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ese lives he'd had the fort of adoration。 He'd been loved and lionized： for his charm； for his profile； for his mystery。 But that fact didn't sweeten the flood of memories。 Nor did it save him from the panic he felt as the little self he knew and understood was overwhelmed by the sheer profusion of details that arose from the other histories。
For two centuries he'd never had to ask the questions that vexed every other soul at some midnight or other： 〃Who am I？ What was I made for； and what will I be when I die？〃
Now he had too many answers； and that was more distressing than too few。 He had a small tribe of selves； put on and off like masks。 He had trivial purposes aplenty。 But there had never been enough years held in his memory at one time to make him plumb the depths of regret or remorse； and he was the poorer for that。 Nor； of course； had there been the imminence of death or the hard wisdom of mourning。 Forgetfulness had always been on hand to smooth his frowns away； and it had left his spirit unproved。
Just as he'd feared； the assault of sights and scenes was too much to bear； and though he fought to hold on to some sense of the man he'd been when he'd entered the house； it was rapidly subsumed。 Halfway between the door and the window his desire to escape； which had been rooted in the need to protect himself； went out of him。 The determination fell from his face； as though it were just another mask。 Nothing replaced it。 He stood in the middle of the room like a stoic sentinel； with no flicker of his inner turmoil rising to disturb the placid symmetry of his face。
The night hours crawled on； marked by a bell in a distant steeple； but if he heard it he showed no sign。 It wasn't until the first light of day crept over Gamut Street； slipping through the window he'd been so desperate to reach； that the world outside his confounded head drew any response from him。 He wept。 Not for himself； but rather for the delicacy of this amber light falling in soft pools on the hard floor。 Seeing it； he conceived the vague notion of stepping out into the street and looking for the source of this miracle； but there was somebody in his head； its voice stronger than the muck of confusion that swilled there； who wanted him to answer a question before it would allow him out to play。 It was a simple enough inquiry。
〃Who are you？〃 it wanted to know。
The answer was difficult。 He had a lot of names in his head； and pieces of lives to go with them； but which one of them was his？ He'd have to sort through many fragments to get a sense of himself； and that was too wretched a task on a day like this； when there were sunbeams at the window； inviting him out to spy their father in Heaven。
〃Who are you？〃 the voice asked him again； and he was obliged to tell the simple truth。
〃I don't know。〃
The questioner seemed content with this。 〃You may as well go； then；〃 it said。 〃But I'd like you to e back once in a while； just to see me。 Will you do that？〃
He said that of course he would； and the voice replied that he was free to go。 His legs were stiff； and when he tried to walk he fell instead； and had to crawl to where the sun was brightening the boards。 He played there for a time and then； feeling stronger； climbed out of the window into the street。
Had he possessed a cogent memory of the previous night's pursuits he'd have realized； as he jumped down onto the pavement； that his guess concerning Sartori's agent had been correct； and its jurisdiction did indeed halt at the limits of the house。 But he prehended not at all the fact of his escape。 He'd entered number 28 the previous night as a man of purpose； the Reconciler of the Imajica e to confront the past and be strengthened by self…knowledge。 He left it undone by that same knowledge and stood in the street like a bedlamite； staring up at the sun in ignorance of the fact that its arc marked the year's progression to midsummer； and thus to the hour when the man of purpose he'd been had to act…or fail forever。
9
Although Jude had not slept well after Clem's visit （dreams of light bulbs； talking in a code of flickers she couldn't crack）； she woke early and had laid her plans for the day by eight。 She'd drive up to Highgate； she decided； and try and find some way into the prison beneath the tower； where the only woman left in the Fifth who might help empower her languished。 She knew more about Celestine now than she had when she'd first visited the tower on New Year's Eve。 Dowd had procured her for the Unbeheld； or so he claimed； plucking her from the streets of London and taking her to the borders of the First。 That she'd survived such traumas at all was extraordinary。 That she might be sane at the end of them； after divine violation and centuries of imprisonment； was almost certainly too much to hope for。 But mad or not； Celestine was a much needed source of insight； and Jude was determined to dare whatever she had to in order to hear the woman speak。
The tower was so perfectly anonymous she drove past it before realizing that she'd done so。。 Doubling back； she parked in a side street and approached on foot。 There were no vehicles in the forecourt and no sign of life at any of the windows； but she marched to the front door and rang the bell； hoping there might be a caretaker she could persuade to let her in。 She'd use Oscar's name as a reference； she decided。 Though she knew this was playing with fire； there was no time for niceties。 Whether Gentle's ambitions as a Reconciler were realized or not； the days ahead would be charged with possibilities。 Things sealed were cracking； things silent were drawing breath to speak。
The door remained closed； though she rang and rapped several times。 Frustrated； she headed around the back of the building； the route more choked by barbs and stings than ever。 The tower's shadow chilled the ground where Clara had dropped and died； and the earth； which was badly drained； smelled of stagnancy。 Until she walked here the thought of finding any fragments of the blue eye had not occurred to her； but perhaps it had been part of her unconscious agenda from the start。 Finding no hope of access on this side of the building； she turned her attention to seeking the pieces。 Though her recollections of what had happened here were strong； she couldn't pinpoint with any accuracy the place where Dowd's mites had devoured the stone； and she wandered around for fully an hour； searching through the long grass for some sign。 Her patience was finally rewarded； however。 Much farther from the tower than she'd ever have guessed； she found what the devourers had left。 It was little more than a pebble； which anybody but herself would have passed over。 But to her eyes its blue was unmistakable； and when she knelt to pick it up she was almost reverential。 It looked like an egg； she thought； lying there in a nest of grass； waiting for the warmth of a body to kindle the life in it。
As she stood up she heard the sound of car doors slamming on the other side of the building。 Keeping the stone in her hand she slipped back down the side of the tower。 There were voices in the forecourt： men and women exchanging words of wele。 At the corner； she had a glimpse o