Yehuda Leib followed, but before long, he found himself looking back.

Where was Bluma?

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Mammon had turned to speak to her.

Bluma had drawn near the table, eager to peer around the little group of scholars at the open, battered book.

“That book contains accounts of consultation with Dantalion. It is unbelievably dangerous.”

“Why?” said Bluma.

“Because some of it is true.”

Slowly, Bluma turned away from the table.

Unlike the two preceding door guards, the man beside the candle at the end of the hallway looked young and hale, with only a smattering of patchy brown beard on his cheeks.

Yehuda Leib, however, was not fooled by his appearance: his eyes were canny and ancient.

“Lord Mammon,” said the young man, rising from behind his desk. “The Dantalion gives you welcome.”

“Yes,” said Mammon. “I’ve come to seek his counsel in accordance with our treaties.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the young man behind the desk, laying his reading aside and flipping open a thick book beside him.

But Yehuda Leib was surprised. “Is there no examination here?” he said.

The man behind the desk smiled. “Lord Mammon’s treaties provide him access to the Dantalion without the ordeal of examination. For others, though, there is a question.”

“What is it?” said Yehuda Leib.

“What it is is not worth your time,” said Mammon.

“Why not?”

“Because,” said Mammon, “if you answer incorrectly, you won’t be allowed to pass through the door, and if you answer correctly, the door will lead you somewhere you don’t wish to go.”

The young man behind the desk was smiling softly. That didn’t seem fair at all.

“Well, what’s the question?” said Yehuda Leib.

“Are you sure you wish to hear?” said the young man behind the desk. “Once the question has been put, it must be answered.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” said Mammon. “I’m here to consult Lord Dantalion. Give me the ledger.”

“Very well,” said the young man, turning the thick book to face Mammon. “There,” he said, pointing to a line in the middle of the page.

With his left hand, Mammon took a spindly ink pen from the desk and scratched away at the paper in the book, crowning his jotting with a large, looping question mark.

“Very good,” said the young man, and with a practiced motion, he snapped the heavy book shut.

But scarcely had one hand left its calfskin cover when he reached back again with the other to open it once more. There, tucked neatly into the binding, like a bookmark, was something that hadn’t been there before: a cream-colored card. On it, in Mammon’s own hand, a long string of letters and numbers had been carefully written.

The ink was still wet.