And If Thou Wilt, Forget

So far, the biggest difference between archiving and publishing seemed to be that the documents he had to read were shorter.

Tim’s particular job at the publishing company had been fact-checking, doing supplemental research on the manuscripts that came across his desk, and Lou had always given him the tricky ones because, she said, he was a master at tracking down unusual or hard to find subjects. He didn’t know if Ms. Robinson had actually called Lou for a reference, especially since she’d hired him without even looking at his CV, but she’d certainly given him plenty to do, and she’d stopped checking behind him after the first week. Mostly it consisted of making phone calls or looking things up on the Internet, but occasionally she sent him up to the library for a book or two, and on one or two occasions she’d taken the stack he’d brought her, delicately sorted through them, and handed him a couple which turned out to be about Robert Smirke or circuses or something similar. He’d come to take it as a sign that he wasn’t needed for a few hours and could work on his own research.

He wasn’t that much further along in it, but it had only been a couple of months, after all.

There was so little to go on, even less on some of the more…salubrious ones. It hadn’t taken Tim long to realize that the less information he was able to get, the more likely a statement was to be real. Of course, in some cases—like this one—it was equally as likely to be down to the age of the incident as to any grain of truth to it. Something about this one got under his skin, though. He’d found it accidentally while poking around and read it on a whim, and curiosity and a deep-down feeling of anxiety had mingled to cause him to keep looking into it with a dogged perseverance. Somehow, the fact that there was so little to go on had only made him more determined to find something, anything, that he could prove or disprove.

And he had something. Finally, he had something. With a few words of thanks and promises to meet up for drinks if they happened to cross paths on a weekend holiday again, Tim hung up the phone, scribbled a final note on his page, and gathered statement and research, then stood. He crossed over to the Archivist’s door and tapped a rapid-fire shave-and-a-haircut against the frame.

Ms. Robinson peered up at him over her glasses. She looked faintly annoyed, but Tim wasn’t deterred; he’d learned by now that she had a sort of perpetually grumpy expression, and was fairly certain it was put on. “What is it, Tim? It can’t be five o’clock already.”

“Technically correct, if you’re talking about five o’clock in the morning, but it’s actually closing in on eight. I, uh, I lost track of time a bit.” Tim stepped into the office and held up his papers. “Just wanted to bring you this. I think I’ve hit the limits of what I can research on it, unless you’ve got other places I can look for ancient history. But I don’t think this one’s a fake.”

Ms. Robinson’s eyes focused on the papers, and she held out a hand. “Let me see.”

Tim handed everything over. Ms. Robinson—at first—ignored the research and focused on the yellowing pages of the statement, torn or cut from an ancient journal. Her eyes seemed to glow as she read. She reached the end and opened her mouth to say something, then stopped as she noticed the subsequent pages. “What’s all this?”

“Corroborations, explanations, verifications…that kind of thing,” Tim answered. “You know. There’s a description of how the Mechanical Turk actually worked, or supposedly worked anyway, and a few other experiments Wolfgang von Kempelen was working on that allegedly never saw the light of day, a couple of which got mentioned in that statement. Some research on the Court Theatre in Buda, or at least what’s publicly known about it. Some research on Abraham Janssen himself—he didn’t last long after writing that entry, maybe a couple of months, but he seems to have gone out naturally enough. And I managed to track down a report of a description of the incident given to a nurse at one of the local hospitals by someone who didn’t survive their injuries. The full report is on its way, but from what my contact said, it tallies with most of the major points.”

Ms. Robinson looked at Tim sharply. “How did you find the report?”

“A guy I met backpacking the Carpathians on holiday a couple years back teaches anthropology in the biggest university in Budapest,” Tim answered instantly. “We’ve kept in touch. I reached out to him to see if he knew anything about this incident, and he tracked down what he could for me.”

“Hmm.” Ms. Robinson returned her gaze to the papers. “I must admit, that is a boon we don’t normally get with statements of this type.”

“Meaning ones this old, or this weird?”

“I think a more appropriate word might be…Strange.” Ms. Robinson stared at the statement for a moment, then seemed to come to some kind of decision. “I have a new assignment for you, Tim.”

