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Harmless. But Old Jim knew. He knew the stranger was a Rogue, and he was inclined to consider this Rogue an agent of sorts—a person who, in Central parlance, would come to mean the familiar unfamiliar, “one who knows us but is not us.” A kind of slant rhyme connecting who he was to what espionage was. Such a person moved against the pattern of tides, of stars, of seasons and, in that sense, was not bound by the idea of Time as experienced on the Forgotten Coast. Such a person was dangerous.
How close was narcissism to empathy?
What was a person, sometimes, but a wandering fire. But put the flames out, and what was left?
