At sunset, Finn Derouen set off into the woods. It was snowing lightly, and his snow boots left dark tracks on the path. Once the lights of town were fading in the distance, he traded his ski jacket for Babylon’s fur coat and long cape, and the lantern felt unfamiliar and heavy in his hands. Babylon raised it to eye level, and watched its blue glow bounce off the trees.

He nodded to himself. He’d put this off long enough – it was time to go.

Kneeling in the snow, the knight whispered, “I pledge my life and loyalty to Mercury, and to Babylon. I humbly request your aid, so that in return I may give you mine.” The wind whipped around him, and when he opened his eyes again, he was kneeling in the central square of Babylon, staring up at the dark hillside and the inky-black sky beyond. Rising to his feet, he called, “Menachem?”

The wind whistled, high in the mountains.

“Menachem?” Babylon called again.

The light from his lantern spilled across the cobblestones.

He was alone. And maybe, he thought, he was a little bit lost. He cradled the lantern in his hands, slotting the spikes between his fingers. It was the knight of Babylon’s duty to light the lamps, and yet he knew nothing of how to do that. Menachem had once told him he needed the Wick, but had failed to mention where Finn might find it.

Babylon let himself into the knight’s study. It was warmer here, close to the heart of the mountain, and he hung his lantern on a hook by the door and unbuttoned the top buttons of his coat. The room was dusty with disuse – it had been a year since his last visit, and centuries between knights. “Menachem?” he asked again to the empty air. No. Of course not.

There was nothing on the table that looked like it could have been the Wick, just old maps and the papers he’d brought from his grandparents’ house. So then he circled the room, but there wasn’t nearly enough light and there were so many things which looked ancient or delicate of confusing which he didn’t dare disturb. What was the Wick? What did it look like? He remembered his second trip to the city, how Menachem had reached into his lantern and taken out light with his bare hands, placed it on a rod and lifted it to the lamps. This was the duty of their line. Babylon Knight had never lit a single lamp, and he knew that Menachem would look at him and shake his head: he had not yet earned the title.

With nothing to show for his searching, Babylon sank onto a stool in the corner of the room. “If you can hear me,” he said to the air, “I’d love some kind of sign.”

Far away, the wind howled. Babylon stood. He took his lantern from the hook by the door and returned to the square.

It was beginning to snow.

He remembered that Virgo once told him she used to follow Menachem on his rounds. Maybe she would have some insight into where the Wick was kept. Babylon’s ancestor was always stressing the importance of figuring things out for himself, but Finn had always got by with a little help from his friends.

Pulling his cape tightly around his shoulders to brace against the cold, Babylon returned to Earth.