a side of salmon, and propose toast after toast until Mrs. Wangenstein slid out of her chair, weeping and apologizing to everyone and her absent family. Myron tasted a little of the wine, and learned that the sip he took was worth almost two hundred dollars. Oliver drank three glasses, and began to vomit, which got the sobbing Mrs. Wangenstein vomiting, too. This happened more than once. At first Myron thought the sip of wine made him feel so strange, but eventually he realized it was the salmon. Several weeks went by.
One day alarms sounded, the militiamen mobilized outside, and a car ground along the gravel drive. Mignon Emanuel and Florence came to the door to meet it, which was unusual, and Myron and Oliver hung around to see what would happen. Out of the car stepped—Benson! He wore a leather duster and mirror shades, and over his shoulder he balanced a shotgun. Myron began to panic, but Benson just wanted to talk to Mignon Emanuel. Their rather strained and trite conversation went something like:
“You know Lynch knows you have him,” from Benson.
“It was bound to happen.”
“Don’t be stupid, just hand him over. Lynch has a lot of contacts.”
“Tell him you’ve seen that I have contacts here, too. He’s welcome to come, you know, even if I didn’t get around to sending an invitation.”
“He knows about the conference next week. He must know about the little trick you can do by now, too.”
“Truth be told, I’ve been having a little trouble with that. It’s why I had to leave. But the boy’s safe here, tell him that. Oh, and, Benson”—melodramatically, over her shoulder, as she turned away. “I could always use more muscle.”
“Yeah, well. I could always use a good driver.” They nodded to each other, and Benson left. Myron’s heart returned to its usual location.
The next day another car with visitors came, which the murmuring of the mobilized grunts indicated was very unusual.
Oliver and Myron came running again, but they missed the introductions. Once again, Mignon Emanuel was standing in the doorway, the guests on the porch. Florence paced back and forth nervously.
“They’re all Indian,” whispered Oliver, hidden down the hall behind a late Roman reproduction of a Greek statue of Dionysus.
“And they’re not wearing hats,” Myron noted. “Very interesting.”
“You’re a little early,” Mignon Emanuel was saying.
One of the three Indians adjusted his tie awkwardly. “We actually aren’t going to be able to come to the conference. We just thought it needful to warn you—”
“Threats aren’t warnings,” Mignon Emanuel said. She had clearly lost all interest in the conversation.
“This is not a threat; make no mistake. It’s one of our own, Dantaghata, a very junior member, we fear he may be coming this way. This has none of our sanction—”
“Don’t play innocent. If he’s of such low rank, how would he even know to come here?”
“He’s been talking to Meridiana. You know no one can control what Meridiana tells one.”
“Meridiana,” Myron whispered to Oliver, “is their brazen head.”
“Know-it-all,” said Oliver.
Mignon Emanuel was looking off into the distance. “Yes, yes. Well, I can take care of myself. Now, if you’ll excuse—”
“Kindly listen, he even managed to steal from us the astra. The astra of the gods.”
“Take better care of your things. Good day.” And she slammed the door. Through a window, Myron watched the militia jeer and catcall as the three Unknown Men drove away. It was the most excitement they’d seen since Myron had shown up.
Later that day, Myron and Oliver were walking idly down one of the labyrinthine corridors. Myron was trying to gauge how much Oliver knew about his upcoming debut—the answer appeared to be nothing—when Myron felt something familiar and awful. His legs buckled, and he fell over. He thought he was going to die, so when Oliver nudged him with his toe, Myron said, “I just slipped.”
“I wouldn’t lie on the carpet, man. The soldiers are kind of halfhearted housecleaners.”
Myron struggled to his feet, and, his head still swimming, looked around. The impulse came from a door, a door like any other in the house. Myron staggered over to it and tried the handle, but of course it was locked. From the large keyhole came a kind of miasma.
“Can you smell that? I mean, can you feel that?” Myron said.
“Are you on drugs?”
The keyhole was keyhole-shaped, of course, but Myron had never seen, before coming to this house, a keyhole in that shape. With infinite care, he put his eye up to it, but the