Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 by Angela Slatter

around and noticed no one in the cabin was moving. Eyes were glazed, expressions stone as water bottles were
     caught part-way to mouths; there was a ticket inspector frozen in mid-citing of bylaws, young men forever caught in sly gawks
     at girls whose nighttime make-up had turned distinctly clownish. Time had been suspended.
    It’s good to be the Boatman.
    I said, ‘Hey!’ as calmly as I could, hoping to cover both dignified and cool, not to mention
totally
not afraid
.
    The hood of his cloak flapped, showing cheekbones and a chin, skin as brown as dried wood, a sparse mouth and ruined nose,
     the cartilage shrunken and sunken. His eyes remained hidden and I was thankful for that much.
    ‘Can I help you?’ I asked. ‘No offence, but I was kind of hoping we wouldn’t meet for a while.’
    He cracked a smile, exposing yellow teeth crazed like old ivory. He removed one hand from the oar and reached towards me and
     myheart clenched until I realised he was offering something, not trying to take me. I felt the cold through the wrapping and
     quickly tucked the thing into my coat pocket.
    Gift horse, meet mouth.
    ‘Thanks?’
    He pointed upwards. ‘They want to break the sky.’
    ‘Huh?’
    But apparently that was all I was going to get. The long hand sailed through the air in a gesture that could have meant, ‘These
     are not the droids you’re looking for,’ then alighted back on the oar. The world started to move again and the Boatman sped
     away, apparently without effort.
    ‘Way to be cryptic,’ I muttered.
    ‘Hello.’
    I turned. Dark blond hair, glasses, thick scarf, battered leather jacket, jeans.
    ‘Standard geek,’ I said. The guy I’d run into at the State Library, the one I’d busily dismissed. I saw then what I’d not
     fully acknowledged before. He was cute.
    ‘Excuse me?’ His eyes widened behind the glasses. I thrust my hand at him by way of diversion, hoping he really hadn’t heard
     what I’d muttered. We shook.
    ‘Hi.’
    ‘Hi. I just wanted to say, you know, hello, but without almost knocking you down,’ he said.
    ‘Oh. Okay.’ My interpersonal skills were never going to win any prizes and I could see my first chance of a date in more than
     twelve months slipping away – well, less slipping than galloping. It was a mystery how I’d ended up in a relationship with
     Bela in the first place, really.
    ‘Ah, anyway. Bye.’ He began to sidestep, his expression clearly saying that the whole ‘Hello’ idea had been a bad one.
    Wicked witches. Wine of tears. Sirens. The Boatman. Skies breaking. The object in my pocket. I needed a solid breakfast, preferably
     pancakes, with bacon. Crispy bacon. And syrup. Maple syrup, lots of it. Before I could talk myself out of it I touched his
     arm and said tentatively, ‘So, about that cup of something warm?’
    He grinned.
    ‘I’m Verity.’
    ‘David.’
    ‘How do you feel about breakfast, David?’
    ‘It’s a meal upon which I look favourably.’
    The CityCat began to slow again. We were approaching Dockside, with its fancy-schmancy apartments, overpriced restaurants
     and plentiful cafés. Surely pancakes, the solution to most of life’s problems, could be found there.



Chapter Nine
    Several hours and many pancakes later, I was home. I’d even managed some sleep, although by no means enough, and now I was
     sitting at the dining table and busily failing to open the Boatman’s gift. The time with David had blotted out a lot of my
     concerns, but it was only a temporary fix. Once I was on my own again the chill weight in my pocket brought them all back.
    I’d reached out to unwrap it at least four times, but at the last minute my hand had found something else to do: check the
     spine of a book, flick away a speck of dust, turn over a piece of paper. Frankly, it was a bit of a relief when the knocking
     started. I answered the front door faster than was my wont – by that point I’d have greeted a toilet-brush salesman with