With difficulty, the Dark One stood and pulled itself woozily from the grave. It was dizzy, its head pounding, and just as it began to find its balance, an oily voice rang out from across the graveyard.

“Most Reverend Regent!”

The Dark One raised a hand to its head. If no one at all ever yelled again, it would have no objection.

“Oh, Most Reverend Regent,” said Belial, dodging lightly between the headstones to make his way nearer. “I am so pleased to have caught you. I was just—”

“Belial,” said the Dark One. “I must beg you to lower your voice.”

“Yes, Most Reverend Regent,” said Belial. “Yes, of course. But I must tell you—”

The Dark One sighed. “Perhaps later, Belial. I am in no mood—”

“Ah,” said Belial. “But there has been terrible misbehavior. Terrible. And—”

“Yes,” said the Dark One. “And I am sure that you shall be only too happy to tell me about it when I return home.”

All around them, scampering goblins were hard at work striking Lord Azazel’s grand pavilion, packing the pieces onto carts and sledges. With a lurch, the Dark One realized how late it was.

Had it missed the wedding?

“But,” sputtered Belial. “But, Most Reverend—”

“That will do for now,” said the Dark One, and, wobbling slightly, it lurched toward the iron gates of the cemetery.

There was no question: Zubinsk was not in celebration today. There were scarcely any people about, and the few who moved through the streets wore drawn, mournful expressions.

How long had it been? Was it possible that the Dark One had slept two full nights? Or even more?

But no. The wedding celebration had not simply passed through Zubinsk and gone again—something had replaced it, something heavy and mournful.

What had happened?

The dusk huddled in close as the Dark One’s feet turned down the Rebbe’s broad, empty road. Last night’s snow had been trampled into the cobbles by many people, but rumors of angry soldiers had torn through the town, and, fearing a violent pogrom, the Jews of Zubinsk had taken shelter.

Now the place was deserted.

A memory was stirring in the Dark One’s pounding head. It had been here last night. It had done something.

Clapping hands. Dancing feet.

What had happened?

With a sigh, the Dark One slotted its hands into the deep pockets of its black raiment.

They were empty.

Whatever else had happened, it needed to recover its instrument—of that it was sure.

It had waited too long.

Halfway down the road, the plate-glass door to a richly stocked general store hung ajar. The Dark One could not abide such things—doors left open, chairs pushed out, candles burning down in emptied rooms—and so, moving swiftly and softly, it grasped the frigid doorknob and pulled.

The little bell inside jingled lightly as the door met its jamb.