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"He never could paint people," Sam whispers. "He always left them out. Painted everything empty. Even when he drew himself, he couldn't do features ..."

The figure turns and Thibault glimpses its faceless face. Empty. A faint graphite sweep where there should be eyes. Blank as an egg. A poor, co…

I saved Paris, Thibault makes himself think. Destroyed a new utter demon. I saved th world. He feels flat. Outside, the sunlight hits them differently than it did within the old city.

Is this it? Are they done?

They bivouac in a preserved café.

He can hear a cow lowing in the cellar.

Out again, over railways where rolling stock moldered.