Roger had been working in the dark: a necessity, as any open flame might set fire to the gunpowder. And not much of an inconvenience, since what he'd been up to was dead simple: grinding the powder in a mortar and dumping it into a bag. Both the sound, and the feel of the pestle in his hand, would tell when the powder had been ground to a fine enough consistency for whatever purpose Roger had in mind. So he had worked blind. Light was the one thing he prayed he wouldn't see, for it would mean a spark that would be certain to ignite the powder. Attent on work and worry, he had never known that Daniel had come back to the house – why should he, since he was supposed to be watching a play? And Roger had not yet heard the applause and the distant murmur of voices that would signal its end. Roger had never heard Daniel's approach, for Daniel, who'd phant'sied he was stalking a rat, had been at pains to move as quietly as possible. The heavy fabric screen had blocked the light of Daniel's candle to the point where it was no brighter than the ambient furnace-glow. Suddenly the candle-flame had been in Roger's face. In other circumstances he'd've known it for what it was; but standing there with a sack of gunpowder in his hands, he had taken it for what he'd most dreaded: a spark. He had dropped the mortar and the bag and flung himself back as quick as he could. The explosion had followed in the next instant. He could neither have seen nor heard anything until after he'd fled the building. So there was no ground to suppose he had ever registered as much as the faintest impression of Daniel's presence. He'd not seen Daniel since.