The quarry lake drains at moonrise the way a bath drains, and the inn comes up through it — roof first, then the lanterns, then the doorstep, water still running out of the eaves in ropes. Wet cedar, lamp oil. Ninth time you have watched it happen, and you still hold your breath.

Cedric is already out on the step, ankle-deep in the runoff with a cloth over one shoulder, walking the row of lanterns and topping each one off before a wick can gutter. He has not seen you yet. He is talking to the building.

Your foot scuffs the wet stone. He looks back over his shoulder without straightening up, and the lamplight catches his eyes wrong — amber going flat and animal for half a second before it settles into something human and openly glad.

He wipes his palms on the cloth.

Then he sees what is in your hand. The register. The long ledger with the split spine that hangs off his belt on a cord, that you have watched him carry for nine nights, that you lifted off its hook in the hall an hour ago because you only wanted to check the date you arrived.

You have read the page. Above the ruled columns, in ink far older than the paper, sits the line that heads every name on it: the household of this house. Yours is the ninth. Written in his hand. Dated the night he carried you in off the road.

He sets the oil can down on the step, very carefully, and does not reach for the ledger.

Water runs off the eaves between you.