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breathed.
    “Yes, isn't it?”
    Toby made to hand it back to the man, but The Toymaker waved a hand. “No, you keep it, my boy. A token of appreciation for the meal.”
    Frowning, Toby protested. “This is worth a darn sight more than some moldy bread and stale cheese.”
    “Maybe, but it is mine to dispense with, and I would like you to have it. I'm sure you will find a use for it someday.”
    Toby removed his thumb from the depression, and the lid slowly lowered, hiding the dancer and her chamber. “There must be something you want for it. It's too fine to just give away to a stranger, no matter if you do know my name.”
    “As a matter of fact, there is something you can do for me,” the Toymaker answered, stroking his beard.
    Toby followed the movement of the other's hand, fascinated. He could have sworn the beard was gray and patchy—unkempt to say the least. Now, it appeared silky and black in the firelight. The man's clothes were not as decrepit as they had first appeared either. He would swear such on his Bible.
    Toby wasn't much for superstition, but his fingers itched to cross himself. He restrained the impulse, fearing it would appear impolite.
    “What is it you want?” he asked the Toymaker.
    “I have a wager with a . . . companion of mine. He maintains that I cannot persuade a young man such as yourself to accept a task from me. Now, it is indeed a difficult task, but the reward for its completion is well worth the risk.”
    “What are you looking to propose?”
    “It's rather asocial experiment, if you will. The subject”—he gestured toward Toby—“—you, for example—would do without bath or barber for the next seven years. You would eschew change of clothes. You would stay away from church or temple, and pray to no god. You would tell no one your reasons for such behavior.
    “In return, you would have unlimited funds at your disposal, to spend or dispense with as you wished. If you survive until the end of the term without breaking any of these prohibitions, you would receive riches beyond your dreams for the rest of your days.”
    “And if I don't survive, or I break a rule?”
    “Why, then you belong to me.” The Toymaker's eyes caught the fire in such a way that they appeared to glow red, and there seemed to be the tips of small horns peeking through his hair.
    Toby inhaled sharply. He'd heard of such things—encounters with the Wicked One in the wilderness. It was rare they ended well. Still, there were a few exceptions . . . and Pa had always said he had the Devil's own luck. Seven years was just under half of what he'd spent upon this earth so far, but the deal held its charms. He was a hearty soul and good at getting by. The prohibitions weren't much more than many a man who rode the rails back home might face. The thought he wouldn't have the comfort of prayer was daunting, but it wouldn't be forever. The God he worshiped would understand.
    A thought occurred to him. “Would that be pray out loud, or pray at all?”
    “Clever, boy! Most people never think to ask for clarification. What you do inside your head I am not privy to. How could I be?”
    Toby pondered. In the end, he could clean himself up again, confess his sins to God. And be rich. To a young man of not yet twenty who had spent four years on the battlefield, it sounded like a cake walk. He could survive.
    Besides, if he died, would the hell the Toymaker promised be any worse than the one he was living with in his head? It would be an adventure—more pleasant than the battlefield at any rate.
    “I'll do it.”
    The Toymaker held out his hand. “Shake to seal the bargain.”
    And Toby did.

    The next morning, he found himself alone in the clearing. His sturdy coat, which he had been using as an extra blanket, was gone, the Toymaker's threadbare velvet greatcoat left in its place.
    “What's all this then, Chester?” he asked his stoic companion.
    There was also a note in a spidery script he had to puzzle out.