You return to the shrine under the stairs.

You return to the shrine under the stairs.

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Warm droplets of rain fall from a narrow window of sky, far overhead. The shrine, under the stairs, is sheltered from the worst of the damp.

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Wind blows you towards the shrine under the stairs, funneled through the alley by the tall buildings on either side. Slips of red paper hung overhead twist in the breeze.

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The sulfur glow of sodium lights illuminates the darkened alleyway, rendering night into false-day. But the shrine, under the stairs, sinks even deeper into shadow.

This isn't a very big shrine.

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This shrine is a lot less elaborate than the one in the Bazaar.

If it weren't for the candles, you easily could have mistaken it for a shadowy heap of discarded belongings, awaiting the weekly garbage collection.

Tonio's been maintaining it, but he's the only one.

Few of the middle class residents of the Housing Campaign want to be seen openly making offerings or tending the shrine. Such things scream 'working class'.

Someone cares enough to maintain it, but it looks like it's a one-man job.

Examine the offerings.

Among the usual photographs and candles, people have left mysterious items: a single house slipper. A dusty magnum of champagne. A small pouch filled with some sort of musky, sweet herb.

And scattered throughout, wedding invitations -- faded, creased, RSVP dates years in the past.

It's customary to 'invite' the angel to the festivities -- to bless the union.

Pick up a wedding invitation.

'You are cordially invited to celebrate the joining of MR and MRS PASCAL KAVANAUGH, on ENATOS 3RD 92...'

Never pegged Eszti for an astrologist.

Of all your assets, she may have been the most singularly grounded.

Maybe it was her husband's idea.

Or maybe you don't know your old asset as well as you think.

A terrible waste of good booze. (Shake your head.)

It's believed that a generous offering guarantees a happy marriage.

The stopper has gone brittle, covered in a thick coat of sticky dust. There's no way to remove it without getting fragments of disintegrating cork everywhere.

Look away.

You let your eyes un-focus, and the shrine blurs.

Wonder if they're still together.

According to lore, a blessing from the dog star should ensure a union that lasts thirty years, minimum.

Offer the Miracle Line card to Sirius.

You take out the little off-white rectangle, red-inked lips glinting in the low light.

"Sirius, accept this offering..."

With a soft flutter, the card drops onto the shrine and into the dark pile of offerings.

It belongs here.

"When the consequences of my actions come to pass, may they be gentle."

Overhead, a bird hits a window -- but instead of dropping to the ground, it shakes itself, re-launches into the sky, and flies away.

An officer of the Pious Order knocks twice on the door of an apartment in Mircea's ever-dwindling Arts District. The person inside does not answer, too busy throwing everything they own onto the fire in the hearth -- the smell of burning paper and plastic.

They stop for a moment to stare at the object in their hands -- a pomegranate red folder. At that moment, the door breaks down.

The war has finally caught up.

"May my secrets never reach the wrong ears."

Your voice is hushed, almost silent even to yourself.

"Let all my enemies fall before me."

Across the world, the people who wish ill upon you are struck with a sudden weakness.

"Grant me the understanding to know what matters and ignore what doesn't."

A murmur of voices overhead, laughter from an open window. You can hear it all.

Actually, no. [Back.]

You pop the little object back into your pocket.

Pray to Sirius.

The shadows shift and grow long, candles flickering. The air thickens around you.

"I pray for the memory of Subcomandante Bagman."

He fought bravely, but in the end, Reality won.

Just what he was afraid would happen.

"I offer prayers for Eszti."

Not that she'd ever ask you for them.

"May she loosen the fuck up."

There is no reply, but then you weren't expecting any.

"May she forgive me for everything I've put her through."

"I want to pray for Pascal, who I truly did not mean to hit in the face..."

Possibly your greatest recent sin.

"I hope he recovers quickly, even if he is an augmentoid."

From a nearby window, you hear the roar of the announcer as a goal is scored in a televised pelota match. Someone has cranked the volume as high as it will go.

"I hope he feels better soon, and knows that I'm really, really sorry."

I can't think of anyone who deserves my prayers right now.

Each prayer counts. They should not be wasted.

Leave the shrine.

The red slips of paper hung overhead undulate gently as you step back.

Photographs, candles -- tucked under the stairs, you'd be forgiven for initially overlooking the modest shrine, were it not for the roughly-carved wooden figurine, waist-height, sat off to one side.

This is a shrine to Sirius: angel of romance, war, and negotiation.