Where was he?

What had happened?

Idly, he sipped from the cup of warm milk in his hand and was disgusted to find that it tasted like algae and muck.

“And all this is to say nothing,” said Mammon, still chewing with mild displeasure, “of the expense involved in mounting a suitable procession to convey me to Zubinsk in the first place. I tell you, I won’t be seen in public without the appropriate display.”

“Why, no, my lord,” said the steward. “But isn’t the pageantry reward enough in itself? To be seen?”

Mammon sighed. “You are a fool, Steward—a terrible fool. It is advantageous to be seen in glory, to be sure, but without some rich acquisition to balance out the expense, why, it is hardly worth the effort. No, I shall stay at home, and that is my final word in the matter.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the steward.

With a loud, phlegmy crackle, Mammon cleared his throat. “What remains, Steward?”

The steward looked down at the table beside him, empty now but for Yehuda Leib.

“The boy,” he said. “And the point of light.”

“Ah, splendid! Bring them here,” said Mammon, sucking a shard of skull from his molars.

“Would my lord care to see the boy and the point of light separately or together?”

Mammon rolled his eyes and gave a demonstrative groan. “You are such a tiresome fool, Steward. If you separate the thief from what he has stolen, then the set is incomplete. Would I have you separate the wine from the goblet before I drink it?”

“No, my lord,” said the steward, as if he were very, very tired. “Of course not.”

“Of course not,” said Mammon, and with a florid gesture he beckoned Yehuda Leib up.

The steward led Yehuda Leib, dizzy, stumbling, to the stairs. They were steeper than they seemed from below, requiring him to lift his foot up to almost hip height with each successive step.

Roughly, Yehuda Leib was made to sit down on the marble altar. His vision couldn’t seem to hold focus, but Mammon’s beady little eyes cornered him through the haze like a pair of pistols.

“Splendid,” said Lord Mammon, and, licking the sharp points of his little teeth—still lightly pink with Englishman—he moved his eyes from the brim of Yehuda Leib’s cap to the toes of his boots and then slowly back up again.

Yehuda Leib swallowed hard.

Mammon began his measurements with circumference, head.

Yehuda Leib’s heart began to pound. Mammon had measured the little Englishman as well. Was he, too, destined for the demon’s maw?

Sharply, Mammon looked up. He had been busy working a tiny pair of calipers in the measurement of Yehuda Leib’s fingernails, but now his eyes narrowed, and, cocking his head to the side, he frowned, listening intently.

“Steward,” said Mammon. “Do you hear that?”

The steward raised one eyebrow. “Hear what, my lord?”