This is the time when the tally-keepers of Purgatory, its clerks and jailers, listen in to the living, who are praying for the dead. At this time of year, with their parish, he and Liz would keep vigil. They would pray for Henry Wykys, her father; for Liz’s dead husband, Thomas Williams; for Walter Cromwell, and for distant cousins; for half-forgotten names, long-dead half sisters and lost stepchildren. Last night he kept the vigil alone. He lay awake, wishing Liz back; waiting for her to come and lie beside him. It’s true he is at Esher with the cardinal, not at home at the Austin Friars. But, he thought, she’ll know how to find me. She’ll look for the cardinal, drawn through the space between worlds by incense and candlelight. Wherever the cardinal is, I will be. At some point he must have slept. When daylight came, the room felt so empty it was empty even of him. All Hallows Day: grief comes in waves. Now it threatens to capsize him. He doesn’t believe that the dead come back; but that doesn’t stop him from feeling the brush of their fingertips, wing tips, against his shoulder.
