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of their path through life—their successes and character traits and so on. My mother was a believer, hence my given name, Lucian. It means ‘light,’ which I take to mean cleverness—and
that
I certainly possess.”
    Rattell spread his arms wide and gave a half twirl, as though his skinny frame were produce on display.
    â€œCleverness, eh?” said Tillinghast. “D’you save it for special occasions?”
    â€œNominative determinism is a fascinating idea,” Rattell continued, ignoring him. “I’ve swindled fishermen whose names came from the sea, professors named for their areas of expertise, farmers named for produce or livestock. I even encountered a woman who made fabrics—her given middlename was Threadcount. Isn’t that extraordinary?”
    â€œExtraordinary. Borin’ as all hells, but sure, extraordinary.”
    â€œMr. Pent, for example,” said Rattell, “is a . . . ball of stored aggression and anger—just waiting to explode.”
    â€œIn a cascade o’ glorious song?”
    Rattell wiped his top lip again. Pent hissed a threatening sound.
    â€œMisser Pent says he’s got a ’pecific plan for Misser Tillinghast,” said Rigby.
    â€œYou hear that, Mr. Tillinghast?
If
you tell us who sent you for the mandrake, then I’m sure Rigby and Pent will be more merciful in their interrogation. . . .”
    â€œI highly doubts that, Mr. Rattell,” said Tillinghast as the men rumbled. “I can sense the tension betwixt ’em. Prob’ly on account of Mr. Rigby’s jealousy at the sheer beauty of Mr. Pent’s singin’ voice.”
    â€œWill you S-STOP! ANTAGONIZING! M-MY!! ASSOCIATES!?!” shouted Rattell, lashing at Tillinghast with his cane.
    Tillinghast absorbed the blows without flinching, gazing blankly at the veins of his right hand—smaller than his left and twice as pale.
    â€œYou done now, Mr. Rattell?” he said, once the greasy little man had staggered backward, his round hat askew. Neither Pent nor Rigby had moved.
    â€œYes . . . yes,” said Rattell. He reset his wardrobe andsmoothed his hair. A dew of sweat glistened on his thin mustache. “It’s time for you to be taken away from me now, Mr. Tillinghast—I must to my mi-milk bath. Good-bye. And may you know the price of stealing from Lucian Rattell.”
    â€œRight you are, sir,” said Tillinghast. “Then I’d best be off.”
    He lunged forward as though barging through a door, tearing his left arm off at the shoulder and leaving the whole limb in Pent’s astonished grasp. One-armed and freed, he spun quickly and butted Rigby on the bridge of his nose, crumpling the big man into a dust-throwing heap on the cellar floor.
    Tillinghast looked at Pent, who dropped the arm and rushed forward. A short, grubby knife appeared in his hand and he sank it into Tillinghast’s stomach.
    Tillinghast punched him twice, quickly, in the solar plexus, then reached into his belt and popped a yellow capsule into Pent’s open, tongueless mouth.
    Pent’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell beside Rigby, arm thrown over his fellow henchman’s body as though they were snatching a romantic nap.
    Tillinghast brushed Pent’s knife onto the floor, picked up his left arm, and poked Rattell in the eyes with the outstretched fingers. The little man squealed, grabbed his face, and ran with quick steps toward the staircase at the end of the low, gloomy room.
    â€œSo, Mr. Rattell, which one’s your study?” said Tillinghast, grinning. “I wasn’t sure the mandrake was even here, see, an’ it was just as easy to let your goons get ahold o’ me as it was to creep around all stealthy like. Easier, actually,” he added, scratching his back with his severed arm.
    Rattell spun around, backing away slowly. His face was nearly as white as his suit, and