And so here they were again, picking up the stitches in the pattern Thomas had determined they were to make. Bowie fled, and of course Thomas followed. So perhaps, then, it was Bowie who set the path. But he could not see how to make a new one. Malo Mogge might be vanquished, but would not Laura assume her shape? Avelot had become Bowie: still the pattern was the same. He and Thomas between them would ensure this. How to choose something new? No one could ever care for Avelot (or for Bowie) as much as Thomas had, all those centuries, Thomas’s hatred distilled down to pure and radiant tar. Bowie thought of the woman who had fed him, her baby. He thought of Laura and Susannah and their mother, who had taken the blow for Bowie. Who had tended his wound. He could not remember what manner of person his own mother had been, only the wardrobe, the dress, the moths.
There was delight in this world, there was delight in change, in exploration, in flight. Bowie was not tired, yet, of discovery. A plan came to him as he fled. He would become something new. Perhaps in this way he might change the pattern.