The Mexican walks up the stairs to the porch and waits for Antonia and Elijah. They slap the dust off their jeans, stomp it off their boots, and join him. He opens a heavy wooden door onto an entry hall coated in honey-colored light. Old portraits look down on old furniture, a scene from another time, except for the canned laughter of a sitcom coming from somewhere upstairs.

The Mexican slides a panel aside and nods the Fiends into the room revealed, a library with leather armchairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a cold, dark fireplace. An oil lamp flickers on a wide desk at the far end of the chamber, behind which a shadowy figure waits.

“Welcome,” the shade says.

Antonia and Elijah approach the desk, their footfalls muffled by the thick carpets covering the tile floor. The man at the desk stands. “George Moore,” he says. “And you must be the Fiends I’ve heard tell about.” He shakes Elijah’s hand, kisses Antonia’s.

He’s tall and fat. Fat fingers, fat thighs, fat face. In age, he could be anywhere between forty and sixty. It’s hard to read with all the extra flesh. He’s wearing a rich man’s getup from a hundred years ago: waistcoat, watch chain, string tie. His hair is oiled, and his big bushy sideburns look like they’re straining to hold up his chins.

“I apologize for the gloom,” he says. “But I can’t abide electric light. I was born in 1806, and as far as I’m concerned, the world’s been going to hell since 1860.”

“We try to keep up with the times,” Antonia says.

“I heard,” Moore says. “You sounded like Judgment Day coming up the drive.”

“It does put the fear of God in you, doesn’t it?” Elijah says.

“Is that what this is all about?” Moore says with a contemptuous wave. “The motor scooters, the jackets, the attitude?”

“Doesn’t hurt to have people wary of you,” Antonia says.

Moore takes a skinny cigar from a carved wooden box on the desk and tilts the box toward Elijah. “Care to join me?”

“Never took it up,” Elijah says.

Moore starts to close the box. Before he can, Antonia darts out a hand and grabs a cigar. Moore raises his eyebrows but recovers quickly, striking a match and holding it out to her.

“Is smoking part of keeping up with the times?” he says.

“Oh, hell,” Antonia replies. “Ladies have been smoking as long as men have.”

“Not in my circle,” Moore says. “Not ladies.” Antonia makes a face but holds her tongue. Moore sees this and smiles. “Then again, I don’t know much about how things are these days,” he continues. “I haven’t left this ranch in a hundred years—haven’t had to.” He motions to two chairs in front of the desk. “Let’s relax, shall we?”

The three of them sit. Antonia is still perturbed.