It’s the light, she thought. Everyone looks like a cutthroat by torchlight. No wonder they invented… — Connie Willis

“They’re absolutely necrotic, aren’t they?” Colin whispered behind his order of service.

“It’s late twentieth century atonal,” Dunworthy whispered back. “It’s supposed to sound dreadful.”

Nobody deserves this. “Please,” she prayed, and wasn’t sure what she asked.

Whatever it was, it was not granted.

It doesn’t matter, she thought, and realized in spite of everything, horror after horror, Roche still believed in God. He had been going to the church to say matins when he found the steward, and if they all died, he would go on saying them and not find anything incongruous in his prayers.