Rector had spent several years trafficking in maps, and he knew what the city ought to look like. There’d been a big Sanborn survey right before the Boneshaker happened, and the resulting charts told him where all the roads went and what they were called. But those black-and-white diagrams weren’t a whole lot of help when he couldn’t see the streets.

He thought hard. He could do this.

All the downtown corners had their intersection names cut into the stone curbs, but Rector concluded, with no small amount of irritation, that he’d have to be sitting right on top of one to see it, much less read it. Still, the wall was at his back. Given where he entered, that meant he was facing east. If he wanted to go north, toward the spot where the old water runoff tunnels came out, he’d have to go left, up the hill and along the wall.

He walked around the roof in small semicircles, taking in his surroundings and making sure that nothing horrible lurked in any of the corners or shadows. He saw only bits of trash—newspapers wadded and soaked, broken bottles, discarded rags, and a stray shoe.

He also found a doorway that no doubt led down inside whatever building this was—not that he wanted to go down into the darkness, because he didn’t. But he had a plan again, and it was easier to stick with one plan than figure out a second plan. He opened his tied-up blanket-bag and retrieved a box of matches plus one of the taller candle stubs he’d pilfered on his way out of the orphanage.

The little candle struggled, flared, and settled into a steady flame that gave him another few feet of sight. It told him that yes, he was right—and no, there was nothing else on the rooftop with him.

He didn’t really believe in God, but he thanked Him anyway on the off chance it’d do him good to be polite.

You never know. You might find out, soon enough.

“Stop it,” Rector hissed at the wispy forms that came and went, billowing and eddying between the roof’s raised corners, and against the wall behind him. “You’re not really there.”

You’re getting closer. You’d better keep your promise.

“I’m working on it, ain’t I?” he asked almost frantically, searching the swirling air for some sign of the familiar phantom, and seeing nothing. Except there, perhaps … at the edge of … something. The edge of the roof. His vision. His sanity.

He shook his head some more, for all the good it did him. He told the ghost, “I’m coming, as soon as I can find you. Why don’t you make yourself useful, and tell me where you are?”