It was two in the morning, and a small, high window on the ground floor of the Customs House still showed a light. Alice Nettles, Chief Customs Officer to the Port, believed in doing her fair share of the late shift, but she was beginning to wish she weren’t quite so evenhanded. A large shipment of brown Wellington boots had come in on the late tide and a dispute had arisen about the classification of the boots (work or domestic use) and consequently which rate of duty applied to them. Alice had settled the argument by impounding the lot, and some half an hour ago had sat down to write her report. It was tedious but it had to be done—tomorrow was another busy day.
Alice was an imposing, businesslike woman, with gray hair and more often than not a stern expression, which she had acquired from her time working as a judge at the Castle. But tonight she looked tired and a little lonely as she sat in the chilly little office with her deep blue Customs Officer robes wrapped around her. She was, to her relief, reaching the conclusion of her report: … inclusion of child-size footwear indicates domestic destination, therefore shipment impounded until the higher rate of duty paid … when she heard yet another disturbance outside.
It had been a noisy night in the Port. All Hallows’ Eve—or Hallowseeth, as it was known—was a festival that was ignored in the Castle but enthusiastically celebrated in the Port. It had kicked off just after midnight, and since then the revelers had done nothing but make a nuisance of themselves, thought Alice. And would continue to do so until dawn. Alice sighed. She wouldn’t mind, but the Customs House had important guests that night in the form of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard and her new Apprentice. Alice dragged her chair over to the window, stood on it and looked out to see what kind of trouble was happening now.
To Alice’s surprise, some foolish people had been brave enough to dress up as the Port Witch Coven. They were obviously performing some kind of comedy routine centered around a wheelbarrow that contained a large box over which they were fighting. Alice tutted under her breath. She hoped the revelers knew what they were doing—it was well known that the Port Witch Coven did not take kindly to being made fun of. Alice watched the performance, which was turning a little violent now as one of the characters—she wasn’t sure which witch he or she was meant to be—had hurled themselves across the box and was kicking another, much taller witch. Alice winced as the taller witch aimed a nasty kick in return that sent the smaller witch sprawling onto the ground. The trouble with Hallowseeth, she thought, was it always got out of hand. It was at times like this that she missed the peace and quiet of the Castle.
Alice was just wondering if she ought to call the Harbor Master for help to break up the fight when she saw something very peculiar. Someone was hanging around the witches dressed as DomDaniel. That, thought Alice, was very rash. (Alice shared the Port Hallowseeth superstition that dressing as a particularly evil human called up bad things for the night.)
Alice watched the witch theater continue. Things had calmed down a little, and they had now opened the box. Three of them were standing around it while the small, chubby witch lay on the ground pretending to cry. Alice’s view began to get obscured by the growing crowd of costumed people who were gathering to watch the show—but not before she saw the three witch figures embark on what looked like a very good imitation of a typical witchy spell, involving a lot of arm waving and jerky dancing around the box.
A party of very tall Grula-Grulas now moved in front of Alice’s line of sight and the show was lost to view. But the crowd of ghouls, black fairies, Chimeras, mummies and a large amount of Gragull (it was easy to look good in a blood-sucking Gragull costume) continued cheering and shouting encouragement, and the noise filled the little office. Alice was about to get down from the stool and find some earplugs when she saw the crowd part to allow the DomDaniel figure through—no one wanted to touch him. Alice shivered. Whoever had been stupid enough to dress up like that had done a good job; it was just how she remembered him. The figure was now out of the crowd and heading toward the Customs House. Alice realized that her lighted window must be shining out like a beacon; she suddenly felt very exposed and fought a desire to duck down and hide.
“Don’t be silly, Alice,” she muttered to herself. “It’s not really him.”
Alice had met DomDaniel in his time as ExtraOrdinary Wizard, and his parting words still invaded her nightmares: “I will see you again, Miss Nettles. Unfortunately for you. Ha ha.” But Alice was determined to tough it out—she was not going to be scared by a Hallowseeth reveler. She watched the figure walk carefully across the cobbles, bright with rain from the recent downpour; she saw a gust of wind take his cloak and wrap it around him; she saw the light flashing from his rings—in particular, the creepy ring with two evil green faces that he always wore on his left thumb; she saw his ringed hand reach up to keep hold of his tall stovepipe hat and she saw his sweaty, excited face shining in the glow of the harborside torches. And when he stopped right beneath the window and his dark green eyes stared straight into hers, Alice went cold.
“It’s him,” she whispered in horror. “Sheesh. It’s the real thing!” Alice leaped off the stool, hurried over to her desk and blew out the candle. Then she collapsed into her chair, shocked.
Alice sat in the dark, trembling. “But how could it be DomDaniel?” she muttered to herself. “He’s dead.” Fighting down her panic, she began to think things through.
Alther Mella had told her that DomDaniel had drowned in the Marram Marshes when his ship, the Vengeance, had sunk some six months ago. Even Alice, who was not much interested in ghosts (apart from Alther) knew enough about things ghostly to understand that this could not be DomDaniel’s ghost, for a ghost must stay in the place where it entered ghosthood for a year and a day. And so any ghost of DomDaniel would still be languishing deep in Marsh mud—and serves it right too, she thought. Besides, wind did not snatch at ghostly cloaks; it blew right through them. The only answer was that somehow DomDaniel had survived the loss of his ship. And now, here he was, back in the Port.
Shaking, Alice got to her feet. She hurried out of her office, across the empty hallway and up the stairs, glancing over her shoulder just in case, somehow, DomDaniel had gotten inside. When Alice reached the upstairs galleried landing, she broke into a run and did not stop until she came to the double doors that led to the guest suite.
Alice paused, suddenly unwilling to disturb Marcia. Suppose she had made a mistake. Suppose it really was just some Hallowseeth reveler. “Come on, Alice,” she told herself firmly. “You know it was him. And Marcia has to know too. Now. Before something awful happens.”
And so Alice, never one to do things by halves, took her Customs House gavel out of her pocket and thumped Marcia’s door. Hard.