If the rumors are true, if someone pulled his body straight out of the sand of the Mors and shaped it into something with more sharp bones than most graveyards, it must have been to torture Andras. That's what this is, he thinks. Torture. There is no other word for it.

He could be mad, he knows. It is always an option -- and the easiest one, to just flip the switch and become something else, beastly and slavering. From you, I don't think I could handle more. Pilate has a way of saying things with an air of finality, the same sort of sound that a pen makes, set back on the desk. When he says, I'm not sure I'd believe them, the humming M stays in the air for a little too long, and afterward, nothing but silence.

Silence through which Andras searches, blindly, trying to step closer and hold on, but Pilate's pupils are cold, black slices in his fossil-bright eyes and his mouth is set into a grimace and Andras can do nothing but watch, all the warmth sucked out of the room.

By the time he says, "I'll tell you some other time, then." Pilate has already opened the door. He could be mad. He could stomp and scream and crackle--if he were capable. Instead, he opens his hands and watches as Pilate flits out of them in a hurry. He is surprised when he isn't angry. He is surprised when the fear goes out the door with him. All that's left in the path that he burns is stillness, and tired, heavy eyes.

Andras smiles.
Pilate's cloak blows out the room's single candle as he passes.