hooves, the call of some night bird—Wool would know what sort …
do not think of Wool.
Not far off he heard the tap of someone’s footsteps and something wooden clunking against something metal. Someone came down his quiet street.
He had at last relaxed and thus resented this intrusion. He must not be caught sitting on the steps like a vagrant or drunken carouser. Giles glared in the direction he thought the steps came from. They stopped. Something tapped. More thumping.
Perhaps he would blend into the darkness of the steps and the person, a policeman he supposed, would pass him by.
He couldn’t see the pavement around the curve of the road, but several houses away, sudden darkness filled the street.
Of course. The sound he heard was the lamplighter going about his early morning duties.
The clunk and thump and footsteps made a steady rhythm.
The lamplighter strolled into view. On one shoulder rested the usual long pole, but the man had a ladder slung over his other shoulder, which he put down with a grunt. He paused, then twisted and stared straight at Giles.
The lamplighter rested the pole against the wrought-iron fence and walked quietly toward Giles. “Here, now. Time to wake. You’ll get in trouble around these parts, friend.” He sounded almost apologetic, certainly not bullying.
Giles sighed and rose to his feet. “No. The worst would be I’ll be embarrassed, caught skulking in front of my own house.”
The lamplighter pulled off his cap. He wasn’t tall, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Giles. His clothes, dark-colored jacket and trousers, a uniform of a sort, had been made for a fatter man, and they hung on him, but as he moved, Giles could see hints of his form beneath.
“Been having a long night of it, sir?” In the lamplight that still glowed, the man’s knowing smile was wide.
Giles shouldn’t have been annoyed, but he straightened and yanked the bottom of his waistcoat. “I am not drunk, if that’s what you’re implying.”
The lamplighter stepped back and Giles supposed he was going to scramble back to his duty.
Instead he said, “Oh, hey now. I know you! You’re the ghostly walker.”
“What?”
“I see you all sorts of nights striding about town, in snow, in rain, at dusk, and before dawn.”
“I don’t see you.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said without resentment. “I heard once that children watch for the man who lights the lamp, but no one else sees him. Strikes me as about right.”
A lamplighter who’d stepped from some sort of children’s book. Giles remembered his own time in the nursery, looking out the window and waiting for the moment that the darkness was vanquished by the man with the long stick.
The lamplighter grabbed his pole and sauntered over to the lamp. Giles expected that was the end of the conversation as the man reached up with the hook end and deftly doused the light.
But then the man came back and stood near him, hands loose and easy, his wrists holding the long slender pole in place, balanced across both shoulders. Wide shoulders.
Giles stared at him and felt something loosen and open inside his chest. A whisper of change almost as silent as the fog, except he’d been still enough to listen. He grew aware of the man’s body and his own.
That would not do … for all it proved he was alive.
“Are you all right, sir?” The lamplighter peered at him again.
“Yes.” And then to turn the attention away from himself, Giles asked. “What’s your name?”
“Banks, sir. John Banks.” He shifted so his rear rested on the edge of the large planter in front of Giles’s house. He’d come quite close, and if that informality wasn’t enough, he asked, “What’s yours?”
Giles supposed he should be offended by the cheek of the man but in that moment of awareness, the strange hour removed from existence—he couldn’t be bothered.
“Mr. Giles Fullerton.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance. I just about feel as if we are old
do not think of Wool.
Not far off he heard the tap of someone’s footsteps and something wooden clunking against something metal. Someone came down his quiet street.
He had at last relaxed and thus resented this intrusion. He must not be caught sitting on the steps like a vagrant or drunken carouser. Giles glared in the direction he thought the steps came from. They stopped. Something tapped. More thumping.
Perhaps he would blend into the darkness of the steps and the person, a policeman he supposed, would pass him by.
He couldn’t see the pavement around the curve of the road, but several houses away, sudden darkness filled the street.
Of course. The sound he heard was the lamplighter going about his early morning duties.
The clunk and thump and footsteps made a steady rhythm.
The lamplighter strolled into view. On one shoulder rested the usual long pole, but the man had a ladder slung over his other shoulder, which he put down with a grunt. He paused, then twisted and stared straight at Giles.
The lamplighter rested the pole against the wrought-iron fence and walked quietly toward Giles. “Here, now. Time to wake. You’ll get in trouble around these parts, friend.” He sounded almost apologetic, certainly not bullying.
Giles sighed and rose to his feet. “No. The worst would be I’ll be embarrassed, caught skulking in front of my own house.”
The lamplighter pulled off his cap. He wasn’t tall, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Giles. His clothes, dark-colored jacket and trousers, a uniform of a sort, had been made for a fatter man, and they hung on him, but as he moved, Giles could see hints of his form beneath.
“Been having a long night of it, sir?” In the lamplight that still glowed, the man’s knowing smile was wide.
Giles shouldn’t have been annoyed, but he straightened and yanked the bottom of his waistcoat. “I am not drunk, if that’s what you’re implying.”
The lamplighter stepped back and Giles supposed he was going to scramble back to his duty.
Instead he said, “Oh, hey now. I know you! You’re the ghostly walker.”
“What?”
“I see you all sorts of nights striding about town, in snow, in rain, at dusk, and before dawn.”
“I don’t see you.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said without resentment. “I heard once that children watch for the man who lights the lamp, but no one else sees him. Strikes me as about right.”
A lamplighter who’d stepped from some sort of children’s book. Giles remembered his own time in the nursery, looking out the window and waiting for the moment that the darkness was vanquished by the man with the long stick.
The lamplighter grabbed his pole and sauntered over to the lamp. Giles expected that was the end of the conversation as the man reached up with the hook end and deftly doused the light.
But then the man came back and stood near him, hands loose and easy, his wrists holding the long slender pole in place, balanced across both shoulders. Wide shoulders.
Giles stared at him and felt something loosen and open inside his chest. A whisper of change almost as silent as the fog, except he’d been still enough to listen. He grew aware of the man’s body and his own.
That would not do … for all it proved he was alive.
“Are you all right, sir?” The lamplighter peered at him again.
“Yes.” And then to turn the attention away from himself, Giles asked. “What’s your name?”
“Banks, sir. John Banks.” He shifted so his rear rested on the edge of the large planter in front of Giles’s house. He’d come quite close, and if that informality wasn’t enough, he asked, “What’s yours?”
Giles supposed he should be offended by the cheek of the man but in that moment of awareness, the strange hour removed from existence—he couldn’t be bothered.
“Mr. Giles Fullerton.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance. I just about feel as if we are old
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