The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel #4)

by Josiah Bancroft

I’m going to make tea, and you’re going to learn a little history.” “What sort of history?” Adam asked, pulling out a chair from his kitchen table. “The sort that ends with a clan of simple folk presiding over jars full of eyeballs inside an empty paradise.”

Anger that survives until morning is either righteous or insidious. Either way, it must be dealt with.

“There was an open bet on how he would die. As options we had, let me see… Ah yes: killed in battle, killed by old age, by mutiny, execution, duel, accident, pox, gout—” “It was gout,” Iren said. “You didn’t stamp on his head while he was retreating from the battlefield?” “Maybe a little. The gout did most of the work.”

“We’re going to have to detain you, miss.” “Why? Aren’t we on the same side?” “You just assaulted at least thirty people.” “And you want me to make it thirty-four?” Voleta said.

In other circumstances, Iren might’ve sat and savored the view. On a different day, in a different life, she might’ve brought Ann there. They could’ve picnicked on the long wall of the fountain. Iren would’ve rolled up her trousers, Ann would’ve knotted up her skirts, and they’d cool their feet in the water. They’d hold hands and listen to the musical trickling until they fell into a trance. But instead, Iren was about to watch her friend get eaten by toilet worms.

True conspiracies are inflexible and susceptible to discovery, but imaginary plots are ever evolving and, as a result, invulnerable. That is to say, conspiracies are perishable, paranoia is not.

As it turned out, heaven smelled absolutely foul.