The night sky is red, brick red, and starless: the clouds are low over the city. Quiet, tonight, no sirens, no gunfire or fireworks, only the dull constant wind of the freeway, less mutable than the ocean. Miles away.
Walking back from the bar, from the train, Isabel passes the church: a truncated cone of glass overlooking the water. They’ve turned everything off for the night, but light filters through from the street, tracing the outline of the stained glass windows in reverse. Baphomet looks down from this side, his face placid as a goat’s, pupils square and unreadable, one hand raised in benediction or derision. She smiles and waves, huddled against the wind, and he turns his head to watch her pass.
The lake is low tonight, and full of light. She moves through a flock of geese; they, too, swivel sinuous necks after her, small eyes watchful and waiting.