Keeper of Afterlight

The workshop smelled of oil and porcelain dust, a warm smallness against the raw damp of Vesperwold. Ilan Ketter sat hunched over a child's lamp, coaxing its tiny glass ribs back into roundness with a strip of heated tin. Rain stitched silver down the alley outside; the city's lamps burned like small, stubborn wounds in the mist. From the window he could see the bell-tower at the square, a silhouette threaded with light, and beyond that the spokes of the city—houses clinging to one another like people in a long, sleepless vigil.

He worked with the quiet concentration of a man used to mending what other people lost. Porcelain faces, brass hinges, the word for something when it had been scraped away—those were the things he put back together. The child's lamp on his bench had soft blue paint, flecks of gold around the rim. A laugh had been painted into its glass, but cracking had swallowed most of it. Ilan pressed the glass with the flat of his palm, feeling the cooled scar as if it were a pulse. He smoothed paste into hairline fractures until the seam took light smoothly again.

Nessa, his apprentice, leaned against the doorframe with the sullen impatience of youth. She had a smear of lamp-black on her cheek and a braid that looked like a rope of midnight. "You're slow, Ilan. They'll line up for the square," she said. Her voice had the brittle humor of someone who'd learned how to be useful before the city had learned to be kind.

He smiled without showing teeth. "If I do it quick, the glass will not hold the flame. If I do it slow, the flame won't want it. Steady hands, Ness. Steady heart."

Outside, a bell clanged in a way that made his teeth ache—one long chime, then an odd, hollow echo. Ilan paused, a tool midair. He listened as the echo thinned into a sound like someone pulling a blanket over a mouth. The lamps by the quay shuddered in their iron brackets. He frowned and set his work aside.

Rook came at dusk like he came every other dusk, a broad man in a coat that had been patched and re-patched with tribe marks and battlefield stitches. He smelled of riverweed and old smoke. He stepped into the shop without knocking, wet prints of rain across his boots.

"The Great Lumen strove tonight," Rook said, his voice rough as gravel. He walked to the window and pointed. "I saw it weaken when I came past. All the way near the bell—there was a flicker, Ilan. People say an old woman forgot her son's name in the market. They say the band at the pier could not remember the end of their song."

Ilan felt the air tilt, the way a ship lists before a storm. Memory in Vesperwold was a thin thing, paper-thin. The lanterns were its spine. If the spine bent, the city's bones rattled.