“Sure, that’s what I’m here for,” Tim said easily. Inside, though, he felt a surge of pride he hadn’t expected to ever feel again. She trusted him, trusted he would be able to find things even if they were difficult. He’d earned that. He’d earned it at the publishing house, too, but somehow that trust weighed more, coming from Ms. Robinson.

Actually, that part wasn’t a surprise. In the eight weeks since he had been hired, Tim had had discussions with more than one employee, albeit not very long ones. The Archives were a world unto themselves, and very few people interacted with Ms. Robinson on a regular basis. Several seemed to be of the opinion that she’d likely gone a bit strange after losing her last crop of assistants. One or two had warned Tim to watch his back in tones that could not have said I’m being very serious but I will play this off as a joke if anyone tries to make me swear to it more clearly if it was spelled out in graven letters. And he’d seen more than one look at him with the sort of expression he equated with a giant looking at a small girl prattling excitedly about a party she had no idea she was meant to be the main course for.

Still…Ms. Robinson trusted him. She’d hired him on the spot and she’d let him start the work right away, and she was honest about his mistakes but also about what he was doing well. Maybe everyone expected her to turn on him at a moment’s notice, which would at least explain why her last crop of assistants had all, evidently, quit at once and without warning (probably why she’d insisted his was an appointment for life), but he hadn’t seen any evidence for that. He liked her—better than he liked most of the people he’d met upstairs, anyway, barring one or two—and he didn’t see any reason to regret being down here.

Yet.

Ms. Robinson pulled open a drawer in her desk, talking as she did so. “Are you familiar with the name Mikaele Salesa?”

“Not ringing any bells. Should it?”

“Not necessarily. How about Jurgen Leitner?”

That one did tug at Tim’s memory. “Wasn’t he a book collector or something? Weird or…esoteric topics or something like that? Lou used to occasionally say that some of the manuscripts I was looking at would have interested him.”

“Unlikely. Leitner collected rare books. Very rare ones.” Ms. Robinson retrieved an unsealed brown envelope and handed it to Tim. “Salesa is, or was, perhaps, his counterpart when it comes to artifacts. He had a gift for both locating them and acquiring them at a reasonable price. However, he is…unavailable at the moment.”

Tim took the surprisingly heavy envelope, but didn’t open it. Something told him to wait. “Do you need me to track him down?”

Ms. Robinson hesitated. “I suspect you would find it a challenge. No, what I need is the artifact described in that envelope. It may be essential to my—to our work. I was finally able to get a line on its location. Unfortunately, I am…known to many of the people who may have it in their possession.”

“Ah.” Tim nodded in understanding. “And they’ll charge you more than a fair price because they know you need it.”

“Quite. Which is why I am sending you to the Night Market to acquire it for me.”

Tim weighed his options. He didn’t want to walk in blind, but he also didn’t want to look like he needed her to hold his hand for him. Still…“I assume most of my questions will be answered by what’s in here, but to start with, how do I find the Night Market?”

“Carefully,” Ms. Robinson said, gravely and without a hint of humor. “I’m afraid I don’t have an exact location, but it’s somewhere in London, along the banks of the Thames. It generally runs between quarter moons, beginning when astronomical twilight gives way to true night and ending when it returns to twilight.”

“So I’ve got time to find it, in theory, but in practice this…whatever it is…is likely to shift sooner rather than later,” Tim guessed.

“It’s a possibility, certainly. And I would prefer this not hang around more than necessary.”

Tim nodded. “Right. See you in the morning then.” Before Ms. Robinson could say anything else, he saluted, turned on his heel, and left the office.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew this was a test, even if Ms. Robinson hadn’t said so outright. Asking too many questions would bring him down in her estimation, and while he knew this errand probably wasn’t all that serious or important really, he needed to treat it like he’d been sent to retrieve an idol for a university museum.

Lucky thing he’d worn his fedora.

The night was cool, the sky was clear, and the moon was a waning crescent two days away from new. Tim made his way to the nearest bridge, then stopped in a convenient shadow that still afforded him enough light to see by and pulled the packet out from under his jacket, then opened it up and peered inside.

The first thing he saw was a stack of bank notes, older and well-used from the looks of it—presumably his budget for obtaining the artifact, whatever it was. He pulled it out, tucked the packet under his arm, and thumbed through the stack. His eyes widened. Jesus, there was easily a couple thousand pounds in here. That was almost more money than Tim had ever seen at one time in his life. And this was the so-called “reasonable” amount Ms. Robinson thought he could get it for? Christ Almighty.

