“I wonder…” Now she cast about, left and right, her gaze eventually settling on a small, smooth stone atop a grave marker. This her long fingers plucked from its place, and, light on her feet, she made her way behind Bluma.

“Here,” said Lilith softly into her ear.

Carefully, she threaded the cold spoon between Bluma’s fingers. Then, having deposited the little stone in its basin, Lilith wrapped Bluma in her arms, hands atop Bluma’s own. Bluma could feel the mound of Lilith’s dark curls brush against her cheek, and for a moment she herself felt like the small, dark stone there, nestled in the cold basin of Lilith’s arms.

And then, with a deft motion of her fingers, firmly, gently, Lilith inverted the spoon, swung it all the way around the top of the stone, and brought it swiftly back down again. Bluma could feel a kind of friction through the handle, but all the same she was shocked to see what had happened:

The stone was nowhere to be seen—neither in the basin of the spoon nor in the clean white snow beneath.

But the empty spoon felt just as heavy as it had earlier.

“Never before,” said Lilith’s soft voice, “have I encountered a spoon that eats.”

Lilith moved smoothly away, leaving the cold spoon between Bluma’s fingers.

“You are very warm, Bluma,” said Lilith.

This surprised Bluma; she certainly didn’t feel it. “I am?”

“Your arms, your hands, your body—far warmer than mine. And far warmer than any of my Sisters have been in a long time.”

Bluma’s heart was beating quickly.

“You are still living.”

Bluma’s stomach lurched.

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “Are you not?”

Bluma swallowed hard.

Lilith was walking away.

—

“What benefit,” said Lord Mammon, “could I possibly derive from slumming around the Zubinsk cemetery with a bunch of tiresome little imps and devils?”

Mammon was seated before his altar, taking up only a small portion of the throne’s wide golden seat. His feet dangled, unable to reach the floor, and he wore three pairs of spectacles in various positions—on his nose, beneath his chin, atop his bald head—which he switched rapidly as he scrutinized his new acquisitions.

Yehuda Leib—the newest of these—had been compelled to join the rest, sitting on the edge of the small table at the foot of the dais. There the velvet-breeched steward had given him something to drink that—to all appearances—seemed to be rich, warm milk.

Soon Yehuda Leib’s belly began to grumble. When was the last time he’d had anything to eat or drink? His throat felt suddenly parched, and the aroma seemed impossibly sweet.

One little sip couldn’t hurt him, could it?

Just one little sip.