Eels Bought Against the Dark

Tamsin Reedwater counted the crowd off the ferry stage by the rope knots, the only count she trusted. Nine thousand and some had gone aboard, and the rest were still pushing at the gate with their bundles held over their heads like children crossing a flood. A woman with a basket of smoked eels pressed one into her hand, said it was for the lamps, and was swallowed back into the press before Tamsin could hand it back.

On the lamp-floor the catch took. The pump-boy she had shouted at that morning came up the stairs with a bucket of thin oil and held it to the glass so she could see it was clear. It was clear. That was all Fishpond had ever asked of its oil: enough to burn, and honest enough to show.

A Glare man in a good coat waited at the stair-foot beside a brass lamp that did not smoke. He offered her a sheaf of paper promising light that could be dimmed from very far away. Tamsin thanked him, dropped the eel in the oil bin for later, and told him the Wakeful would want to see the switch first.