Sirin told a joke of some kind, but I didn’t understand the punch line. We sat there uncomfortably for a moment before I said, “I came here to see if—”

“You came here to find work for Duncan, and possibly for yourself. Your gallery is failing. Duncan was indiscreet with a student. Tell me why I should help you?”

No respite from that uncanny knack he had for knowing things. I said the only thing I could say: “We’ve always done good work for you. Rarely missed a deadline. Our private lives have never affected Hoegbotton.”

Sirin laughed at that—or perhaps I am again remembering some other meeting—and as his body shook with that not unsympathetic laughter, a strange black dust rose from his suit.

He sat forward, elbows on the desk, fingers templed. His features took on a sudden intensity. He said: “I am going to recommend you both for positions. Temporary or permanent, who can tell? Something horrible is about to happen that will provide an opportunity for you both to find work. The Ambergris Daily Broadsheet will soon become the only reliable source for information. They will need reporters. Between the two of you, you should be able to supply that need and do a good job.” (Just do a good job? Nothing was ever so simple with Sirin, which is why I kept well away from him.)

This information stunned me. “How do you know?” I started to say, but then shrugged. I had given up trying to understand how or why Sirin knew so much, or why it continued to surprise me. Someday, I was sure, Sirin would write a book that explained it all.

“It doesn’t matter why, does it? I’m offering you employment.” (Witty, yes. Clever, yes, with a core of hidden sadness, but also deadly in his way.)

He leaned forward, offered me a card from the end of his long fingers. I liked looking into his eyes, used to experience a tiny tremor from the effect of that gaze.

“Visit the editor at the Broadsheet,” he said, “in about six weeks. When it all begins.”

“Six weeks is a long time to wait,” I said. Ahead, in those six weeks, lay a period of the doldrums—Duncan stalking Mary from afar, unable to get close, while I piloted the doddering skeleton of my ever-less-seaworthy ship of a gallery. At times, sitting at my desk with no customers on the horizon, I could actually feel the room begin to list from side to side, the gallery anchored to nothing more permanent than perpetual debt.

Sirin sat back in his chair. “Not as long as you might think.” His gaze softened. “I cannot guarantee you anything, Janice. No one ever receives what might be called an ironclad guarantee. Now, I have another appointment, so you’ll have to excuse me. If you’re lucky, perhaps you can turn your work for the Broadsheet into a book for me. We’ll see about that later, depending on whether or not Ambergris is still standing at the end of this.”