At the moment Serrin was closing his eyes for a bit of rest, somewhere in London’s East End, blood was dripping down onto the floorboards of a nondescript apartment in the neighborhood known as Whitechapel. The knife had done its work and now was the time for greater precision.

In Chelsea, yet another part of the city, a nobleman was turning his gaze from the flickering computer screen to the elegantly fluted bottle resting in a monogrammed silver ice bucket. Geraint drew the bottle toward him, wrapped a linen cloth around the cork, and pulled it out so carefully that the hiss of escaping gas was barely audible. She hadn’t heard; she would be deeply asleep by now. Dom Ruisse ‘38 would have been wasted on the girl-one of Geraint’s rare lapses of taste.

He clipped the rubber seal over the bottle and depressed the silver hooks to keep the chilled champagne fresh. The wine tasted good, and he contemplated the pleasure of it as he idly swirled the bubbles in his glass. Then his gaze traveled, almost involuntarily, past the row of financial yearbooks and references by his work station to the mahogany box etched with images of dragons. He hesitated for only the briefest instant, then flipped the gold catch and drew out the black silk bundle containing his deck of cards. He cleared a space on the cool white surface of the table, pushed his glass to one side, then expertly shuffled the unwieldy deck several times. He sat for several long moments, mentally aligning himself with the Tarot. Feeling the rapport established, he lit a cigarette and left it to spiral blue smoke from the marbled ashtray.

With a sudden motion he reached out to cut the deck with a single, decisive sweep, then flicked over the top card.

The Magician.

Geraint was startled, not expecting this after so many years. The signal from a card of the Major Arcana was quite unequivocal: Serrin!