She isn’t one to pray, not really. Oh, hurried gasps half-beseeching anyone who might be listening, Lord or Lady or lost angel —those, yes. But true, get-down-on-your-knees prayer? Not in ages.

Not since she was small, and still believed in a God who loved her.

Now she is grown, and believes in a Lady who guides her, and a god does love her, and a genius. And she’s down on her knees, in her tiny living room, facing into the lowering sun, hands clasped.

“Gabriel.” She can’t think how to say what she wants, how to ask, or beg. Or pray.

Only his name, and the thought of his golden eyes brings all the mute misery of his absence to the fore. She bows her head, letting it spill out into the cosmos, a heartfelt prayer for his return.