‘I’m sorry, Brother. But if I’m to be any use in this, certain boundaries will need to be crossed,’ I said. ‘Many already have.’

Chances were he would recall my intrusion when he woke later that night, but just how he would feel about it I couldn’t say. I put the letters back and continued my search. Eventually, I found what I sought: a candle.

For my purposes, it was the candle. Taken from the desk of the late Constable Webber – not that I ever met the man – and transferred to this desk in an unattractive pounce pot: a distorted wooden egg, quite tasteless. I removed the lid and stared down at the candle, which was fat and the colour of honeyed milk. I recalled Christophor’s sense of apprehension regarding this plain object. So much of my days now seemed mired by such feelings. Part of me longed to be rid of his world, for it to cease creeping its shadowy tendrils into my own, to return to long days of music and drink and laughter. But he had taken them from me. I put the lid firmly back on, not caring if I marked the candle itself, and left the room carrying it.

There were two chandlers in Drekenford, one a shop and one a market stall, a discovery made possible by asking the first person I met in the street. They also provided directions to the shop, a Williamsberg and Sons – it not being a market day. The shopfront was handsome and well-cared for. Everything was polished ferociously and the heady smell of worked wax was evident even from the pavement. A bell rang above my head as I entered. Behind the counter was, I assumed, Mr Williamsberg. He glanced up at the peals of my entry. But it was my pot that garnered his attention.

I placed it carefully on the counter and, with some showmanship, lifted the lid.

‘We do sell candlesticks and holders,’ Mr Williamsberg said, gesturing to the shelves of wood, iron, silver, and gold-plated wares.

‘And of fine quality too, I imagine. Did you make this candle, sir?’

‘I’d say as much.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

Williamsberg grunted, before lifting the candle from its powdery cradle. I took half a step back, anticipating all manner of mystical happenings: billowing green smoke, devilish flashes, Williamsberg swooning or, worse, falling stone dead in his own shop.

The chandler held up the base of the candle for me to see. Initially I was none the wiser, but looking more closely I could make out something at its centre. A mark. A ‘W’.

‘Aha!’ I said. ‘But you knew before you’d even looked.’

‘I know my craft.’

‘Quite so, quite so. And what of those holes in the side of the candle, hmm?’

‘Sir,’ he said, his tone rather patronising, ‘what people do with my candles once they’ve bought them is entirely their business.’

‘Pounce pots and pricks all along the sides. I imagine you’ve seen it all, Mr Williamsberg.’