“I’m to blame for our tardiness,”
interrupted Vollrath. “But I’ve just made what I hope will be
a
profitable association for all of us. This is Her Imperial Viciousness, Redd Heart, and her feline companion, who have just arrived from my former home.” Addressing the Wonderlanders, he said: “This robust gentleman is Master Sacrenoir, a former apothecary from Lyons gifted in a particularly unsavory practice of black magic.”
“A ‘master,’ is he?” Redd said, amused.
Sacrenoir eyed the visitors. “I hope the lack of focus so evident in their persons doesn’t represent what’s within their heads. I need to check on my bones.” The magician hulked over to the stage, where he made a great clatter rearranging femurs and pelvic bones and skulls. “Master Sacrenoir has never shown much talent for courtesy,” Vollrath said, “especially before a performance. Come, we shall sit at the best table in the house.” The tutor led Redd and The Cat to an alcove at the left of the stage, separated from the main room by a curtain of heavy black velvet. Within the alcove was a single table. “We should be comfortable here,” said Vollrath. “We have an unobstructed view of the stage, but if I pull the curtain partway closed, like so, we have complete privacy, as we’re out of sight from the audience. Any refreshments you desire are of course compliments of moi.” Guests were starting to arrive, and Marcel had hurried over to the catacomb’s entrance to greet them. “Good evening, my pretty friends! Good evening! And how fortunate you are to be at the master’s one and only Paris performance! The event is shortly to begin! You risk the master’s wrath if you don’t immediately take your seats! Also, let’s not forget, there’s a two-drink minimum.” The guests consisted solely of the wealthy and aristocratic, the women decked out in pearls and embroidered lace, smoking cigarettes through long ebony holders, while the men looked sophisticated in their tuxedos, tapping canes of polished rosewood against polished shoes as they sipped absinthe from narrow glasses. Within minutes, the catacomb filled to capacity. Touched by no human hand, an iron gate clanked shut across the entrance, unnoticed by the illustrious guests packed in at their tables, who were chatting loudly and laughing the hearty laughter of the privileged until— Ffftsssst!
The room fell dark, the torches miraculously snuffed out as one. A woman screamed. A ripple of titillated laughter passed among the tables. A violin began to play a melody at once languid and stern, the work of no known composer. With the sudden crack of breaking wood— Voila! A single cone of light illuminated Sacrenoir standing center stage before his pile of bones. In the light’s dusky reaches, black-gloved Marcel could be seen playing his violin. “Hurrah!” the audience cried. “Sacrenoir, magician extraordinaire!” They rose to their feet, whistling and applauding and calling out in approval. Sacrenoir put a finger to his lips—Ssshh!—and waited until they had resumed their seats, quiet with expectation. “It is said that when a person dies,” he began in a voice that seemed to address not those before him, but a numberless multitude as yet unseen, “whichever of his animal appetites are left unsated at the time of his death do not die but live on in the ether, in the very air we breathe, waiting to take up residence in another. I say, let the dead have their appetites back!” “Give the dead their appetites!” the audience shouted.
profitable association for all of us. This is Her Imperial Viciousness, Redd Heart, and her feline companion, who have just arrived from my former home.” Addressing the Wonderlanders, he said: “This robust gentleman is Master Sacrenoir, a former apothecary from Lyons gifted in a particularly unsavory practice of black magic.”
“A ‘master,’ is he?” Redd said, amused.
Sacrenoir eyed the visitors. “I hope the lack of focus so evident in their persons doesn’t represent what’s within their heads. I need to check on my bones.” The magician hulked over to the stage, where he made a great clatter rearranging femurs and pelvic bones and skulls. “Master Sacrenoir has never shown much talent for courtesy,” Vollrath said, “especially before a performance. Come, we shall sit at the best table in the house.” The tutor led Redd and The Cat to an alcove at the left of the stage, separated from the main room by a curtain of heavy black velvet. Within the alcove was a single table. “We should be comfortable here,” said Vollrath. “We have an unobstructed view of the stage, but if I pull the curtain partway closed, like so, we have complete privacy, as we’re out of sight from the audience. Any refreshments you desire are of course compliments of moi.” Guests were starting to arrive, and Marcel had hurried over to the catacomb’s entrance to greet them. “Good evening, my pretty friends! Good evening! And how fortunate you are to be at the master’s one and only Paris performance! The event is shortly to begin! You risk the master’s wrath if you don’t immediately take your seats! Also, let’s not forget, there’s a two-drink minimum.” The guests consisted solely of the wealthy and aristocratic, the women decked out in pearls and embroidered lace, smoking cigarettes through long ebony holders, while the men looked sophisticated in their tuxedos, tapping canes of polished rosewood against polished shoes as they sipped absinthe from narrow glasses. Within minutes, the catacomb filled to capacity. Touched by no human hand, an iron gate clanked shut across the entrance, unnoticed by the illustrious guests packed in at their tables, who were chatting loudly and laughing the hearty laughter of the privileged until— Ffftsssst!
The room fell dark, the torches miraculously snuffed out as one. A woman screamed. A ripple of titillated laughter passed among the tables. A violin began to play a melody at once languid and stern, the work of no known composer. With the sudden crack of breaking wood— Voila! A single cone of light illuminated Sacrenoir standing center stage before his pile of bones. In the light’s dusky reaches, black-gloved Marcel could be seen playing his violin. “Hurrah!” the audience cried. “Sacrenoir, magician extraordinaire!” They rose to their feet, whistling and applauding and calling out in approval. Sacrenoir put a finger to his lips—Ssshh!—and waited until they had resumed their seats, quiet with expectation. “It is said that when a person dies,” he began in a voice that seemed to address not those before him, but a numberless multitude as yet unseen, “whichever of his animal appetites are left unsated at the time of his death do not die but live on in the ether, in the very air we breathe, waiting to take up residence in another. I say, let the dead have their appetites back!” “Give the dead their appetites!” the audience shouted.