That night—it was a rotten night, if ever there was one. Some of the worst dreams she’d ever had, and she was given to bad dreams. Everything became all jumbled together in her sleeping mind. The cowled figure of Black Annie became the three cowled kings of the Rhinehart Magi. The haunted corridor of Ravenswood Grange became an endless labyrinth through Belham. She was wandering, feeling her way. Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Remember, Sophia. Whoever buys The Magi … She kept waking up, afraid—really terrified—and then sinking back helplessly. Tick-tick, tick-tick. The dreams like quicksand, seizing her. The dread seizing her. Corridor after corridor, searching in the dark, and every picture on the walls was the Magi panel. Remember, Sophia …

Finally, with a noise as much of anger as of fear, she wrenched herself out of it. Lay dumbly sullen in her bed, rubbing her arms to keep warm. A blank moment. No memories, a vague hazardous ambience. The familiar shapes of her bedroom congealing: tall frames of exhibition posters, oversized art books on a low case, the curve of her rolltop desk, the friendly bulk of the computer beside it, the towers of books on the floor …

The alarm went off. The radio. “This is BBC Radio Four. It’s seven o’clock …” And the time tones: bing, bing, bing …

The Resurrection, Sophia remembered suddenly. Her heart dropped like a hanged man. I am going to be murdered tonight …

And then the newsreader started speaking: “The body of German antiques dealer Jon Bremer was found floating in the Thames this morning. Police say his murder may have been the work of Satanists. A rising and respected figure in the European antiques world, Bremer was the victim, before he died, of what a police spokesman called ‘diabolical torture.’ The spokesman said Bremer’s eyes were punctured …”

Sophia sat up in bed.

“… and strange symbols carved into his chest.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

The newsreader moved on to other stories. And Sophia covered her mouth with her hand. She stared into the rising light. Stared at where her desk had been, her books, her computer. At where now she saw only the image of Jon Bremer’s youthful, warm and handsome face—his living face. Staring back at her with the gory, running sockets that had been his earnest eyes.

4

“Who is this Sophia Endering?” said Richard Storm suddenly.

“Shh!” said Harper Albright.

Storm forced a stage whisper: “I was just wondering. Do you know her at all?”

Harper didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. So he was still thinking about her, she reflected—and it was almost two weeks since Bolt’s party; it was practically the end of December now.