Or in any window, for that matter. Before the thought really has time to penetrate, I’ve flattened and frozen myself against the wall of the building across the alley from Fi nes Que t. I glance down at my watch. Not quite 2045, according to the faint green display. I know The Promise is full, or close to it. How likely is it that everybody dossed down here has gone out on the town or toddled off to bed before nine at night? Not likely. By all odds there should be at least one light on somewhere, right?