more tender trod the changed streets of Yzordderrex。 He found challenges there unknown to Scopique； Tick Raw； or even Gentle。 There were slippery wonders loose on the streets that defied easy analogy。 But in inviting Athanasius to join the Synod； Scopique had chosen better than he knew。 The man's obsession with Christos； the bleeding God； gave him a grasp of what the Goddesses had wrought that a man less preoccupied by death and resurrection would n