‘His kin claimed that his work on the visitors had made him a laughing stock and sullied their own standing, and when he refused to give it up they cut off his stipend, out of spite. He wanted me to have the means to finish it. To prove them wrong. To find out what the visitors are, if they are real. To consider what it says about us if they turn out to be some kind of common delusion.’

‘How long did you serve as Master Able’s secretary?’

Pilgrim touched the pendant that rested on the laces of his white shirt. Inside its amber teardrop a large black ant curled amongst a swirl of tiny bubbles, perfectly preserved by the resin which, seeping from a wound in the bark of a pine tree, had trapped it millions of years ago.

‘He gave me this last summer’s end, to commemorate five years’ service.’

‘You were close to him.’

‘He could be difficult,’ Pilgrim said. ‘Obstinate, irascible, obsessed with his work. But he was also a brilliant scholar. The cleverest person I ever knew.’

The notary pressed the flat of his hand over the note. ‘When I present this to his kin, I will have to explain that it has no legal standing. But I can also point out the unusual circumstances in which it was written, and ask them to take that into consideration.’

‘They will be interested only in its legality.’

‘Sometimes the jolt of a death prompts people to reassess their relationship with the deceased,’ the notary said. ‘So don’t give up hope just yet.’

2.

‘Able’s kin refused to accept the amendment, of course,’ Pilgrim told his friends Swift Singletree and Ardent Whitesand a few days later. ‘And they didn’t have the decency to tell me in person, or even by letter. No, they had the notary do their dirty work.’

‘At least you won’t be beholden to them,’ Swift said.

‘Even if it didn’t have any legal standing, they shouldn’t have disregarded a dying man’s wishes,’ Ardent said.

‘I agree. Even though, strictly speaking, they didn’t,’ Pilgrim said.

‘But the note— Hoy!’

Swift had cuffed Ardent around the back of the head.

‘Have you forgotten how Master Able was, when we saw him last?’ Swift said. He was a tall, sharp-muzzled person, dressed as usual in his black velvet surcoat, the nap worn smooth at cuffs and elbows. ‘Did it look like he was going to wake up, call for pen and paper, and write down his last wishes?’

‘You know that, but his kin didn’t,’ Pilgrim said. ‘Since they failed to pay him a visit after he was struck down.’

‘You wrote it?’ Ardent said. ‘I mean, you made it up?’

‘I believe that it was what Able would have wanted,’ Pilgrim said. ‘Knowing him as I did.’