I was becoming my night-brother.

Not so long ago I would have joined that revelry. I would have cavorted and danced and played any instrument that was offered. I would have drunk anything offered. I wouldn’t have cursed a woman who sought a step or two with me but kissed her hand, and likely more.

Try as I might, I couldn’t conjure that feeling. And that was more terrifying than any horned mask or blood-blotched dress.

At the corner of a street I was caught once again. This time a man put himself firmly in my way and wouldn’t be moved. He wore a heavy sack over his head, with slits for eyes and a ragged mouth. Jovially he offered me roasted nuts. Despite being hungry, I told him I was not.

‘Oh no, sirrah, these are not only for eating,’ he said with an odd flourish, given his attire. ‘These hazelnuts speak of the future!’

I made the mistake of hesitating.

‘Two nuts, a penny a piece, for you and your lady love.’

‘No—’

But the man had already cast the hazelnuts onto the coals. ‘If they jump, sirrah, it is not meant to be.’

They didn’t jump. They burst into flames.

‘What does that mean?’ I said.

‘Never seen them do that,’ he said, all gaiety and pomp gone from his voice. He let me go then. I managed to squeeze my way through to a side street, but beyond the going was no easier. The only clear path I could find was to cut across the churchyard. Even that was, admittedly, busier than was normal for a morning. But at least there was a degree of calm and decorum among the gravestones.

Father Popov was there, making his rounds. He wore no costume, other than his usual – and this was free of any extra decoration. I didn’t know the man but understood our night-brothers had met. Apparently, that was enough for him.

‘Hello, Alexsander.’

‘Father.’

‘What brings you here on All Hallows’?’ he said. There was no accusation in his tone, just curiosity.

I looked back at the gate, which I’d thoughtlessly left open, and considered telling the truth. But something else came, almost unbidden. ‘I wanted to pay my respects to the former constable.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I understand his office is once again in use. A sad state of affairs.’ Father Popov led the way. We passed knots of men and women, predominantly older, and who wore few markers of the festivities. For them, it appeared, All Hallows’ was a sombre, sober time. One of reflection and respect for the dead. Their genuine displays made me regret my lie.

‘You’re not alone,’ Popov said, catching me by surprise. What did he know of me and mine? He evidently saw my confusion and gestured to the gravestone. ‘People still care for the Webbers.’

There was a saucer of milk beside the grave. ‘What’s it for?’ I said.

‘Some believe that souls need sustenance on such a day.’