Yehuda Leib whirled around in surprise. Something had clattered onto the wooden table before him, but his eyes were fixed on the dark figure in the doorway.

Death had come home.

“You,” he said.

“Yehuda Leib,” said the Angel of Death, “you must be very careful. If you make one false move—if you even breathe incorrectly—it may have disastrous consequences.”

“You,” said Yehuda Leib again. “Give me back my father.”

The Angel of Death shook his head slowly. “I cannot.”

“You mean you will not,” said Yehuda Leib.

“That is also true,” said the Angel of Death. “But what I meant to say is that I cannot—it is not within my power.”

“You lie!” cried Yehuda Leib, and, looking down upon the wooden table before him, he saw what had clattered there: not a spoon, to Yehuda Leib’s eye, but a long, wicked double-edged dagger, and he seized it now, pointing it at the Angel in the doorway.

“Give me back my father!” he said again.

“Be careful,” said the Angel. “That blade will sever anything at all it is pressed against, even things that are not visible to your eye.”

“I’m counting on it,” said Yehuda Leib, and, blade outstretched, he began to make his way through the candles toward his enemy at the door.

“Stop,” said the Angel. “You must stop now, before you put out a light that ought to go on burning.”

“Then give me what I ask!” cried Yehuda Leib.

“This?” said the Angel, reaching deep into his black coat. “Is this what you desire?”

The small glass bottle held one tiny, fading point of light—barely anything—and if Yehuda Leib hadn’t known to look for it, he wouldn’t have seen it there at all.

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib through tight-shut jaws.

“This,” said the Angel, “is not your father—not in the way that you think. But all the same I will give it to you if, once I have finished speaking, you ask it of me again.”

Yehuda Leib could not still his trembling chin long enough to speak clearly, but he dropped the point of the cold blade down to his side.

“Good,” said the Angel of Death. “Now consider: What will you do with this light once you hold it? No flame burns here without a wick or candle.”

“What,” said Yehuda Leib, swallowing hard, “what about the fire in the hearth?”

“Ah,” said the Angel with a smile. “Very good. You have noticed the way in which the hearth fire burns, have you?”

In truth Yehuda Leib had not—he had only meant that the fire in the hearth seemed to have been built with logs of wood—but, turning his head now, he saw: the fire burned, bright and hot, but the wood within was not consumed.