He tucked the money back into the envelope hurriedly and pulled out the other piece of paper. It was a slightly faded photograph of a small, ornate figure of a bird, made up of a few different metals—he couldn’t tell quite what kind—interspersed with either glass or a very fine enameling, with a delicately scrolled key in its back. For a moment, his stomach flipped uncomfortably, thinking of the description in the statement he’d just researched of the caged mechanical canaries, but he got hold of himself quickly. This was more than a simple toy, and not something that could have been produced in quantity, of that he was sure. The lines written at the bottom of the page confirmed it; it was an Art Nouveau piece, created a good quarter century after the death of the Mechanical Turk, one of a kind and therefore of value to the kind of people who thrilled from owning something that nobody else could but not, Tim thought, worth particularly much overall. It was pretty, certainly, but there was no maker’s mark, no known provenance, no storied history—or at least not one on the paper he held. He didn’t doubt for a minute that a particularly good salesman might be willing and able to spin a story to up the price, but it would all be vague and difficult to prove or disprove; possibly true, but most likely a trap for the gullible.

Tim slid the envelope back under his jacket and studied the Thames for a moment. Half-remembered mnemonics and bits of folk wisdom he’d learned from his nonno, his mother’s father, a vintner and wine-maker who still walked behind his plow in the spring and plucked each grape by hand, floated through his head. He took a step back, stared up at the sky, murmured a few calculations under his breath, tilted his hat to a jaunty angle, and set off purposefully.

About two hours later, he rounded a bend in the river, paused, slipped around a shadow, and grinned as the soft murmur of a bustling crowd rumbled in his ears. Bingo.

It couldn’t be anything but the Night Market. Hooded lanterns swung beneath canvas awnings, not so much illuminating the wares spread across the booths, or the people manning them, as giving texture to the darkness. Very few people carried torches or any other form of light, and most of them wore dark clothing just shy of actual holocaust cloaks and domino masks. Other than that, though, it was, well, an ordinary street market. The air was full of the murmur of voices and the scents of roasting meet and spices, vendors calling out to passersby and people attempting to haggle. It was oddly muted, but still, Tim was a bit surprised he hadn’t been able to hear it from up closer to the street.

He also wasn’t sure how this all fit in the space between the sidewalk and the river. Was this area usually here? Part of him scolded himself for being silly—of course it was normally here, space didn’t just appear and disappear.

The rest of him reminded that part of his brain that nobody else seemed aware of the entire fucking stone theater beneath the Royal Opera House. It wasn’t like he didn’t believe in this stuff; he did, explicitly, that was why he was here, why he worked for the Institute. But sometimes it just seemed…easier to reach for the simple, mundane explanation. Certainly safer.

But he knew what the world was like and he knew what his job was, and he wasn’t going to keep Ms. Robinson’s trust if he tried to be a skeptic. It was time to set aside the Sherlock Holmes axiom—that when you had discounted the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth—and start living up to the Dirk Gently point that the impossible often had a kind of integrity to it that the merely improbable lacked. Or, to put it in the words of a movie he’d only allowed himself to be dragged along to repeatedly because he’d had a crush on both Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley at the time, he’d best start believing in ghost stories—he was in one.

Slipping into an out of the way corner, Tim pulled out the paper again and studied it, committing the details to memory. Then he folded it up, stuck it into a pocket nowhere near the envelope, his wallet, his keys, or his phone, and ventured into the Night Market.

The light, or lack thereof, was doing funny things to his imagination. The items spread across one booth looked half-rotten, the ones on another dripped with blood, an appetizing smell came from a pot that seemed to contain a human head…but then he blinked, and the rotten objects became decent if old knickknacks, the bloodstained objects were pristine, and what had looked like a head proved to just be a lid that was replaced as a vendor handed over a bowl of some sort of savory stew. Tim’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d worked through lunch and long since missed supper.

Still, he gave that particular booth a miss.

He kept ambling, trying to appear as though he had no particular purpose, but always with an eye out for a booth that was likely to contain that clockwork bird. None of them looked right. None of them felt right, either, but Tim was starting to get a headache; the more he walked, the more difficult it was to actually make out what was on the booths, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with the lighting.

