As we approach the familiar red door we find the alleyway blocked by a small gathering of agitated people. The commotion appears to center around a ferocious-looking man with a wild beard and even wilder eyes. As I draw closer I recognize him. I glance at Withers, but can see that he is not as familiar with the outlandish creature as I. It is none other than the artist, Richard Mangan, one of our more colorful coven members. He is clearly drunk, and to let him see me now, to have him talk to me in such a state, would be risky indeed. It is an accepted rule of being a Lazarus witch that, when one unexpectedly encounters another in the Outerworld, we take great care not to reveal that we are acquainted unless we have previously been introduced to one another in society. To do so would raise many awkward questions. I am not surprised to see him in his cups, but I am surprised to find him here. Can it be that he, like my brother, is in thrall to the pernicious substance on offer in this place? I pull my hood a little lower over my face and turn slightly into the shadows.

Withers comments, “Not the usual behavior of one of Mr. Chow Li’s customers, my lady.”

“Indeed not.”

For the most part, those who frequent the Chinaman’s establishment arrive in minor states of agitation or deep despair, and whatever their private torment, leave at least quietly. While the artist is clearly being asked to leave, and encouraged to do so by his friends, he is doing it with considerable noise.

“A man is only as good as his word!” he rages. “If, then, a man’s word will not be taken as good, not even by one who knows him, what should we make of him? Of either of the fellows?” The bear of a man reels as he rants, his arms flinging wide, one hand clutching an empty brandy bottle. “I offered my promise of payment by the week’s end, but I was not believed! Not trusted!”

A slight man with light brown hair makes a feeble attempt to calm his friend, but to no effect.

“I will not be silenced!” bellows the inebriated Mangan. “My honor is at stake! I will defend myself as I must!”

A slender woman with striking red hair flowing loose almost to her waist puts a hand on his arm and says something I cannot catch. For a moment it looks as if her words might have struck home, but then the Mangan begins to argue the point with her.

I grow tired of waiting and turn to the nearest of the troublemaker’s acquaintances.

“Would you kindly tell your friend to allow us to pass?”