The foreigner has taken things from the satchel at his belt. A little square of waxed canvas spread out before him as he kneels. A tiny, hooded lamp with a steady green-yellow light like a firefly’s. A brass compass. Four little cones of incense. A box of Ilmari ‘Leaping Demon’ matches. He lights the incense with brisk movements. Stares at the compass as its needle spins. Stares at the lines of pale smoke that seem to make writing in the air. He has a book, dog-eared. She sees little tables there, set out in script impossibly regular, beyond any scribe’s hand. He packs everything away again,
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