He can almost use his eyes, this starving writer. Perhaps I must tell my invisible angels to draw up their hoods. But of course I have none. I do have servants, many servants, and some of these might be called invisible. Few of my agents are aware that they serve me, and none needs frequent direction. But my affairs are involved, and directing them requires ample time. My young author has seen this much truly, that I have needed more time than is normally given to mortals, and have secured it decisively. That was indeed the first condition of my career.

How much more will he see? What magic will he have me do? I am content to join in his game of questions, hoping it may distract me from my cares. I am impatient, but not demanding. Impatience I have patiently carried, but I abandoned high standards long ago.

The old man is in the parlor again tonight, but in the side room, by the crackling fire. He is settled in the largest chair, beneath heavy blankets, looking all the more like a doll. He stares at the fire without moving, without seeming to breathe. If he weren’t a magician one would suppose he had been dead for some hours, but being a magician, a few hours without breathing would not harm him. He might simply forget. In fact, though, his breaths are only slow and shallow, and from time to time he slowly blinks. A plate of thin wafers and an empty glass sit on a tray beside him. Some of the wafers may possibly be missing, but there are no crumbs and the glass looks clean. It is impossible to decide whether he has consumed anything. The wafers are pale; in fact, they are even translucent. Who else would dine on food that could be mistaken for dragonfly wings? What other house would have such fare on offer?

The magician is gathering his strength, in the house of his closest kin.