He splashed out a tiny drop of whisky for each of us. I touched my lips to the dark, almost black potation.

It tasted as if I had taken a sip from a peat bog.

And then it felt as if I had drunk liquid fire.

Erasmus watched me, chuckling quietly.

“It takes a bit of getting used to,” I said, putting down my glass. “It’s very . . . very unusual.”

“Do you like it?”

“I can’t say yet,” I admitted honestly. “But I can say one thing for certain—it’s a unique drink. Lagavulin doesn’t even come close.”

“Ha!” Erasmus snorted. “Lagavulin, Laphroaig—all that’s for pampered modern folk . . . But you’re forthright, Antoine. I like that.”

“What point is there in lying to a Prophet?” I asked, shrugging.

“Well, what kind of Prophet am I . . .” Erasmus said, and sipped on his powerful drink, suddenly embarrassed. “Just a petty Clairvoyant . . . Yes, I’ll try to talk in a way that you can understand, but I don’t see people very often—if I seem excessively old-fashioned, please tell me straight away.”

“All right.” I picked up the plastic bag I had brought and held it out to Erasmus. “The head of the Moscow Night Watch asked me to give you this.”

“His Eminence Gesar?” Erasmus asked curiously. “And what’s in it?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Erasmus took a small letter opener off the mantelshelf and started opening the bag with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old child who has found his long-awaited present on Christmas morning.

“How have I merited the attention of the great warrior of the Light . . .” Erasmus muttered. “And why have I been favored with a present . . .”

I realized that the retired Dark Other was playing the fool. But for someone who lived practically locked away from the world in the center of London, that was an entirely forgivable weakness.