A crossbow. He understood: this was the weapon Aarne had promised him. He lifted it by its cherrywood butt and, knowing nothing about crossbows, stupidly admired the carving on its tiller—dancing nymphs and a satyr—while its prod was pointing directly at his chest.

He made a gargling sound as he twisted it away from him, noting then that it was fully cocked, with a wicked-looking bolt in its channel, ready to loose. He had almost shot himself.

He remembered the flask. His palate was immediately awash with a sweet, intense flavor, cinnamon and anise and something bitter. It was like trying to taste all the colors of a sunset, in summer, in the company of lyrical poets.

Hadn’t Aarne claimed the monks here had made no liqueurs? And yet, clearly, here was a flask of liqueur! The following taste from the flask was a kiss on a summer evening, fireworks. Aarne! A man of secrets! He had very likely eaten excellent cheeses in Paris! If Hugo had asked, “Are the women beautiful?,” Aarne would have said, “Of course,” because women in need of rescue immediately became beautiful.

The crossbow had a simple trigger. How much of an expert did Hugo need to be? He aligned the weapon within the twin sets of teeth that rested in the balistraria’s jaw, aimed at the man, and—shooting while drunk— released the string.

Loosed into the nighttime air was a quadrello fashioned from yew, with leather wings that caused it to rotate in flight. Its tip, sharper than a razor blade, screw-shaped, hit the target in the side of his head, where his hand was touching it, tearing through muscle and bone like a drill bit.

With a little yelp, the bundled man in the snow stood up. He turned left, then right, hand pinned to his head, arm moving in peculiar obedience as he turned. And then he toppled.

Hugo looked at his crossbow as if it had just prepared a four-course meal for him. He brought his hands into the air and threw his head back in silent exaltation. It had worked! He took a grander mouthful from the flask, which brought less of a revelation than he’d hoped. As if trying to kindle a fire, he thought, Oh, you clever bow! He looked again at the body in the snow—yes, definitely dead. He looked at the Chaplin standee, then punched it in the chest so it fell over, flat. Take that!