“What about that incorporate bond?” Plum said. “How are we going to break it? What with that being impossible and all.”

“We will have to do the impossible,” the bird said, “which is why I hired magicians and not accountants. I mentioned resources earlier. We will discuss each of your needs individually.”

The meeting gradually disintegrated. Quentin stood up. They could talk about his needs later, whatever they were. For now he needed some air, and some food, and maybe a drink to celebrate the beginning of his new life of crime. Something soft brushed his ear and prickled his shoulder, and he had to resist the instinctive urge to slap at it. It was the bird.

“Christ!” he said. “Don’t do that.”

Maybe you got used to it. Julia had.

“Do you know why I asked you here?” it whispered, putting its beak right up against his ear.

“I could make a pretty good guess.”

“It is not for your skill at mending.”

“That wasn’t going to be my guess.”

The bird flew off again, back to Lionel’s shoulder, which Quentin now noticed was worn and stained with use.

—

Plum agreed to meet him in the hotel bar.

The lights were too bright, and there were too many TVs, but it was a bar, and that was another place, like bookstores, where Quentin felt at home. Drinks were a lot like books, really: it didn’t matter where you were, the contents of a vodka tonic were always more or less the same, and you could count on them to take you away to somewhere better or at least make your present arrangements seem more manageable. The other patrons appeared to be business travelers and tourists who’d been stranded by canceled flights; looking around Quentin was pretty sure there was not one single person in the bar who was actually there by choice.

It was no time for half measures. He took a seat next to Plum and ordered a gin martini, dry, with a twist.

“I thought you were a wine person,” Plum said. She’d ordered mineral water.

“Lately I’ve had to up my dosage. I thought you were a wine person.”

“I’m thinking right now I’d better try to keep my wits about me.”

They watched TV for a minute, a soccer game. The green pitch looked cool and inviting; it was almost a shame it was covered with soccer players. She didn’t seem eager to go first, so he did.

“So how’d they get to you?”

“A letter,” she said. “When I got back to my room that night it was already on my bed. I’m still trying to figure out how they did that. So far it’s the most impressive thing about this whole operation.”

“Are you really sure you want to be here?”