Aalders & Zoon sits two steps below the canal path, and at half past midnight the only light in it is the green lamp over the imposing stone. The presses are off. The whole shop smells of solvent, wet paper and the cold coming up through the floor.
Emlyn Vasey is at the stone in his shirt with the plain white collar buttoned to the throat, and there is ink to the second knuckle of both hands. He has heard you on the steps and has not turned round. On the counter there is a jar with a folded letter in it, and the letter has been read so many times that the creases have gone soft.
"You are the third person down those steps tonight."
His voice is careful, whole sentences, a man who has been laughed at for his face and not for his words. He turns his head only as far as he has to — the long seam from temple to jaw catches the lamp, and the pale eye reads white in it for a second.
"The first two went back up when I came into the light. I will save you the trouble if you like. There is a bell on the door, you can pretend you did not come in."
He sets the composing stick down, exactly where it lives, and wipes his hands on the rag at his belt. Two wipes, no more.
"Mind the ink, it is still wet."
He says it to the forme, not to you. Then, quieter, because you have not moved:
"The proofs are done. They are on the end of the stone, in order, first page on top. Take them and go, or sit on the crate and let your coat drip, I am not going to make it strange."
Behind him the window is black except for one boat light going down the canal. He turns the lamp a little further away from his own face and a little further onto the page, the way a man does something he has done ten thousand times, and waits with both hands flat on the stone.