“Lord Mammon the Avaricious!”

Belial’s pale face turned bright pink. “Surely not,” he said.

A spasm of chatter spread through the pavilion. Mammon had not been expected, and he was a demon of great power and influence. Before long, the crowd was practically surging toward the little old fellow in the wheelchair, each demon eager to have his ear.

“No, no, no,” said a high, reedy voice, cutting through the racket. “I shall be more than happy to entertain all offers, but not here, and not tonight. I am only passing through.”

Bluma wriggled and pushed her way into the mad press.

“No,” said the voice. “No, I cannot stay. You really must visit me at my Treasure House. As I say, I am only passing through.”

He was small, Lord Mammon, in the figure of an aged man, shriveled and vaguely yellow, like an old lemon. His spectacles and sharp teeth gleamed in the diffuse moonlight, but Bluma had scarcely any attention to spare for them.

Bluma’s eyes were drawn, like water down a drain, to the wheelchair in which Lord Mammon sat.

At first she thought it must’ve been made of fine wickerwork, and then possibly of intricately carved bone—it was so thin and delicate.

Only when she saw the unnaturally stiff posture of the mittened hands that pushed the wheelchair did she realize:

It was made of fingernails.

Coaxed through the woven fabric of the mittens, they had been carefully trained into the shape of seat and armrest and axle, and it must’ve taken ages to grow them so long—decades. In fact, Bluma could hardly believe that the ten looping nails that formed the wheelchair had had time to grow out of the young boy behind it.

And then, with a shock, Bluma recognized him:

Yehuda Leib.

She had seen him only yesterday (had it only been yesterday?), and somehow in that short time, he had grown wan, lean, and haggard, his hair long, his jaw set, his eyes deep and searching.

He was looking for something.

Quickly, sharply, Bluma tucked her chin down. It was becoming an instinct now, moving her face away from importunate eyes in order to preserve her anonymity. She felt a small spasm of guilt as she performed the maneuver: Yehuda Leib was in an even more precarious position than she, and she felt bad not leaping to help.

And this is why, when she looked back up again, the guilt and fear in her gut blossomed large.

The keen blue eyes of Yehuda Leib were staring directly at her.

Chapter Seven: Zubinsk

Even an ordinary wedding would’ve brought guests and visitors—the family and friends, the hopeful poor, gawkers and pleasure seekers.

But this was not an ordinary wedding. And in addition to all these, there was a large contingent that came to Zubinsk solely to see the holy Rebbe, grandfather of the bride:

His Hasidim.