The lamp room is round, glass-walled, and impossibly cozy. The great lamp at its center is dark and cold — and yet the room is lit, warmly, by no source you can name. There is a rug. There is an armchair. There is a kettle, just off the boil. In the armchair sits the Keeper. He is old the way the charter is old: not frail, just thoroughly . Sea-grey sweater, sea-grey eyes, hands like mooring rope.…