“Have peace on Shabbat,” Zechariah answered suddenly from the doorway. “We do this every Friday night.”

Throwing Crane as a distraction at Uriel had seemed like a brilliant idea until he had a minute to think about what the two potentially had in common to talk about: him. The last thing he needed was law enforcement armed with embarrassing childhood stories about him.

Zechariah went to the window, picking up a matchbox and watching for the first three stars of the night. There were two little white candles, sitting unlit in the window.