He slowed thoughtfully as he approached a crossroads. Some of the statements he had read and investigated, the ones he’d been convinced were real just from how little they had to go on, had had a common theme in them: the people giving the statements had always seemed surprised, then worried, that no one else seemed to see what they did. A few had seemed convinced they were experiencing a psychotic break of some kind, schizophrenia or bad drug trips or just general hallucinations, but others had known they were the only ones seeing the truth. Tim had a pretty good sense of when they were right and when the statements were actually delusions. This didn’t feel like a delusion.

What if he was seeing things right?

Tim took a quick, silent breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled slowly. He tried to release his preconceived notions with the air, to allow himself to look at the shadows and not the light. To see what was really there instead of just what he was expected to see.

He closed his eyes.

He opened them.

The booth right on the corner, which had appeared to contain an assortment of lopsided Christmas ornaments, now held neat rows of crudely carved wooden dolls. At first glance they seemed nondescript, with dots for eyes and a crooked smile, but as Tim got closer, they seemed to shift into unique, easily distinguished figures. As he watched, the nearest one wavered, then resolved itself—still with the same blank, crudely carved face—into a clear effigy of Gertrude Robinson.

It took everything Tim had to keep his face blank and slide his gaze towards the next figure, which slowly became Elias Bouchard. Something told him that pretending he didn’t recognize them wouldn’t work. The only sensible thing to do was cut his gaze away and walk away. He could feel the vendor’s eyes on him, but didn’t dare turn to look.

Being able to see, really see, what he was looking at…well, probably should have made him run screaming from the market, honestly. (Were those eyeballs? Those were fucking eyeballs. The way they seemed to swivel to follow him could probably be explained by the liquid they were suspended in, but how the hell had that one blinked with no obvious eyelids?) People who could see this shit and didn’t were probably not exactly model citizens. Tim tried to keep his expression neutral like most of the people who clearly didn’t know where they were, but he passed one of the food vendors and couldn’t stop himself from flinching as the tongue on the end of the stick flicked in the direction of the unsuspecting tourist reaching for it.

Then he spied, out of the corner of his eye, one of the vendors watching him with a sharp, almost feral smile that melted into polite attempts to interest passers-by in his offerings the moment Tim obviously gave him even partial notice.

Okay. Actually, he could work with that.

He let himself be obvious. Let it show on his face that what he was seeing was both unexpected and horrific (which was true—he’d expected things like bones and dubious potion components and things of the I swear, Officer, it fell off the back of a lorry variety, not bloodstained knives and shrunken human heads and cuts of meat sliced off a still-warm human corpse). Let his eyes dart frantically around as if in total disbelief that no one else seemed to notice that this place was more than not right—it was wrong.

Most of the patrons were indifferent to him, even oblivious of him, but the figures on the other side of the booths were taking an interest in him. Ironically, he could tell because they never spoke to him. They hawked their wares, beckoned to likely marks, charmed and wheedled and coaxed, but none of them acknowledged Tim except to watch. Most of them did so even while ostensibly talking to a customer, who always seemed completely unaware they didn’t have the vendor’s full attention.

Boy, he was going to have a statement for Ms. Robinson when he got back, and no mistake.

He knew he was getting close when he rushed, or pretended to rush, through a particularly loud and narrow crush of people and around a corner followed by a cry of “Milk! Milk! Milk for the morning bread!” that stirred something in his memory to find himself in a dark, deserted area of the Night Market. It was colder than he had expected, and sound was curiously muffled. He could no longer hear the bustle of noise from the market, but neither could he hear the sounds of London still active even late at night or the Thames flowing between her banks. Still, if he hadn’t read all the statements—if he didn’t already have an idea of what to expect—he might have been fooled, just for a moment, into believing he was safe.

“Lost?” a voice said from—naturally—the deepest shadows.

“Yeah,” Tim said with a deliberately awkward half laugh as he turned towards the voice. “Maybe I should try Hare Krishna.”

His eyes fell on a tall, gaunt figure peering at him from a dusty, tattered booth. Both the booth and the figure appeared to have been buried for a couple of decades before being dug up and planted in the middle of the marketplace. The figure was barely indistinguishable from the shadows it stood in except for its face and hands, which were so pale they almost glowed, but in the center of that face were two dull, black, flat eyes, soulless holes that sucked all the light from around them and pinned Tim in place like a butterfly on a card. Acting frightened didn’t take much effort.

