Umin’s blood churns with the sound of sea-froth in his ears. 

And from his breast a long familiar heaviness, unhitches and falls away.  

The Gate of Candles…

With ghostly suddenness, his uncanny companion is there, leaning like a half-propped puppet at his side. 

Peering with wide cracked-glass eyes, towards the atrous and brooding tower-belfry, and it’s uncountable points of candle-fire. All glistering wetly in her gaze.

Yes love, there the House of Meshmin looms.

All tombs and stair-steps and black bats and droppings and brooms…

Umin offers no reply as Pyna meanders off again, soundlessly down the ever-broadening thoroughfare.