My experiences have taught me much, far too much to address in this tale. But, if I had to choose one lesson to dwell on and share, it would be this: we all make mistakes. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody.

Even gods.

The cosmos overwhelms us with its abounding wonder. We open our eyes, and realize we were cast in the tiniest of molds, and at first, it's terrifying. What light can we offer, trapped as we are in the shadow of infinity?

My answer? Mistakes.

It might seem paradoxical at first, but… it really isn't. I don't know if making mistakes is the common denominator of what it means to be alive, but if it isn't, it's certainly close to it. It's the one thing we all have in common. Life can crawl up out of the muck on two different sides of eternity, and see and know the world in ways so alien to one another that, even if they ever had a chance to meet, they'd never be able to understand the difference. But… they'd still make mistakes. They'd screw up. They'd fall short. They'd do stupid things, and be selfish and haughty and set their ways—perfectly imperfect, just like the rest of us. And in that way, we'd be the same.

But that's just the nature of what it means to think and be. Thought cannot exist alongside perfection. The power to think is the power to choose, and the power to choose is the power to change. Every thought and choice we make changes us. Perfection can't do any of those things. Perfection can't think. Doing so would make it something other than what it already was. That's just the way of the world. It's not our fault; it's nobody's fault.

And that's okay.

In fact, it's not just okay. It's essential. Mistakes will always be with us. If there is a time or place without mistakes, I would not want to be there. What value would goodness have in a world where no one made mistakes? Not much, let me tell you. The light needs the dark, as much as the dark and needs the light.

I've found my light. That light has been my greatest fortune, one that kept me going, even through the deepest darkness. A good life is a chain of lights—of jewels—boldly shining against the reaching shadows.

Let me show you one of them.

The year was… a really long time ago. I was younger then, brimming with the singular ambition men call love. I was giddy with it—literally so. Hyperventilation can do that to a guy. (Pro tip: If you're going to take a fine lady out on a date, try not to be a nervous wreck when you do it, especially when you're prone to panic attacks.)

I'd spent all my life dealing with the wreckage of things fallen apart. But now, here was my big chance to finally make something of myself and make a dream come true: get the girl, find true love, and ride off into the sunset.

Assuming I didn't screw it up.

I sat in my car. My panicked breaths had been doing a masterful job of fogging up the windows. My lungs had been in a competition with the defogger, and—sound-wise, at least—my lungs were in the lead.

I took my hand off the stick shift, for fear of crushing it with my nervous grip. Opening the glove compartment, I pulled out a sheet of tissue paper and wiped my sweat off the stick shift, and then off my hands.

At that moment, I had very clammy hands. The combined physical exertion of making myself presentable and my hyperventilation ensured I stayed nice and moist. I'd pulled the L85 right up in front of the Revenel Building. The skyscraper's dazzling shadow loomed over the evening—and the street—like a figure at the edge of a ravenous pit.

For the record, I was not the figure at the edge of the pit. I was the person in the pit, down where the sun don't shine. By most accounts, pit dwellers were known for their troglodytic mien: hunched back, ghastly fingernails, putrid loincloth, ratty hair around every orifice.

Fortunately, today was an exception. I was rather well-dressed, particularly by my standards, with a black tuxedo—sleek, crisp, and rented at the last minute. It was as fine a set of armor as I'd ever worn, considering how much I'd splurged to secure it as a rental at the last possible minute. Still, part of me wished it was an actual suit of armor. It might have helped me feel more safe. Also, I wouldn't need to worry that the waves of strife crashing in and out of my chest might tear through the fabric. For the third time, I cracked the joints of my fingers, trying to vent some of my pent-up heebie-jeebies. For added measure, I flexed my toes inside my dress shoes, while also worrying about the possibility of ripping open my socks, on account of having forgotten to clip my toenails.

I patted the tops of my thighs.

"Alright, Genneth Howle, this is it," I said, under my breath—trying to rally myself. "This is your big moment."

It failed miserably.

Turning my head to the right, I looked out the car window once again. The elegant street lamps cast streams of gold through the manicured branches of the street-side trees. It was the same gold that glowed behind the iron tracery of the Revenel Building's front doors.

Petta Drive was beautiful in the spring.

I turned away when my eyes crossed the doorman's. There were good reasons to step out of the car and plead my case a second time over… but I didn't.

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I walked up the door, only for him to reach out with his gloved hands—white against his wrists—and ask me, "Your business, sir?"

"I'm here to pick up a date," I said.

He stepped in front of the door, as stiff as a semaphore.

He flashed a gleaming-toothed smile. "Congratulations. Might I ask who it is?"

"Pelbrum."

The doorman's mouth opened in disbelief. "Pelbrum Rev—"

"—Yes," I interjected, "that Pelbrum."

"You don't look upper crust, though," he said.

"That's because I'm not."

The doorman's mouth made an O of understanding.

I stood by, helpless, as he dialed up the penthouse suite. I was only able to process the doorman's first two words in the videophone call: "Mr. Revenel." The rest was lost beneath my abundance of nausea.

I exhaled sharply when the screen went black.

"Sir," the doorman said, "you'll need to wait a moment for Mr. Revenel."

"How long?"

"Ten minutes, at least," he replied, "though up to an hour, depending on how badly he's judged you. Mr. Revenel likes to make his opponents nervous."

"What?" I asked.

