"The Candle-Bearer"

Tom lifted the candle from its stand.

The flame did not flicker, though his hand was unsteady. It was a curious thing — beeswax, not tallow, and burning with a clean blue at its heart that he had never seen in any honest tavern lamp. He set Marrow as gently as he could against the passage wall, and the captain's breath came shallow, shallow, but it came.

"I'll be back," Tom whispered. "Whoever lit this has water. I'll bring it."

Marrow's eyes were closed. He did not answer. The hand that had gripped Tom's wrist lay open on the flagstones now, palm up, like a man asking for something he had given up expecting.

Tom went forward.

The passage curved. The carvings deepened — strange letters giving way to figures, and the figures to faces, and the faces had too many eyes for Tom's comfort. He kept the candle low and his free hand near the cutlass and tried not to count how many steps separated him from the captain.

After perhaps thirty paces the passage opened into a small round chamber. A table. A chair. A clay basin of water, with a clean linen cloth folded beside it. A loaf of brown bread on a plate, still warm enough to mist the air above it.

And nobody. Not a soul.

On the chair-back, draped neatly, hung a coat. A long coat, the color of old wine, with brass buttons polished to a soft gold.

The coat was Tom's size exactly.

A voice spoke behind him — gentle, amused, very close.

"You took longer than I thought, Mr. Pell."