Tonight, you step through the blue portal into Canterbury, England, in the autumn of 1285 — a walled city of pilgrims and monks, where timber-framed buildings lean so close overhead that the upper stories nearly touch across the lane. In the cathedral precinct, you meet Eadgyth, the cathedral chandler, a woman who reads the hours not by bells but by how far each candle has burned down, and who knows every chapel, corridor, and crypt by what flame it carries. Together, you'll cross through the massive Norman nave lit by dozens of tallow candles, climb the hidden triforium gallery above the arches, descend into the painted Romanesque crypt, and walk the pilgrim path through Trinity Chapel's marble zodiac floor to the golden Shrine of Thomas Becket — where a single beeswax candle has burned without interruption since the shrine was first lit in 1220, sixty-five years of unbroken fire passed from candle to candle by the people who tend it. But the cathedral bells are ringing at the wrong hours today — a midnight bell in the afternoon, an evening bell before sunset — and each misplaced toll opens a door that is normally locked, revealing rooms as they appeared on the day the shrine's flame was first kindled. Eadgyth is carrying a freshly made beeswax candle to replace the guttering one at the shrine before vespers, and as the autumn light fades and the cathedral fills with nothing but candlelight — tallow in the nave, beeswax in the choir, rushlight in the market stalls, lanterns of horn in the precinct — you'll discover what it means to carry the next vessel for a flame older than anyone alive.