‘Just how can I help you?’

This was the crux of it: just how was this balding man going to help me? I could almost hear my night-brother’s laughter as I floundered for a course of action.

‘Well, as you can see, some of your fine wares have been quite abused.’

‘So you say.’

‘I’d like to replace them for my friend, but as a surprise.’

‘Right then.’ Mr Williamsberg did not appear to be a man well versed in the art of friendly or romantic surprises. It was unfortunate that I was to prove his cynicism well-founded. He lifted a crate of candles out from below the counter. ‘How many?’

‘Excuse me?’ I said, somewhat taken aback.

‘How many candles will you be replacing in this surprise?’

I waved my hand dismissively. ‘That’s just the thing of it; I don’t know. Do they have a regular order, something of that sort? The Eders?’

‘That they do. Not due for a week or so, but I can put some aside.’

‘If you would be so kind.’

‘No kindness to it. I’ll take payment now,’ Mr Williamsberg said, running a finger under his nose.

I produced my coin purse and began counting out the named figure.

‘They’ll all be here when the boy comes to collect ’em.’

I stopped.

I gazed down at the copper-pressed face of the King of Reikova and tried to think. Traitor that I am to myself, my only thought was of what Christophor would do in such a moment.

‘Aren’t they a little heavy for the youngest Eder boy?’ I said in as off-hand a manner as I could manage, and still staring at my coins.

‘Ain’t the little one that comes. It’s the southerner.’

We shared a moment then, Mr Williamsberg and I, in our mutual distaste of the young man in question. I did not doubt that his feeling was motivated by baser prejudices, and I took no pleasure in our meeting of opinions. In fact, it was an ugly thing. But I was so convinced of his guilt that I was quite caught up in the sentiment.

Olesca came to collect the Eders’ candles. And he did so, I was certain, because he used them as reagents in his dark arts. He pricked his candles and sent forth his curses and others suffered. Surely Christophor could see Olesca’s guilt writ large in such matters?

‘The family will be grateful,’ I said.

Williamsberg grunted by way of agreement, and our transaction was completed. I bid him good day, but he’d already put me and our business from his mind. I left with the impression of a man weighed down by his share of burdens. I hadn’t even seen any evidence of the eponymous ‘Sons’.

*

The rest of my morning was concerned with a different son. A line of inquiry, Christophor would have called it. But unlike my night-brother, I didn’t have to spend hours looking for this boy – he found me.

‘There you are, Alexsander,’ the boy said. I was crossing the square in front of the inn, contemplating just where I might find the very person who hailed me. I was starting to distrust such convenient coincidences, which had grown more frequent since I decided to help find this witch.