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some of the stage magicians there were old friends of his grandfather’s, well, it would be disrespectful of him not to accept their invitation.
    He finished reading the invitation and sighed. It requested that he come alone.
    This was not going to sit well with Tamara.

    T HE EARLY-EVENING sky was turning from purple to gray and a chill was descending as the old man wound his way through the dirty labyrinthine streets of London’s East End. His path had taken him south from Fleet Street, nearly to Blackfriars Bridge, and then east along the Thames by Earl Street. The river was so thick with the repugnant outflow of the city’s sewers and the offal that spilled from fisheries and canneries upon its banks that the stink of it was staggering. The old man covered his mouth and nose with a scarf and breathed through it out of necessity, and even then through thinly parted lips, only sipping the filthy air.
    If the wind was right, he had heard, the stench of the Thames could drive a man to his knees.
    Soon he turned slightly northward once more and immersed himself in the crooked lanes making up the slums that had spilled over from the docks, not far away. Cargo was never left behind on those docks, but humans often were. Sailors with nowhere left to go, unable to find a ship that would hire them. Who would choose to live in this filth and stink, after all? Only those with no choice at all.
    He wrapped his threadbare overcoat around gaunt shoulders, hoping to keep the worst of the cold away from his bones. Laughter erupted from a night-house, one of the taverns where only thieves and water rats dared to congregate. He kept his eyes pointed forward and walked on, his gait confident though his joints ached from too many years of overuse. It had been a lovely day, an unusual one in this gray, smoke-choked city, and the sun had brought warmth to the early spring. But now that night was falling, the echo of the waning winter only increased his pain.
    He tried to imagine the warm sun of Calcutta shining on his face and arms, scalding him with warmth. The old man narrowed his eyes to slits; for a moment, it worked, then his foot caught on a raised cobblestone and he fell forward, only stopping himself from injury by catching hold of a man who had appeared suddenly beside him.
    The man bent under his weight, but did not fall. When he began to offer his thanks, he saw that his savior wore the twist of dementia on his leathery face, and carried in his eyes such madness that he ought to have been at Bedlam Hospital. But the stink of alcohol and rot on the man suggested that he might not live long enough for it to matter whether or not he received treatment.
    This was the duality of life, this idiot who knew nothing of the help he had given. It reminded the old man of the siva ardha-nari —the Shiva Half Female—who was the divine representation of the interconnection between the gods and humanity. The ultimate duality.
    He sighed, wishing now more than ever that he were back home, released from the terrible burden that was his alone to bear. But such was not to be. The nightmare was his alone to prevent. So he tried not to breathe, and followed the snaking path his senses guided him along, deeper into a twisted knot of alleys where the streets were coated with filth and the structures seemed only moments away from crumbling in upon themselves.
    Yet when he found the small building, a two-story structure only slightly less dilapidated than the rest, he knew immediately that this was the place. Magic emanated from it with such power that he could feel it, and he could see a corona of bruised purple light limning the doorway. What magic there was inside was darker than the night and filthier than the streets. His stomach churned with nausea, and bile burned up the back of his throat as he went up to the front of the place.
    He put his hand to the door and pushed it open.
    Inside, the smell of fear and death was palpable, overriding even the