Stephen was waiting for me at the airport. The wind had tousled his hair and his streak of white hair covered his eyes. The white had appeared the day after his first Ceremonial: that was when Juan marked Stephen’s back with his golden claws. It was an unforgettable moment, because Stephen was very young, because he was Florence’s son, and because the wounds were deep and long, running from beneath his shoulder blades to his waist. All the participants screamed: they thought Juan had killed him. The healing was as definitive, immediate, and perfect as when he cauterized my uncle’s mutilated hand. The two elegant lines, Stephen would say now, proved he was a fallen angel, and were very attractive to his lovers. But even so, when he received them, the trauma left him speechless and gave him those sudden white hairs. The mark also indicated that he was the medium’s companion, if he desired. I never felt jealous: on the contrary, it was a relief to have someone with whom to share the task.

We embraced like lovers: he picked me up and spun me around amid the travelers and tourists, the porters, the voice announcing the next flights. I adored Stephen; he had all the joy and defiance I was lacking, at least in those days. He carried the suitcases to the car that would take us to the Order’s headquarters, his mother’s house in St. John’s Wood. Though my family had houses in London and could also rent one for me, Florence preferred, at first, for me to be her guest. She wants to understand why you’re leaving Juan, Stephen had told me. But I wasn’t leaving him. Was it so hard to explain? My life had been dedicated to him for the past six years. I wanted to miss him and go back to him with real desire. I wanted him to become a man. I understand perfectly, my friend, Stephen said. If only Juan could understand too, I replied. He will, and if not, I’ll beat it into him. I laughed and kissed Stephen on the cheek. He was in love with Juan too, but he never interfered with us and I always wanted him nearby, like the other spouse, the peacekeeper.

The house in St. John’s Wood was surrounded by a brick wall that blocked its view from the street. I had been there before, some years earlier on a brief trip. It had a garden that was lovely but sad, with a stone fountain, red and yellow roses, and gravel paths. The intense green of the grass made you squint your eyes. The house held the Order’s main library. A group of experts cared for more than three thousand books; there were also two rooms dedicated to contemporary editions. And in the most closely guarded place, the Book that was written in the words of the Darkness, the Order’s sacred Book, to which Juan had contributed the best and most extensive pages. Because of that crucial contribution, he was granted a normal life, with less frequent Ceremonials and a new method that wasn’t based on using him to exhaustion, like all of his predecessors had been. Florence was proud of having made that decision, because the results were clear: never had the Darkness given so much information, though it was at times erratic and confused. Our task is to interpret it, she said, and we must learn patience.