When he first saw the light he thought he was imagining it. It was but the faintest smudge on his vision, like a lanthorn seen across furls of rainy moorland. And he might have tumbled down the shaft, but thanks to the light the faint silhouette of the top stair revealed itself just before he reached it. He crouched at the edge and looked down. The staircase was horribly steep, and the nearest two thirds invisible. He could see the bottom of it in the distance. The light was emanating from some place out of sight beyond the stairs.

He was not game to stand up and walk down stairs he could not see, so turned around, still on his hands and knees, and lowered himself down onto them. He had to trust that steps were there.

By the time he had reached the bottom his bare knees were bleeding and his hands raw. Ahead now lay a long, dim corridor lined with shelves cluttered with skulls – hundreds of them. He still couldn't see the source of the light, only its reflection on the walls. It lay in some deeper chamber. It looked like candlelight. Was it just his imagination, or could he smell melting wax?

The corridor soon constricted, and he was forced to crawl, then to snaking his way along. Wary of crushing Fidelma he squeezed through on his back, using the roof of the passage to push himself along like a mechanic sliding under a machine. Finally he slid out into a chamber. He stood up and looked around.

It was lined on all sides with skulls. Many had candles set on top of them. Most had burned down to nothing and gone out, but a few tapers were still lit, and it was from these that the light came. They would soon go out too.

He examined the shelves, discovering to his delight a cache of fresh candles in a corner. He released Fidelma and shoved a handful of candles into his pocket. The dore stood on the dusty floor for a moment – her whiskers twitching, her black eyes gleaming in the candlelight – then scuttled to the nearest wall and ran along it, circumnavigating the room. She was clearly happy to be free. He had no fear for her now that he could see. She would not go far, and would be more at home in this place than he was anyway.

He lit one of the fresh candles from one of the burning ones, then looked around for a holder. There were only the skulls. He shrugged and took one down off a shelf. He dripped some wax onto the top, then planted the base of the candle in the wax. As a precaution he made a second one. Only then did he turn to examine the thing in the centre of the room.

It was a slab of stone, oblong in shape, rising from the floor to the height of Ward's waist. A seam ran around the edge near the top: a lid. He set the two skull-candles down on top of it. He had no inclination to try and push the lid off. He had a pretty good idea what was inside anyway: a skellington. Probably of some important person, a king perhaps. Did the skulls in this room belong to people who had been close to the king, or were they slaves sacrificed to accompany him into the afterlife? Who lit the candles anyway?

His eyes were drawn to some peculiar tracks on the floor. They were not footprints. It was as if something large had swept through the room, fanning the dust out on each side. He tried to imagine what kind of creature made tracks like that. Something that slid along the floor. Something big. He shivered involuntarily.

He turned back to the sarcophagus. Unlike the floor, its lid was free of dust. Its age was difficult to guess at, for it was in perfect condition; no wind or rain had ever worn the inscription on its lid. The letters were clean and sharp, as if they had been chiselled out only yesterday, but the inscription was in a language Ward didn't recognise.

Non sit alius deus in machinatione

He read it over and over, trying to commit it to memory, for he had a notion he would ask Snapper about it should their paths cross again.

He looked up to discover Fidelma was gone.

He found her in a shadowy alcove he hadn't seen at first, perched on the third step of a gloomy stair hidden there. The steps were broad and worn, and curved up and away until they vanished out of sight. Faint light spilled down them from some place further up. She had found the way out. Her nose twitched and her tail curled slowly and thoughtfully. He bent to pick her up. Then he heard the voices.

Put on your wellingtons,

It's time to hunt skellingtons,

(There's something you should know about me,

I really suck at poetry).