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been destroyed under the old regime, and I knew them almost as well as he did.
    ‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘That’s why I became a secondhand trader, because of those books. I mean, for that reason more than anything. I fell into it by accident. I know that he’s gone, and I’ve still spent my whole life thinking …’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve spent my whole life pretending that he’s still guiding me. Is that stupid?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘This sounds like him,’ said Leo, and shook his head. ‘I swear it does.’
    ‘Do you think that’s why Aldebaran gave it to you?’ I said.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Leo lit a cigarette carefully and closed his eyes. I watched him. ‘Maybe it’s just because they are similar,’ he said. ‘Maybe he thought it would say something to me, because it’s like what Harold North used to write. Or maybe …’ He shook his head again. ‘Maybe he meant something else.’
    ‘Harold North can’t be still …’ I said, and did not finish.
    ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’ The wind lulled, and the silence came down more heavily than before. I could hear every coal in the stove shifting among the dying flames. If it hadn’t been so quiet, we might not have heard the gunshots.
    They came from somewhere in the city and made Leo start and raise his head. ‘What was that?’ he said, his eyes on the window. The lamp had gone out. I felt for Leo’s matches and tried to relight it, but he put his hand on my arm. ‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘It sounded like … my God, Anselm—’
    The sound had come again, two sharp cracks, and closer. ‘What?’ I said. ‘Leo, you’re scaring me.’
    ‘It’s gunshots. I know it is.’
    I had heard gunshots before. But never this close and never four or five within a minute. We both stood listening, separated by the darkness. A sliver of moonlight cut down through the window and turned Leo’s head to silver. ‘It was probably just a trader with a shotgun,’ I said. ‘Someone killing rats—’
    ‘It didn’t sound like that.’
    At the same moment, there was another burst of gunfire. ‘Anselm, listen!’ Leo said.
    We stood there without speaking, listening to the silence. It drew out so long that my heart slowed. Leo did not move. Eventually I dared to light the lamp. I went to the back room and turned over the cold ashes of the stove. They did not need turning, but I wanted to make a noise, because I knew Leo wanted silence. I cannot explain it. He was far away, and I wanted to bring him back.
    ‘Anselm, shh,’ he said. ‘Listen again.’
    I listened. A drum was beating somewhere. It came closer and faded again on the faltering breeze. ‘What is it?’ I said.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    I was afraid suddenly, and I didn’t know why. It was not the noises in the darkness outside – it was the way Leo was standing transfixed, as though they held him prisoner. The music was coming closer. Across the street, someone opened an attic window. I started towards the front window.
    ‘No,’ said Leo. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
    I followed him. The living room was in darkness; the last traces of the fire were dying in the grate. Through the narrow window over the stairs, I thought I could see lights moving. Jasmine’s door was ajar, and she was still asleep, lying sideways across her bed with her thumb in her mouth. The light of the streetlamp lay across her face. Leo went in and closed the curtains. The drumming was quite clear now, in spite of the rain and the wind outside. Men were chanting something over it.
    ‘What are they saying?’ whispered Leo.
    ‘It’s too far away to hear.’
    He watched the lights moving. The men were passing our street by a wide margin and marching towards the castle. We watched them until they were lost in the rain and the darkness. Dawn was approaching now. The eastern sky was a dull grey, and the wet tiles of the houses gleamed. ‘You should get some sleep,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly morning.’
    ‘What do