His voice slowed and grew pensive; he frowned. Someone was standing at the crossroads where the back alley intersected with the road. His copper hair stood out among the blacks and browns, and his pale face shone as he came out slightly from the lee of an overhanging balcony that looked onto the main street. A gas lamp at the balcony’s corner had been illuminated by the house’s owners, their curiosity having overcome their caution, and it poured soft light over him. Chance assessed him. Legal, since he braved open light with the authorities soon to come. Inquisitive, as his attire indicated that he was on his way to work—or from it—and had stopped to see what the crowd meant. Compassionate, if the expression on his face was genuine. And utterly familiar.

“Someone you know?” murmured the Trickster.

“Maybe,” Chance said, still in that slow, pensive tone. “Let’s sniff out his path.”

They followed him forward and back: forward to his early shift on one of the harbor’s floating museums, back to his small apartment in a town house basement and hours spent in innocent sleep.

“I understand your interest in this fellow,” remarked the Trickster as he detected Miranda’s path coiling thickly in and out of the main door of the town house. “But remember, it’s a small city at night with most of the legal workforce gone. It’s not that surprising that he would have passed there, given his usual route and all.”

“Fair enough,” Chance admitted. “We need another trail, then. I think we should check the chief pathologist at the main forensic lab. He knew Walther Grey.”

“Did he?” asked the Trickster, idly scuffing his heels on Miranda’s welcome mat as he gazed out at the view. “You know, you can see the harbor from here, even the ship that young man works on. Very picturesque. I should become an artist.”

“The chief pathologist taught Grey,” continued Chance, ignoring the digression with the ease of years’ experience. “Just one name among many on a very large class list, and Grey didn’t finish the course, but still, it’s a connection.”

“Tell me exactly what you’re looking for,” the Trickster said. “If you’re being barred from going to the important times and places, what do you hope to find?”

“All I need is to find the human who’s involved.” Chance paused, sighed. “The angels think this isn’t finished. They’re expecting another death.”

“And after that? Is there a monster at the end of this chase, some shambling creature of human ritual and undying malice?”

“Impossible—though that’s never stopped people from trying.”

The Trickster frowned and shook his head, dissatisfied by Chance’s answers.