He looked at it for a moment; then his gaze shifted to me, a look of stark incredulity on his face. “Bread?” he asked, his voice silky with some European accent.

“It has garlic on it,” I said, pulling open the loaf to show him the tiny bits of garlic smooshed into the butter. “So just stay back!”

He reached out and touched the garlic butter, licking the tip of his finger. “Very tasty.”

“You’re not . . . Garlic isn’t poisonous to you?” I asked, taken aback.

He closed his eyes for a moment, a martyred expression on his face. “No, that’s a fallacy created by mortals. I assume you are Pia Thomason? I am-”

“No, you don’t,” I said, desperately looking around as he started to enter my house. I snatched up the religious newsletter and shoved it at him.

He didn’t flinch, or shriek, or run madly away at the image of something religious. He just took it and gave me a long-suffering look. “ ‘The Watchtower’?”

I slumped against the door. “I should have known it wouldn’t work-Kristoff dragged me to a church to marry me, after all-but it was the only thing I had.”

He took the garlic bread from me, and set it and the newsletter down on the table next to the door. “Pia Thomason, I am here by a directive from the Moravian Council. As you are no doubt aware, you have been ordered to appear before the council to answer questions that have arisen since the events of June this year. For matters of your safety and comfort, I will escort you to Vienna, and am authorized to meet any reasonable financial needs the journey will impose upon you. The plane leaves in four hours. Am I correct in assuming that you are not yet packed for the journey?”

I picked up the cell phone, saying into it, “It’s the messenger, all right, and he’s immune to both garlic and religious things. He wants me to go to Vienna.”