A burst of laughter from down the hall strongly suggested where that bar might be found. But when they turned to head in its direction, Gus nearly tripped over an enormous lump on the floor. Looking down, he saw a crown of bald scalp laurelled with graying ringlets that resolved into a greasy ponytail. Fleshy hands scrabbled over the carpet, scraping together a mound of playing cards.

The lump looked up and Gus found himself peering into the cherubic face of a Quattrocento putto -or at least what such a cupid might have looked like if he’d spent his thirties and forties trapped inside a bottle of vodka.

“Knew I shouldn’t have tried the Brazilian shuffle in public yet,” the putto said sheepishly as he gathered the rest of the cards into a neat block and scooped them into one hand. He used the other to push himself up to his knees, and from there up to his feet. Once he was standing, he adjusted the cummerbund on his too-tight tuxedo to cover the stomach-revealing gap in his shirt. “Darn cards keep getting away from me. Speaking of which…”

The putto fanned the deck clumsily and thrust it under Gus’ nose. “Choose a card.”

Gus’ hand reached up reflexively, but Shawn pulled it back down.

“We’d prefer not to choose,” Shawn said. “We like them all equally.”

“No, really, this is good,” the putto insisted. “I’ve practiced it a lot.” His face blazed red as he screwed up his mouth in embarrassment. “I mean, it will astonish and amaze you. You like being astonished and amazed, don’t you?”

Gus had to admit he did. He reached out for a card, but again Shawn pulled his hand away. “You’re just encouraging him.”

“What’s the problem?” Gus said. “All he wants is to do a trick for us.”

“Sure, that’s how it starts,” Shawn said. “But then he’s going to follow you home, and you’re going to want to take care of him. You’ll promise to feed him and clean up after him and take him out for walks-”