Martin moves quick, wondering what the fuck all this is. There’s sloppy pickups in bars, dangerous even, all the time under his watch, but this is penny-dreadful material the way this man is moving. He might as well be twirling a long waxed mustache, and for a jumpy moment, right when Reynard darts back a glance at the barman, he is. Then his face is clean-shaven and his eyes like the desperate and famished. There is no fire extinguisher for desire, but Lord knows, Martin thinks, there should be. Wall-mounted in every bedroom and watering hole, in all public buildings starting in seventh grade, under every wedding canopy, IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS. This, whipped up in seconds, will have to do.

“Try this,” Martin says, also to himself. “Try these. New thing. Down the hatch. Hallowed Spirits whiskey, in a quick shot with some Athens ouzo and a local Fernet.”

Rachel turns her face to face him. Her expression is that of, I was dreaming of eating marshmallows and now I am awake and my pillow is gone. “What is it?”

“Calling it Eye of Newt,” the barman riffs.

“Don’t listen to him,” Reynard says, but Rachel already has the drink in her hands.

“The name’s not final, it’s true,” Martin says, right to her. Her eyes are starlit and her mouth is already open.

“Let’s get some air,” Reynard says, standing up and cloaking.

“Slam it down,” the barman says gently, and Mrs. Nickels does so. It’s barking strong, a punch in every gut. The men watch the drink work through her like ink in the bath. She startles, stands and totters. Martin is around the bar to catch her before Reynard has a chance.

“Oh, dear,” Reynard says, like there’s vomit on the sidewalk.

“I’ve got her,” the barman says. “This happens.”

“Guess you shouldn’t have given her that drink.”

Rachel groans and passes way out. Martin has her full weight and watches one shoe waver off her foot. “It’s a life of regret,” he says.