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for example. Exactly how many years of life will my son have, Appleby, from the sale of my immortal soul?"
    Appleby looked nonplussed for the first time since his arrival. "I say, old boy, that's something that's never—"
    "How many?" Adam demanded.
    Appleby sighed and withdrew a small black notebook from his waistcoat pocket. "Highly irregular, y'know," he grumbled as he leafed through it. "Lightfoot ... Lightfoot, Adam ... no—ah, here we are—Andrew." His finger came to rest on a page, and he looked up at his host.
    "Well ... ?"
    "See for yourself,'' said Appleby somewhat sourly. He gestured at the contract.
    Adam's brows rose as he spied an addition that had suddenly appeared upon the foolscap in his hand. "... a lifespan of eighty-one years," he read aloud. He shot Appleby a glance. "Acceptable, I suppose, but—"
    "Acceptable! It's downright generous, "Appleby cried. "Now, if you'll just sign—"
    "Sorry, but it's not enough."
    "Not enough!" the dandy sputtered. "It's a damned sight more than you've a right to expect!" His hand shot out and seemed to pull something out of the air. A small knife.
    Adam glowered at it. "What in hell's that for?"
    "Nothing dastardly, I assure you," said Appleby. "It's merely to prick your finger." He gestured at the contract. "The bargain must be signed in your own blood, of course."
    "Of course," Adam said dryly. "But I'm not quite ready to do that yet."
    "And why not?" Appleby snapped.
    "Because," said Adam, "I also wish to know how many years this buys me." Appleby sputtered and muttered something about impertinence, but his host ignored him. "After all," Adam went on, "what good is saving my child's life if he's to become an orphan? The boy has just lost his mother—"
    "Who barely had contact with him," Appleby pointed out. "The child was left almost entirely in the care of a nursemaid, and then a governess."
    "I'm aware of that," Adam said darkly. "All the more reason I should be here for him, from now on. I want to ... nurture my son, Appleby. See him properly launched into manhood. I insist upon it."
    "Insist! Insist? That's quite the outside of enough, Ravenskeep!" the dandy cried. "All these demands!" He leapt from his chair. "What arrogant effrontery! And in a mere human... Why, I've never seen the like!"
    The walking stick was back in his hand, and he thrust it in Adam's face. "I suggest you recall whom you're dealing with, m'lord," he said in a menacing tone. "I suggest it strongly!"
    Adam's gaze remained steady, the blue eyes wintry and unblinking. "And I suggest," he said coolly, "you recall the price you're exacting for meeting my demands. I require what amounts to a matter of mere years, Appleby. You, on the other hand, can expect all of eternity to savor your end of the bargain."
    There was a moment of silence as Appleby took his measure. He'd hoped to have this particular soul in a year's time; Ravenskeep was a war hero, and therefore quite the prize. Still, having him signed and sealed, even if it was for later .... He supposed it would have to do. A deal better than not having him at all. There'd always been some doubt about Lightfoot's damnation. Best not risk it.
    He resumed sitting. "Very well," he said sullenly, taking out the notebook again. "Tell me how much time you require, and I'll see what I can do. But I warn you, m'lord. You're not likely to get all you want. There are limits to how far I can be pushed!"
    Adam glanced at his son. Andrew hadn't moved; the translucent skin beneath the bandage looked paler than ever. Ah, my son! I can't bear to see you this way. Yet if this thing is truly possible ...if I can truly manage to ... .
    Adam's eyes moved to a small table at the far side of the chamber. On it lay a marble and onyx chess set. An excellent player, Adam had been teaching Andrew how to play. It suddenly gave him an idea.
    "Appleby," he said as his gaze found the dandy's, "I've a proposal. I suggest we play a game of chess. Five years added to my