XII.

Parts of my body are still crisp, mostly at the joints. They crackle and flake as I push myself up into a sitting position. It is night again; the cell is dark.

My hand reaches out, gently scouring the floor in search of the mug left by the old guard. I raise it carefully to my lips. The coffee is bitter and cold. Sandy dregs slide down my parched throat. It tastes like home.

Home.

Nokweed.

I turn the cup in my hands, noting a chip along the porcelain rim. Jerry has required supervision for some time. The signs were all there. I saw them. I did not act.

Nokweed.

The Conductor’s statement does not—

A door slams at the far end of the corridor. I am on my feet before I account for the joints. A throat clears; a whistling follows. I recognize the tune at once—the Battle Hymn, the latest one. It holds for a few notes, without deviation, before breaking on another clearing of the throat.

A match is struck.

I recoil at the sound, then right myself and squint into the timid glow of the flame. A face. Familiar, though not belonging to the old guard. The face slows its advance and turns, leans forward; a torch on the wall takes the flame. He walks a few paces more, turns; another wick takes. Then another. He moves without haste, pausing at each bracket between cells. The light advances in orange intervals, leaving the space between in darkness.

For the first time, I can make out distinct elements of the corridor, each of them floating like small islands. The Table stands where I last observed it. Five places are set. A sixth cup has been added. It is filled nearly past the brim—I can see the surface ripple as the man’s heavy gait lumbers along. No one is seated at Table.

Further on, a door stands open onto a room I do not recognize. It is furnished. The arrangement is orderly, though the proportions are not. A tiny cot—sized somewhere between a bassinet and a doll’s bed—is flanked by an enormous crimson coat rack. From it hang monstrously long hazmat suits, the yellow rubber gleaming wetly in the candleflame.

Another lamp takes.

I press myself against the bars. “You there,” I say, quietly at first. “Sir—if you would—just a moment.”

He does not respond, does not hurry his work. The flame lifts, meets the next wick, steadies, and proceeds uniformly until, at last, he stands before my cell.

It is the Lamplighter.

“Good evening, sir,” I say, pressing my face so hard against the bars that my skin is drawn back to reveal my teeth and gums.

“Evening, fellow.” He stares at me quizzically. “Do we know each other?”

“We know each other,” I say. “We do. Look closer.”

He leans forward, so that the tips of our noses are nearly touching. The flame in his hand hovers this way and that, taking stock of the various angles of my countenance.

“Hm,” he says. “A visage so forgettably recognizable is rare. Remind me of your name, prisoner.”

“We haven’t time for that,” I say. “I am expected.”

He looks at the flame in his lantern, furrows his brow. “You may not make it. How long do you have?”

“I do not know how long,” I say, trying to keep my tone amicable. “For I do not know the hour. But I am expected for dinner all the same. At home.”

He considers the wick. It burns unevenly. “The hour is confused,” he says. “The Earth is indecisive tonight.”

“I am withering,” I say. “I must be let out.”

He cups the flame briefly, then removes his hand and stares at a fresh burn mark. “I’ve worked with fire all my life. I know all her properties, all her peculiarities. Her preferences and pretences. And yet still I cannot say for certain how it feels to be held by her.” He licks his palm deferentially. “We have only ever held hands, you see.”

“Sir, I speak of the door, not the flame.”

He turns back to me. His expression is blank, a touch melancholy. “The door?” he says. “The door is between us.”

“Quite right,” I say. “Please—open it and I’ll be forever in your debt.”

He shakes his head. “It’s no use.” He resumes the whistle—slower now, drawing out the minor notes—and moves on to the next bracket. The light advances.

“Sir!” I say.

He does not turn. The distance between us lengthens.

“You misunderstand me, sir. I am not speaking of escape. I speak merely of the door. This door here, which prevents me from keeping an appointment.”

He pauses at the next bracket. Adjusts his grip, raises the flame, and waits for the wick to take. It resists, gives off a high-pitched moan, then catches.

“The door,” he mutters. “The door, the door.”

“It must be opened,” I say. “There has been a grave error. I have lost a day, perhaps more. I am a family man and I am expected.”

He lowers the lantern a fraction and examines the glass chimney. As he does, a thin discharge of hot kerosene dribbles down the outer part of his hand, his wrist, the cuff of his tunic. He brings the cuff to his lips and, with a single powerful inhale, slurps it dry.

“You are inside,” he says, dabbing his lips.

“Yes,” I say. “That is precisely the difficulty. I must be outside of the door—this particular door.”

He looks at me then. “If it is a door,” he says, “it opens. It closes. Otherwise it is a wall.”

I feel my grip tighten on the bars. The metal creaks under my trembling hands.

“It is closed,” I say. “The door is closed.”

He tilts his head, considering this. “Closed,” he repeats. “That is one way of keeping it.”

“I am confined!” I say. “Can’t you see? You have seen it, sir. The old guard has seen it. The Conductor—”

“The Conductor attends to other matters,” he says, his voice reverberating down the corridor. “This is the night round.”

“I am speaking of the cell,” I say. “This cell. I have been placed here, inside. The door must be opened from the outside so that I may also go outside. That is the only way to keep my appointment.”

“From the inside to the outside,” he says.

“Yes.”

He nods. “And you have remained where you were placed.”

“I have,” I say. “Where else would I be? Look, do you really expect that I will not return? Sir, I am merely attending to an important errand, a family duty. I am not some criminal!”

“Without a handle,” he says, “it is merely a wall.”

“Yes, yes—that is of no consequence. The mechanism is external. It is a question of locks.”

“Locks?” he says. “So it is not the door, but the lock that has kept you inside?”

“Yes. Well, no. I was brought here by force, it is true, and placed behind a locked door. But I have chosen to remain here, where I have been placed. That is the role of a responsible Participant in the Kingdom.”

“Then it is to the lock you must speak, not the Lamplighter.”

He turns away, muttering to himself, “...long night…. off her axis…”

“Sir,” I call out. “Sir!”

He moves on to the next bracket. The flame advances. The interval widens again.

“Sir, please—if you would only—just—”

He is but a speck now in the distance, his flame a pinpoint in the dark.

I remain pressed against the bars a moment longer, my hands still fixed around the pungent iron rails.

I press my weight against it.

The door gives slightly.

Then I press some more.

The door creaks.

I push it further. All the way.

The corridor presents itself in the same broken sequence of light. The nearest lamp burns steadily. Beyond it, darkness. Beyond that, another flame. I remain at the threshold, one hand still on the door, one foot in the cell.

And then I step out.