Lucrecia and Vanna walked along the service platform beneath the lighthouse.
They threaded their way through the thick fog in the night, following those familiar paths and covered walkways.
The dim lantern light in the mist looked like dull stars, and somewhere within that uncertain glow, someone moved near them.
A harbor guard, his face as pale as paper, passed by Vanna.
He wore a neat uniform and carried a still-bright lantern.
His expression was precise and correct, but when two unexpected guests appeared before him, he paid them no heed.
Vanna watched the guard fade into the fog with a complicated look.
Only after his figure had almost dissolved into the haze did she whisper to Lucrecia, “…he isn’t breathing.”
“He isn’t. Neither was the one before. Most of the people here have stopped breathing,” Lucrecia said softly; the witch’s face was half in shadow. “Even the few who still draw breath don’t respond to our presence.”
“They’re all in some kind of—” Vanna began, then faltered, as if she couldn’t find the right word to describe what she felt.