The figure smiled, in a way that was the opposite of reassuring, with too many teeth that were too white and too pointed, and crooked a long, nearly skeletal finger. Tim was pretty sure he couldn’t have disobeyed if he’d wanted to. He tried very hard not to look as though he was pretty sure this was what he was looking for.

He was right. The figure spread its hands wide, palms down, as if unrolling a scroll. Beneath them, on a surprisingly clean black velvet cloth, were four objects. One was a round ceramic mask with disturbingly realistic lips, the blank holes in place of its eyes seeming somehow to follow him. One was a handheld silver mirror, sculpted to look like a hand gripping the glass, which had been carefully placed face-down. One was a light colored box, open to reveal, nestled on a bed of cotton wool, an unremarkable matte black ring.

The final object was the clockwork bird. Even in the darkness, it glittered, the different precious metals making up its body interlocking like delicate feathers. Its tail was raised, its head tilted to one side, and despite being obviously a made thing it was so realistic that he half expected it to take flight.

“Which will you choose?” the figure asked.

Tim hesitated, which surprised him. Obviously, he’d meant to fake that hesitation, to get a better price for that bird, but his eyes kept going back to that black ring. It wasn’t acrylic or stone—some kind of metal, maybe? There was nothing special about it. He could find half a dozen like it at any shop in London. But it…spoke to him. They all held their own attraction or fascination, really, but he wanted that ring.

The trouble was, he needed the bird.

“Is this a one-per-customer kind of thing?” Tim asked, trying to keep his tone of voice light. “Or do you just not think I can afford more than one?”

“The price of all four together is high. Too high for even you, I suspect.” The figure studied Tim, then nodded. “Two.”

“Three,” Tim countered, more to see what would happen than anything.

The figure’s face split into a sharp, feral grin. “The price for that would be even higher than for all four. Would you be able to live with not knowing why you chose to leave one behind?”

Well, that was the thing. Tim had to admit that he wouldn’t. Something about that mirror scared him, but he’d never been one to walk away from things he was afraid of—he liked to face them. The mask was disturbing and fascinating by turn. He was pretty sure that if he left only one, he’d spend too many nights coming back to the Night Market looking for this booth. He was also sure he’d never find it again.

Besides, there didn’t seem to be a way to actually wear the mask, and it wouldn’t really go with his decor.

He hesitated a second longer, then closed one hand over the ring and scooped the bird up with the other. “How much for these two?”

The figure’s smile grew impossibly wider, until it seemed that it ought to split its face clear in two. “You have already begun to pay.”

Before Tim could ask what the fuck that meant, the world went…spongy. The market, the mask, the mirror, everything seemed to soften and dissolve. The last thing he saw was the white, pointed Cheshire cat grin.

And then he was standing on the banks of the Thames, the sounds of traffic rumbling from somewhere behind him, blinking into the light of a golden sunrise, with a clockwork bird perched on his fingers and a ring making a deep impression in his palm.

It hurt, but it was also a relief. If it weren’t for the pain, he might have been tempted to believe—or maybe hope—he’d dreamed all that. But here was the bird, and the ring, and Tim hadn’t had to spend any of the money Ms. Robinson had given him. Not that he remembered, anyway.

You have already begun to pay. What the fuck had that meant? Had he slipped the figure money without knowing it? He transferred the bird to his other hand, reached under his jacket, and pulled out the envelope. No, it was still stuffed full of cash, about as thick as he recalled. Tim tucked the bird into it as well—it fit comfortably without straining the envelope—and put it back. Then he stared at the ring.

The outside was lightly dimpled, like it had been hammered out a bit more aggressively than normal and not rounded off after, but the inside had been polished off to a smooth finish—a nearly smooth finish. There were faint impressions, like it had once been engraved, but he couldn’t read them. After a few minutes trying to puzzle it out, he gave up.

Well, he hadn’t used Ms. Robinson’s money and she hadn’t asked for this, so he figured it was his. It was a bit too loose for his ring finger, but it fit snugly around his middle finger, which felt fitting somehow. Then he slid his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and set off for Chelsea.

