Keeping the glasses trained on his intended victim, Stricklend takes a gentle hold of the silken cord with his left hand. The plaited slub feels pleasingly cool in the heat of the auditorium. Slowly he winds it around his hand, once, twice, gradually letting the cord tighten, taking up the slack so that the narrow rope starts to dig into the loose flesh between his thumb and forefinger. His lips move, silently forming the Suffering Spell he chose with such careful deliberation. As the ancient entreaties and curses fill his dry mouth, the man in the private box puts down his cigar and begins to pull at his starched collar, feebly at first, and then with increasing irritation. Soon he is tugging at his tie, releasing the neat white bow so that it falls into limp lines down his shirt front. His wife becomes aware something is wrong with her husband, and utters a small cry of alarm as she watches his wineglass fall to the ground and empty its contents into the dense wool carpet. The man staggers to his feet, one hand clawing at his throat, the other clutching the brass rail in front of him. Others in his party seek to come to his aid, clustering round uselessly, fanning him with their programs, calling for water, powerless to ease his distress. Stricklend can sense the man attempting to summon his powers as a witch to protect himself, but his actions come too little and too late.

And all the while the notes of Mozart’s melodies drift about them like so much confetti caught up in a breeze.

Stricklend tightens the cord and moves on to the Stopping Spell he selected for the occasion. It is a relatively basic piece of magic, perhaps lacking something in elegance, but he has used it several times before, and it gives reliable, and crucially, swift results. As he continues to watch through his opera glasses, he pulls the cord still closer around his hand, aware of the veins beneath his skin constricting and interrupting the flow of blood, in much the same way the air is being squeezed out of the gasping man opposite him. The wife has become distraught and sets up a wail that even the orchestra cannot compete with. The second violins falter. The conductor is distracted and turns to follow their gaze, causing the percussion section to crash into one another. Susanna pales beneath her greasepaint. The man in the private box has insufficient breath left to make any noise at all, so that it is to the accompaniment of women’s shrieks and a stalwart French horn that he finally pitches forward over the rail and plummets into the stalls.

*   *   *