Grabbing whatever creature was atop, he hurled it against the alley wall. It hit with the dull thud of a wet marching drum. There, caught in the light of the moon, was the huge quartermaster. Or, what the pox had left of him. His uniform was burned and blackened, his skin ashen.

Sprawled at Christophor’s feet was Cornet Pitzmun, who wailed once more. But gone was the note of terror, replaced by something close to mockery.

‘You tarry,’ the cornet said.

‘Finish what you started.’ The quartermaster pointed to the end of the alley where, in silhouette – as he had been once before, back in Esteberg – was the white horseman. The foreigner. Conquest.

When Christophor looked back, he now saw an unfamiliar young woman lying at his feet. A man was slumped against the wall, much smaller than the quartermaster. That Christophor had seen them as the horsemen in a kind of waking dream, in a vision, did not shock him. Not on All Hallows’ Eve.

The white of the woman’s eyes rivalled the moon. Her dress was torn. The woman shied away when Christophor held out a hand. She got to her feet by herself and kicked the limp man. Blood ran from his temple and pooled in his ear. She kicked him again and again until she was spent.

Christophor waited silently until she was finished. And he waited again until she’d left the alley before going the same way. It was a kindness, but it cost him: when he emerged from the alley, the white horseman was nowhere to be seen.

There was no one in the street – not even the woman Christophor had followed. It was hard, for both of us, to reconcile Drekenford on the night of All Hallows’ with the same town a few hours before. Everything, and everyone, was different. But more than that, they all felt absent. The celebrations, the gaiety, the customs – I had been a stranger to them. But he knew these kinds of streets.

He heard the echo of hoofbeats on cobbles and did his best to follow them, to follow Conquest. He passed unlit doorways, which were mostly empty, though some held shadowed shapes that he gave a wide berth. When a drunk stumbled across his path Christophor stood still and silent and waited until they were gone. There were mutters and mumbles, but nothing more. The hoofbeats continued and he thought for a moment of Mrs Eder, who he’d left in the cell. Were the horsemen merely a distraction, a chance for her to continue the Ritual of Berith despite her incarceration? But the woman was gagged, there were no candles within reach for her to use as reagents, and she did appear resigned to her fate. And still the horsemen plagued him. He could not abide the uncertainty, the larger design they represented, the doubt. He had to know their role in this.

He hurried after the foreigner.

Except, he realised when all was quiet and strange, the horseman’s coin was gone. I had melted it in a heart-shaped crucible. Christophor had considered it a gift, but was that really true? Was that the spirit in which it was given? I recalled the encounter differently, of course. At the time, all those days ago back in Esteberg, I remembered the coin being heavy with duty, with unwanted purpose, and with the unknown. Perhaps gifts were given in such circumstances. Christophor was regretting accepting it now. He was sure he would struggle to keep my betrayal from his face. And yet, he had no choice but to pursue the white horseman through cold, now familiar streets. If he were honest with himself, he knew where he was going – where he was being led. Did all things start and end there? How could they not? It was the reason there was a town here at all. Though there were other contenders. Other places where he had felt the push and pull of events.