“Ah,” said the little round-headed fellow. “I see. And how do you propose to get it back?”

“I thought,” said Yehuda Leib, “that if I explained the situation…”

“Ha!” He seemed to be genuinely amused. “You won’t get anything from Mammon without paying, I can promise you that—no matter what the situation is.”

“Well, then,” said Yehuda Leib, “I’ll offer him a trade.”

Thin lips curled into a smirk, showing the yellowed arrowheads of the fellow’s teeth. “You? What could you possibly have to trade?”

Yehuda Leib was at a loss. He hadn’t come with a plan, and he had little of value. A spare cap? A few potatoes? “I don’t know.”

The fellow’s round head wagged back and forth. “This business is seeming less and less urgent by the moment,” he said.

A warm flush was spreading across Yehuda Leib’s face. It was urgent, whether this tiresome old fellow thought so or not.

“But—”

“I think I shall have that nap after all,” said the fellow.

“But—”

“Do wake me when Lord Mammon arrives, won’t you?”

“But—”

The little fellow began to snore with a sound like a thousand billiard balls cracking together at once.

Yehuda Leib sat back and let out a tight sigh. He did not much savor the idea of sitting and waiting.

When his eyes fell on the crowded little table by the foot of the dais, then, he greeted it gratefully: a distraction from the wait.

Lightly, Yehuda Leib hopped to his feet and ambled over to look.

If the Hoard at large were a very long list, then this table could’ve been a summary. It was crowded with all sorts of things: an old cracked pitcher, several disembodied harpsichord keys, a collection of dry autumn leaves. Near its center was a small leather pouch bound with twine that Yehuda Leib tried to ignore—it was twitching and squeaking.

And then, in the midst of the detritus, as if it were no more important than any other thing, there it was:

A small glass bottle containing the unmistakable light of Yehuda Leib’s father.

It could’ve been nothing else.

With a thrill, Yehuda Leib stole a glance over his shoulder. The anxious man was busy pacing, the thin woman facing away. The rattling snore of the third fellow filled the air.

No one was paying attention.

Slowly, Yehuda Leib reached out his hand. It was strange—as if he were meeting his father for the very first time. He felt awkward, abashed, but as soon as his fingers closed around the little bottle, all of that melted away.