A bridge of rock rose from the drenched beach, resembling the spine of some huge beast pushing through the skin of the earth. It snaked up across the furrowed land where this little town had once sat. Its architect, Schiller, twisted the air with his burning fingers, invisible ropes reshaping rock and sand and soil until there was a clear path away from the sea.Only when he had finished did he begin his transformation, the flames guttering out like a gas stove in the wind until the person who stood there was not an angel but a boy once more. He managed a weary smile before his legs gave out and he tumbled on to the ridged back of his own creation. Rilke picked herself up from where she had been kneeling, her knees rubbed raw from the vibrations in the ground, and walked to him. When she helped him into a sitting position, another lock of his hair fell loose. It was no longer blond, she realised, but grey.‘You did well, little brother,’ she said, stroking his cheek. He was still so cold, as if each time the fire left him it robbed his body of a little more heat.
