Barda and Kabe have reached the age when their bodies have no bright new rooms to discover: familiarity breeds clarity, and the cracks under the plaster show through the paint. The temples of that old metaphor are filling up with moneylenders, starting to hock their gilt.

It’s not even a very old age.

So they swing. They’re the youngest in this particular club, and that’s good for a sort of cruel elation. Two dozen eyes snap to when they enter. Eleven hearts gnaw when they pick and leave.

In other people’s beds they lie waking, watching their ceilings start to flake.