“See who?”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t see her.”

Quickly, though gradually, more figures congealed into solid shapes and walked the streets beside us. Women and men, children, even dogs and the occasional rat. Horses and carts and soldiers and seamen. One by one they appeared. A few gave us second, confused glances; but most ignored us or seemed oblivious to our presence. They did not move when my car approached them, they merely parted for us to pass and formed again as though we’d never disturbed them.

I put my face down into my hands. “They’re everywhere, Harry.”

“Who? Who’s everywhere? What are you talking about?”

Shaking my head, rubbing my eyes, I could not answer. “Please just get us to your church.” A church, any church, sounded safe. Any refuge at all would suffice.

“We’re here now. This is it. I’ll park around back.”

I didn’t raise my eyes until the car had stopped, and then I saw no one but my traveling companion.

The night was too dark for me to see much of the building—as near as I could tell it was the same pale beige-gray stone as many of the city’s older structures, but with huge, pointed-arch doors affixed to black hinges. Harry climbed the four or five stairs to the doors and dropped a heavy iron knocker against the wood. His summons thudded deep inside, and with its thick echo came footsteps.

After a series of clacks and booms, one of the giant doors retreated and a small bald man adjusted his thick brown glasses, all the better to squint at us with. “Yes, can I . . . Harold? Is that you?”

“Why so surprised, Marcus? You knew I was on my way.”

“No, I’m not surprised. I’m delighted, you old fool—it’s only that we weren’t expecting you so soon. You made this poor child ride all night then.” He beamed us both a giant smile and swung the door back with a flourish. “And you must be Eden.” Marcus took my hand and squeezed it, then shook it—also with a flourish. “It’s so very nice to meet you, dear.”

“Likewise.” I tried to return his warmth but I was tired and flustered, and I still felt woozy from that concoction of Tatie’s I’d been dumb enough to drink. It was all I could do to stand erect and feign lucidity, even though I’d felt so restless while I was inside the vehicle.

“Oh my,” he fretted, “you don’t look at all well. Can I make you some tea?”

Tea? Tea was good for what ails you, or so some dim recollection suggested. “Tea. Um, okay. Thank you. Yes, that would be nice.”

“Or perhaps something to eat? Would you like something to eat?”

I shook my head. “No, no thank you.”

He pressed on, unsatisfied that tea would be greeting enough. “Are you sure? Even something light? I could make you some toast, or open a can of soup? You look so pale. You really should have something. Come on—I’ll make you something. Anything you want, and I won’t take ‘nothing’ for an answer.”