“By the spring, I saw a monkey, a mono araña, with a face as white as a ghost, and a bat flew overhead. The monkey said to me, ‘The little bat above must spread her wings or she will fall into the chasm. Her strength and her …’” Don Pedro paused and wrinkled his brow. “‘Her strength and her fun are gifts to be used.’”

My strength and fun? As usual, Don Pedro made no sense. I held up the powdery cloth and said, “I’m not going to have any problems getting this through customs, am I?”

“Laws of mortal man do not govern the dead.”

“That goes without saying. Now, about the writing fee …” I lobbied for twice the amount he had initially offered. Fifteen minutes later I agreed to a sum that would pay for my loft repairs and keep me gainfully underemployed for another year.

Don Pedro agreed to transfer a third of the funds into my bank account, pay another third upon delivery of the manuscript, and pay the balance when it was accepted by the publisher.

I felt somewhat regretful as I signed the release that gave Don Pedro all rights to the sequel. But he was the reason for the first book’s success: people wanted to read about his life and they adored his loony interviews and seminars.

“One more thing,” Don Pedro said.

“What?”

“It would please me to have the story written by hand,” he said, and brought out five standard composition books. He unfolded a sheet of paper from one. “Here is a sample of my writing and you have such a discerning eye, I know you can copy it.”

No electronic evidence, I thought. “You’re in luck, Don Pedro. I happen to be an accomplished forger.”

“Oh, no, this is not forgery,” he said, shocked. “It is transcribing from my spiritual transmission.”

“You say potato, I say fauxtato. Whatever.”

As Don Pedro left, he said, “You will know how to use the magic of the cloth.”

“I don’t believe in magic.”

“You are magic.” He put his fine-boned hand on my wrist. “You are Milagro de Los Santos, the Miracle of the Saints. You must trust in yourself, in the role that destiny has written for you. Even though others would put you in a cage, the one who watches you recognizes your true self and loves you still.”

I was surprised at the shiver that went through me. “I know you’re full of it, but damn if I don’t want to believe you.”

“Then do,” he said, and winked one of his big bug eyes.

After Don Pedro left I decided to call Wilcox Spiggott.