Benedict's hand flies to his throat, and the building gives a lurch, sculptures tipping to shatter on the floor and hanging art beginning to tumble fatally from the walls. The gathered crowd is silent, shadowy, going out of focus.

"I," he stammers, and tears his eye contact from Stephen's as he begins to acknowledge the state of the room. A draft blows through; water begins to drip from the ceiling, and to seep over the floor, which has somehow turned from fine and seamless marble to dirty flagstone.

"Why are you doing this," he asks, in a despairing whine, "don't do this. Please don't do this."