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insights?’
    ‘Some, though they had little success in passing on their wisdom. Others have lived out their lives here.’
    I had no taste for further discussion, and told the angel so. It left without a word.
    I considered for a full day before reaching my decision. In my musings I concluded that God – or rather, the mind behind the world – might know more answers than I, but he – or it – had far more questions too. It also occurred to me that this mind might be lonely, with only the cold, logical angels for company, and that this, as much as anything, could be why frail, transitory beings such as I were sometimes brought here.
    In the end it comes down to a simple choice: to live alone in a machine I can never understand or with others of my kind who will never understand me.
    When the angel returns tomorrow I will ask to be put back in the world, though not in the village. I would like to see Omphalos, the city I have read so much about. I do not know how I will fare there: all I can do is try.
    Before that I will leave this account at the starry window. Call it an odd indulgence, of significance only to myself.
    Perhaps the angels will find this book, and I will not have to state my decision boldly. Or perhaps they, or God, really do see my every act, and know already that I have failed to find whatever answers they brought me here to provide.
     
    ***
     
    When I went to the starry window, clutching the book containing my story to my chest, I found the window had disappeared. The wall was blank.
    My first reaction was fear; I have tested God more than once these last seventeen years, but he has never punished me. (Merel was not a punishment but an experiment.) Now I have made an irrevocable decision: have I finally damned myself in the process?
    Yet no angel came to me, no clarion sounded, no force struck me down. I felt, if anything, rather foolish. I left the book anyway, and headed back to my cottage to sleep.
    As I made my way through the mist I thought there was something odd about the village square. I hurried forward, straining to see. A figure stood by the well, a woman dressed in peculiar clothes that managed to be both tight and modest. Her skin was unusually dark, almost reddish in hue. She stood casually, arms crossed, a friendly smile on her face.
    I was in no mood for games. I strode past her, waving a hand. ‘I see you did work out my intent after all,’ I said.
    ‘I’m sorry?’ Her accent was odd, though her voice was perfectly understandable. I wondered where ‘she’ would claim to be from – the Sunrise Veldt perhaps, or the Parsan Traps? Some writers had recorded strange skin tones in those high places.
    I stopped. ‘I’m not sure what you think to achieve by adopting this form; we may as well just get on with it. Yes, I wish to go home – to Omphalos actually. Tonight would be fine, thank-you.’ A sudden, awful realisation began to grow. What if I had missed my chance to return to the world? Perhaps the option had been revoked. Perhaps instead I was being given a real person from the world to keep me company. I looked at her more closely. She was a little younger than me, not physically attractive but with the look of intellect about her. This was no construct.
    Her smile changed, becoming something more complex. ‘Ah, I see. The avatars didn’t tell you, then?’
    Now it was my turn to be confused. ‘The avatars?’
    ‘You call them angels.’
    ‘You know of the angels?’
    ‘Yes.’ She sounded uncertain. ‘I assumed they’d discussed this with you. Obviously not.’ Then, almost to herself, she added, ‘Well, your patron is a little eccentric.’
    ‘Madam, I have no idea what you are talking about.’ I found it hard to maintain my tone of hurt pride given how fascinating this all was.
    ‘Of course not, there’s no reason you should. Let me start by introducing myself: I’m Captain Estrides.’
    Interest gave way to confusion. Some of the corsair schooners in the