The wall still had no gate.
Caleb came up the last of the hill on foot, off the road, through the dry grass, and the wall was where it had been the first time, low and long and unguarded, built by a man who wanted you to understand that a gate was not required for him.
He went over it with one arm and dropped into the garden on the other side.
The porch light was on. Aldric Voss sat in the same chair.
He looked smaller than he had a month ago. The skin had gone finer over the bones of his hands, and the tremor was worse, and he held a cup he was not drinking from, and he watched Caleb cross the dark garden the same as a man watches weather he has been expecting.
"You came over the wall," Aldric said. "Last time you used the road. I take the wall to mean we are past the part where either of us is polite."
"Your vault's moving by itself," Caleb said.
