“It’s evident the Redlick Group prizes your oral skills.” I leaned toward the old man, whom I’d stared at the entire meal, and introduced myself. No response.

“The Magician isn’t chatty,” Mandibole said. “His name is Mr. Foote. Heard of him? No? Foote is an old name, a discredited name, buried under the dust in the dustbin of history.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Foote,” I said. On closer inspection, I realized the mottles and blemishes on his face and exposed wrists were bruises. Purple, brown, and yellow.

Mandibole looked on with patronizing indulgence.

“Be wary. He’s a dangerous being. His cursed house was once a mortal foe. Foote served their court in a capacity similar to my own. Long ago, after the conclusion of a feud, he came to the manor as a political hostage. The truce holds and here our guest remains with a large sword hanging over his bald head.”

The ancient wiped his mouth with the tablecloth. A servant removed his bowl. A different servant delicately set a joint of roast before him. The ancient regarded the roast without expression. As if summoned by his very concentration, through the French doors, a black cloud enveloped the sun. The light in the room dimmed; velvety blue, chromatic blue, laced with veins of deep red. No one moved to flip a switch. The chandelier hung; a cold mass of crystal. The Magician’s cheeks were sunken, his mouth puckered and evidently toothless. Tears leaked from his eyes and glistened as diamond-bright snail trails. He licked the roast.

My grip tightened on my glass.

“Is this necessary?”

“Feeling pity for him is a waste of your emotional resources,” Mandibole said.

“It’s not pity, Tom. It’s disgust at petty cruelty.”

“Sweet summer child. Look closer. The wretch is duly equipped. There are serpents who fold their fangs until needed. Behold one who goes on two legs as if he were a man.”

The Magician tore into the meat and gulped it down in several bites.

“See what I mean?” Mandibole said.

“The Ur serpents possessed legs,” Mr. Foote said, faint and rusty with the blood dripping from his mouth. “The Ur forged an empire. The Ur ruled Gondwanaland. Before the Aztecs, before Aborigines, and Christ. Humans are an invasive species. The Ur were men, you twat.”

“The degenerate speaks,” Mandibole said. “A rare occasion.”

“Our day of reckoning edges nearer,” the Magician said.

My appetite had dissipated. I laid my left hand on a steak knife anyway.

“Now the second course.” Mandibole clapped twice.

Nancy the Beautician and several friends filed in and took their seats.

I recognized three of the gentlemen as the racist yahoos who’d assailed me on my previous visit to town. The bruises I’d given the two beefy guys were at the sunset stage and damned impressive. Mr. Denim wore a hand cast, due to breaking his fingers on my skull. The duo was even worse off than the Magician and that made me glad.

“You folks take your cosplay seriously,” I said.