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By Root 810 0

that he was wearing a bracelet. It struck me straightaway as an extraordinary piece of jewellery for a man. It was made up of tiny bronze runic figures shot through with a fine silver chain. He must have observed me looking at it. But he didn’t react in the slightest to my doing so. I wondered was it some obscure insignia worn by a sommelier. Perhaps he was a master of wine, or something. Though for so Gallic a qualification, a medallion on a ribbon seemed more fitting. I wondered was he perhaps a member of the Freemasons, or some other secret society. Maybe he held some exalted rank. They all had their signet rings stamped with obscure crests, their amulets and hidden tattoos; toys and clandestine trademarks. Secret societies were very fashionable just then. Secret societies and psychiatry were the contrasting crazes of the moment.

Eventually, when I had listened to as much information about wine auctions as I was prepared to, I just came right out with it and asked him. And he smiled with a smile that stayed remote from his eyes. And he said, ‘It’s a contract, Miss Gibson-Hoare.’

And, puzzled, I asked would he take it off and let me look at it, properly, out of the crepuscular shadows of my father’s cellar.

And he said, you don’t understand. Wearing it is part of the contract I committed to. And taking it from my wrist now would be more than my life is worth.

And I believed him. Quite simply, in the stillness and the gloom down there, I knew he was telling the truth. And I wanted to know more, about the runic mystery, about whatever deal had been struck, and with whom. And over time, he began to tell me. And I met other acolytes. And I attended the ceremonies and saw the extraordinary things I’ve seen. And then Dennis introduced me to Klaus Fischer and I heard about the ambition Fischer had and what he apparently dared to attempt. And, of course, I met Aleister Crowley.

And I was lost, I’m tempted to write. Because sitting here in my room in Fischer’s morbid temple of a house, I feel trapped and compromised and even terrified. We are a few hours away from tonight’s feather banquet. It will be another tawdry and indulgent affair. I don’t honestly think the reckless energy, that contagious impulse of attraction, is there for the evening to descend into outright orgy. But on the strength of last night’s antics, it promises to be sordid enough. The cruel American and the wounded exhibitionist, Göring, will be in celebratory mood. I think that Crowley is bored, which is dangerous. We might see more unstable miracles than the little ones he performed for us today. It is Fischer’s show, this. But Crowley is obviously jealous that the spotlight isn’t his. I don’t think he would try to sabotage the ceremonial, it would be far too dangerous. But his mischief sometimes seems barely his to control. I can’t understand why Fischer allowed him to come. Unless his invitation was a deliberate and symbolic gesture of Fischer’s assumption of superiority.

If the ceremonies go as planned, Fischer will spawn a beast that will, in gratitude, endow him with great knowledge and enormous influence. Do demons understand gratitude? Is an abomination summoned to the earth filled with a sense of obligation to any man? At the least of it, it strikes me as a volatile bargain. But it won’t now be effectively struck, I don’t think. And not because of Crowley’s showy meddling. The spawning will not take place because the final ceremony depends upon the sacrifice. And the sacrifice will not take place.

Because I intend to save the child.

There, I’ve written it. And it wasn’t even terribly hard to do. The truth is, I think I’d resolved to try to save the boy the moment I saw him. I’ve been thinking about the mechanics of it, subconsciously at least, every moment since then. At first I thought I might be able to enlist the help of the sad-eyed pugilist, Giuseppe, in my plan. But I asked the American duellist at lunch about Mr Capone of Chicago and, after hearing some of his stories concerning Capone’s exploits, I doubt there’s a heart in my new friend