The speech always changed a little, but the essen– tials stayed the same. Trent knew that he would never have the opportunity to deliver it to all of them at once, but it was the idea that had kept him going, all these many years. On nights when he'd been so enraged that he couldn't sleep, the retelling of the story had come to be a kind of bitter lullaby; he imagined the looks on their tired old faces, the horror in their faded eyes, their trembling indignation at his betrayal. Somehow, the vision always soothed his fury and gave him some small peace.

Soon. After Europe, my friends…

The thought followed him down into the dark, to the sweet, dreamless sleep of the righteous.