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his pockmarked skin trembled.
    â€œHow . . . how?” he stammered.
    â€œI’s not bloody alive, sir, as I’ve told you on sev’ral occasions. See?”
    Tillinghast pointed to the burst of straw, sand, and herb fronds in the open wound of his shoulder.
    â€œBut . . . but . . .”
    Tillinghast slapped Rattell using his left hand as a bat.
    â€œThat’s gettin’ a sight annoyin’ now, sir, if you don’t mind. So: which one’s your study?”
    Rattell’s gaze flicked to the top of the staircase.
    â€œLovely, I thought it might be. Well, you jus’ stay there if you likes. I’ll pick the little bugger up an’ be on my way. Your pets’ll be all right, I shouldn’t wonder. Mr. Rigby’s pretty face might be a bit bruised for a few days, right enough—I caught him a fair crack on the nose. Mr. Pent’s had a sleepin’ draft I picked up in Whilsall Market. He should wake up by . . . what day’s it today?”
    â€œSuh-Suh—”
    Tillinghast slapped Rattell again.
    â€œSunday!” wailed the little man.
    â€œTuesday then, maybe even tomorrow—he’s a big lad after all. Jus’ keep an eye on ’im, make sure he doesn’t dirty ’is kecks.”
    Tillinghast jogged up the remaining stairs and opened the door to the study.
    The dark, pokey little room was filled with bric-a-brac: yellowed, torn books lay open on shelves and piled flat on tables; scrolls of parchment littered the floor; and a shuffle of paintings wrapped in stiff-looking brown paper was stacked against the far wall. The only light in the windowless space came from two dust-blanked globes that burned dully with fish-smelling whale oil. Rattell at least understood the importance of atmosphere: the study dripped with promising antiquity, and—although most of the items would have been made in the last month by craftsmen lurking in Oracco’s seedy underbelly—the thick age of the place would convince many an impressionable buyer to part with more money than they’d intended.
    It was a while since he’d been to the seedy underbelly, Tillinghast reflected as he rummaged for the mandrake, using his left arm as a tool. He should make a point of going soon—his favorite pub, the Haha, was there. Tillinghast had spent many nights at its bar, happily dousing his insides in fiery potœm that made no dent in his sobriety, soaked up asit was by his sand and straw. But it passed the time, and there was usually a fight, which he enjoyed.
    A small drawer was filled with banknotes and coins, maybe fifty or so ducats; Tillinghast pocketed everything but the ha’pennies and pennies. After another minute and another drawer of wadded ten-ducat notes, he found—stuffed down the side of a bookcase—a hessian sack that bulged with the shape of a small person.
    â€œThere you are, my lovely,” he whispered, and sniffed. There was a dark lump huddled in the depths of the bag, from which poured odors of cinnamon and woodsmoke and blood. He rifled through the clutter of amulets and charms that hung about his chest, selected a small black stone, and placed it carefully onto the shape in the sack.
    Its odor lightened, as though a fresh breeze had been released through an open window.
    Tillinghast tucked his left arm under his right, hefted the sack carefully, and made for the stairs, knocking a small brass figurine into his pocket as he passed another object-laden surface.
    As the study door swung closed behind him, he dropped his arm and turned to grab it, hoisting it just before the door slammed on his prone bicep and catching the mandrake sack on his foot. He held the arm aloft and chuckled.
    â€œClose one there, Mr. Rattell!” he said, trotting downthe stairs past the little fraudster. “Need to look after me bits an’ bobs.”
    Rattell hadn’t moved—his eyes, both the