Page 57 of The Angel Maker

Then he places the photograph on top of the book and selects an envelope.

And I’m sorry.

It is October 26, 1984.

On his way back to his office after the lecture about Laplace’s demon,Hobbes stops into the office to collect some paperwork from his pigeonhole. Before he can extract the pile waiting there, Marie—one of the secretaries—comes round from her desk.

“This was just dropped off for you, Alan.”

“Thanks.”

He takes the envelope she is holding out and begins to tear it open. Inside, he finds a single piece of expensive paper, and when he unfolds it he sees a short message there, written elegantly by hand in black ink.

You have committed blasphemy, and it will be corrected.

—Edward

Hobbes stares down at the message for a few seconds, a trickle of ice in his chest. That dryness in his throat again too. But, of course, there is no water at hand here to save him.

Marie notices his discomfort.

“You okay, Alan?”

He forces a smile.

“Yes. It’s just anothercomplaint.”

There have been several of those over the years—students, perhaps overly sensitive, who have handled certain aspects of the course material badly—and his usual practice has been to reach out to those he feels he can help while disregarding the others. But he folds this particular piece of paper and hands it back to Marie.

“Can you make a note of this one and keep it on file, please?”

“Of course.”

Hobbes heads off down the corridor. When he reaches his office, he closes the door quickly and then leans his back against it, closing his eyes. The window across from him is bright, and he can see the map of red blood vessels in his eyelids and feel his heart beating hard against his chest.

You have committed blasphemy, and it will be corrected.

His brother’s words have landed. Hobbes truly believes what he told his students at the end of his lecture—that ifhewere God, he would neither want nor expect blind obedience from his children—and yet there is something in Edward’s note that has conjured up a sense of dread inside him.

It is that notion ofcorrection.

Because while he has made sure to keep his influence upon the world small, he has still undoubtedly made changes. He has gone against what was written. And because of this, there have been moments when he has experienced a sensation of being off-balance, as though he is attempting to steer a ship listing on a turbulent sea, and all the old timber around him is creaking and straining in an attempt to correct its course.

As though perhaps he has misjudged what is expected of him.

Deus scripsit.

Three sharp raps at his back.

Hobbes jumps slightly and steps away from the door, his heart beating faster as he then turns to face it. For a moment, he’s convinced it must be Edward on the other side.…

But when he opens it, Charlotte almost bursts into the room.

His wife has her arms around him so quickly that Hobbes barely has time to register his confusion—she should be at home when he arrives back an hour or so from now—but he returns the embrace, grateful to see her. A part of him realizes heneededto after receiving Edward’s message. Because there is a different version of this day—a worse one, in a more badly painted universe—where the woman who has become the love of his life is already dead by his brother’s hand.

“This is a lovely surprise.” He steps back a little while keeping his hands on her upper arms. “But aren’t you supposed—”

“I just couldn’t wait.”

---