Matthias wiped his nose on his sleeve—the wrong sleeve, Aldric noted with a spike of panic—and looked around. “Sorry,” he whispered.
And Father Aldric, for the first time in forty years, sneezed—loudly, freely, at no particular time at all. And the world, stubborn and beautiful and utterly indifferent, continued to spin. Matthias wiped his nose on his sleeve—the wrong
The chapel went colder. Aldric felt the old god’s attention—or perhaps just the weight of forty years—press down on his shoulders. “The rules are not wrong. The rules are . Without them, the beast wakes.” And the world, stubborn and beautiful and utterly
The silence was a held breath. Aldric’s hand drifted to his own Compendium , still crisp in his pocket after four decades. Rule 112 . The sun was gone. The sneeze had occurred after sunset. A counter-sneeze was required. But who could sneeze on command? And what if the counter-sneeze was performed with the wrong inflection? What if the soul was already unbalanced? “The rules are not wrong
“What beast?” Matthias asked gently. “I’ve never seen a beast. Have you? I’ve seen you skip Rule 19 on Tuesdays when your knees hurt. I’ve seen Brother Paul eat nuts with his left hand when he thinks no one is looking. Nothing happened. The sun still rose.”