The walk back was quicker, seeing as he didn’t have to follow the path of the Thames so closely, but it was still going on nine in the morning when he finally strode into the Archives. He went straight into Ms. Robinson’s office without knocking and set the tray of coffees he’d brought in on her desk, then reached under his jacket and handed over the envelope.

“I hope that’s the right one,” he said. For the first time since coming to work at the Institute, he sat down without waiting for permission, but damn it, he was knackered; he’d been on his feet for hours. “I somehow doubt the Night Market will be in the same place tomorrow and I’m damned sure I won’t get away with being there a second time.”

Ms. Robinson actually looked taken aback for a moment. She picked up the envelope and tugged on the paper, sliding out both bird and cash. With a slight frown, she picked up the stack of cash and riffled through it, then looked at Tim sharply. “Did you steal this?”

“No, the vendor said I had ‘already begun to pay’ for it,” Tim answered. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Ms. Robinson reached for her tape recorder. Tim noticed it was already running. “I think you’d better tell me everything.”

Just like when he’d told her about Danny, Tim found that the story just poured out of him—every detail, everything he had seen and heard and felt. It was as if he was sitting back and taking a rest while something else told his story through him—like he was nestled in a bed of static. Ms. Robinson kept her eyes fixed on him the entire time, never once interrupting or seeming to blink.

“And just like that, I was standing down by Kew Bridge,” Tim concluded. “Sun was rising, traffic was bustling, and there was no sign of the Night Market. The only proof I had that it had really been there was the bird in one hand and the ring in the other.”

“May I see it?” Ms. Robinson asked.

The fact that she had asked rather than ordered made Tim more willing to hand it over. She held the ring up to the light, turning it over several times. “Just a plain black ring?”

“There’s something engraved on the inside, but I can’t make it out,” Tim told her. “I thought I might try to do a rubbing or something, but it might be too faded even for that.”

Ms. Robinson rubbed at the interior and held it up closer. For a moment, there was no sound other than the whir of the tape recorder and the crackle of static from somewhere. Then she blinked. “Vigilo, Opperior, Audio.”

“I watch, I wait, I listen,” Tim translated automatically. “The Institute motto?”

“Which was also the Magnus family motto, I believe. This ring could have once belonged to a member of the family.”

Tim plucked the ring from her fingers and studied it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, look at this interior. I recognize the markings on the parts that aren’t worn. This technique didn’t exist until sometime in the twentieth century, and Jonah Magnus was the last of his family, wasn’t he?”

Ms. Robinson took a moment to answer. “Quite. How do you know so much about jewelry-making?”

“Danny got really into it for a while when he was in his late teens,” Tim said, a bit ruefully. “I can’t tell you how many seminars and lectures and special demonstrations I sat through with him before he got bored with it.”

“That had to have been at least ten years ago.”

“Did a paper on it for one of my classes. ‘Nine for Mortal Men: Crafting Rings in Nineteenth Century Europe.’” Tim spread his hands out dramatically, as if plastering the title of the paper in the air in front of him. “I reckoned I might as well not completely waste my time.”

Ms. Robinson arched an eyebrow. “Well. As you still seemed to be visible upon walking into my office, as long as you don’t begin having visions of dark riders and fiery mountains, I suppose that ring is yours to keep.”

“I love that you know Tolkien.”

“Not personally, but I may have had a rather different career trajectory if he had still been the Merton Professor of English Language and Literature by the time I was admitted to Oxford.” Ms. Robinson actually smiled at him, a rather dry smile, but a genuine one. “Well done, Tim.”

Tim couldn’t stop a grin of his own from splitting his face. He’d not only passed her test with flying colors, she was actually praising him. It felt good. “Thanks, Ms. Robinson.”

“Call me Gertrude. I think you’ve earned that.” Ms. Robinson—Gertrude—set the bird to one side. “You’ve also earned a rest, a long one. I won’t suggest you go home, as exhausted as you are, but there’s a folding cot here that I use sometimes when I work too late. Go and get some sleep. I’ll wake you if there’s an emergency.”

“Thanks…Gertrude.” Tim was pretty tired. He slid the ring back onto his finger, stood, and retrieved the cot from where she indicated, then took it back into the climate-controlled side room and set it up.

His last thought before sleep claimed him was to wonder just how much he’d have to pay for what the figure had given him.