Ainen broke his bread in half.
He did it slowly, the way he did it at every table he had ever sat at. He kept one half for himself and held the other out across the cloth.
"Here," he said. "It's a little stale. I'm sorry. It's the end of the loaf."
The small gray thing did not take it.
It sat across from him with its smooth plate of a face tilted toward the bread. The seam down the middle stayed open a crack. It did not move.
"Why?" it asked.
"Why what?"
"Why feed me." The voice was calm and patient. It had always been calm. "You know what I am. You have fought three of my shapes and broken a fourth. You know what I have taken."
"I know," said Ainen.
"Then why?"
Ainen thought about it. He did not hurry.
"Because you're sitting at my table," he said. "And I don't let anyone sit at my table hungry."
Behind him, Rudra had not moved. He stood with one hand on the gatekeeper's gold flesh and the other still dipped in the bowl at his feet. The heart beat. Eleven.