"Sir," the doorman said, "I work for the world's scariest boss. And if you're here to pick up his daughter…" He shook his head. "You must be crazy in love to be that brave. I don't know if you'll survive, but I salute you."

He saluted me.

The doorman started to walk off, only to turn back to face me when he realized I was still standing there—and getting only more and more sweaty with each passing second.

"Sir, you should probably wait in your car. It's going to be a chilly night."

"Good idea," I said.

That was twenty minutes ago. In the interim, my nausea had lessened, though this was less of a retreat and more of a change of tactics; my nausea stuck its wage card in the clock punch, and the nodded as hyperventilation took over its shift.

And, to think, some people say love is supposed to make us happier.

But I wasn't about to let Mortimer scare me away like that. Dice-roll be damned, I'd pass this intimidation skill check by the skin of my teeth if I had to.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Sitting there in that car was the hardest battle I'd ever fought up to that point. It was a fight between me and my panic attacks, and I'd be darned if I'd let my panic win.

The inside of my car still smelled of cologne. This was not surprising; I'd basically soaked myself in the stuff. I could see the scent particles sparkling beneath the fluorescent as I'd pulled out of the parking lot for Elpeck Polytechnic's graduate housing.

Suddenly, a fist rapped against the window and the world ended and I jolted upright and then the world started up all over again as I took a look out the window. It was the doorman, again—but he wasn't alone.

He wasn't. Fudging. Alone.

In my mind, every piece of triumphant music I'd ever heard blasts out at maximum volume. Without the slightest bit of hesitation—or tact—I lurched across the empty passenger seat and reached for the handle, only for the doorman to open the door in my face, and take a step to the side.

Not even the worst of the Green Death's abominations were half as intimidating as the sight of Mortimer Revenel standing beside his daughter like death itself. The man was the proverbial crypt keeper—skull and bones, sunken face, skeletal presence—only without the shroud of death, and with better hair. The man had so much power—an empire of wealth, and ownership of nearly a third of the city's real estate. If he wanted to, he could have me killed and no one would ever do anything about it.

So, yeah, no pressure, right?

Mortimer held Pel by the hand with surprising delicacy, while staring at me with a gaze that weighed at least half a ton.

What, did he think he was about to lower his precious daughter into an early grave?

He glared at me again.

Yeah, he probably thought that.

Somehow, Mortimer was even taller and gaunter than his picture, with skin like dried paste. Bone white sideburns sharpened his jaws. At the side of a creature such as this, Pelbrum would have put the Moonlight Queen Herself to shame. Pel was a diamond of life. Her satin dress was the color of morning fog, studded with glimmering gems, lush beneath the fur coat wrapped around her waist, and with the way Mortimer was staring at me, each and every one had to be priceless beyond measure.

"It seems my daughter has made plans with you," Mr. Revenel said.

I should mention that while this was happening, I was still sprawled over the empty seat. With one last deep breath, I began the harrowing task of sitting up straight and regaining my composure. Mortimer's eyes were on me without break, and it was agony every step of the way. He was scouring me raw, looking for even the tiniest disqualification that could justify disregarding his daughter's wishes and casting our budding relationship into the abyss. Just one slip-up from me, and it would all be over. My dreams would be as dead as my mother and my sister.

Even now, I can still feel his gaze burning into me, charring my skin to ashes and burning away everything underneath.

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Revenel," I said. "A night at the opera." I opened the glove compartment, pulled out my console, and brought up the digital receipt for the tickets I'd purchased. "We're seeing Biluše."

Mortimer narrowed his eyes.

"Gen, I'm really sorry," Pel said, with a click of her heels. "I was trying to come down, but—"

"—Now now, Pumpkin," Mortimer said, grabbing his daughter by the hand, "when it comes to your well-being, we do things my way."

Pel mouthed "Sorry" to me.

Mortimer turned to face me. "As for you," he said, "though I trust you about as far as I can throw you, I will say this… you have good taste. Or… are you merely putting on airs?" Somehow, he managed to narrow his eyes even more.

"I've been a band-slash-orchestra geek since middle school," I said. "A clarinetist, born and bred."

The corner of Mortimer's upper lip moved like a cat and curled into a sneer.

Pel looked up at her father. "Daddy… it's alright."

"Pel, why do you have any interest in this mess of a person?" he asked, talking about me as if I wasn't even there.

I considered clearing my throat to remind Mr. Revenel I was here, but I wimped out and decided against it.

And then Pel looked at me and brushed her hand across the bob of her hair and flashed a sly smile that reimbursed me for the price of the tickets a thousand times over.

She turned to her father. "Genneth is nice, Daddy. He's not a phony." She smirked at the sight of my lucky bowtie. "He couldn't be, even if he tried."

Mortimer gave me one final crotchety old stare, as if he was imagining me defiling his daughter right then and there.

And then, Mr. Revenel did the nicest thing he'd ever do for me: he let her go.

The doorman stepped out of the way—though not quickly enough to hide the shock on his face—as Pel stepped forward, sat down in the empty seat, and let her purse come to rest in her lap.

Finally, I thought, I can die a happy man.

Genneth Howle of Elpeck, by way of Witchriver, by way of the shabby condominium across from the particolored googie refueling station on Gladstone Glade had found himself a girl.

The girl.

I couldn't believe my lying eyes then. Even now, there are times when I wonder if it might have just been a dream.

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