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    “What a strange, ugly name,” the Spy said, so drunk that two of everything shimmered in his blurry vision. He stared at what the Peddler had written and thought with grim amusement that in some ways the name made perfect sense, a cunning play on the Dwarf’s stunted growth and the fact his flesh was rumpled as a bad coat. A demon jester. How droll.
    “He is a strange, ugly little man,” the Peddler said. “Although, I trow the Dwarf perished and what now walks the earth in his skin is something altogether different.”
    “If the worst should befall me, promise that you’ll bear the Dwarf’s name to the Queen. In the morning I shall depart via the West Road for the capital. You must take the low roads. One of us may survive to bear witness.”
    “Of course,” said the Peddler. “God save the Queen.”
    “God save the Queen. But which god?”
    The candled guttered and died.
    The Spy lay helplessly against the warm bulk of the dog. The dog snored. The Peddler snored. A door creaked, then floorboards. There was a steady, thick dripping, the sound of bare feet squelching. The blackness reeked of copper and the Spy’s heart beat too fast.
    She said into the Spy’s ear, “We meet again. Yes, time is a squirming, hungry ring that wriggles and worms across reality. It eats everything, lover.”
    He tried to speak, to cry out a warning. Too late.
    In the chill gray light of dawn, the Peddler roused and discovered that he and the dog were alone in the room. There were a few bloody footprints. No other trace of the Spy, however. So, the Peddler hurriedly departed that cursed village and took the mournful dog with him. He traveled day and night, pushing himself past exhaustion in order to beat the appointed date. By miracles of perseverance and providence he barged into the Queen’s court and delivered the message mere hours before the deadline. Afterward, he vanished from his guests’ quarters despite the presence of a contingent of armed guards, and was never seen again.
    Subsequent legends of the Queen’s fateful showdown with the Dwarf notwithstanding, the creature’s prophecy was quite accurate: knowing his name didn’t save the Queen or anyone else.

CHAPTER TWO
     
    One Time in Old Mexico…
     
    (1958)
    1.
     
    T he first time Donald Miller almost died was during a visit to Mexico, but later he didn’t remember anything of the event, except in dreams that dissolved moments after waking. His body remembered, though. His blood remembered, and the black sap of his subconscious.
    He and his wife Michelle took a spring vacation to Mexico City. Her umpteenth visit and his first. A well-connected colleague of Michelle’s, one Louis Plimpton who had conducted a significant measure of research in the country, pulled strings and managed to get them into a suite at an international hotel. A gorgeous elevated view of the garden district, silk sheets, plush towels, fresh fruit, expensive coffee, complimentary brandies and margaritas. Walking through the mahogany double doors, Don took in the slate tiles, marble statuary, and gold-chased accents and raised a brow at his wife who merely smiled and advised him against looking the gift horse in the mouth.
    Every morning began with a multi-course continental breakfast followed by guided tours of historic neighborhoods, lunches at sidewalk restaurants, then dinner and a show at the hotel nightclub, which imported Vegas talent to croon the tourists into buying a few more rounds. The days were breathless, the nights languid. They made frequent love with resurgent abandon—tied one another up with silk scarves, wore blindfolds and joked about paying a maid to join the merriment. They drank too much and for once didn’t talk of their careers or how after seven years of marriage that it might be time to start a family, or anything to do with responsibility or sobriety. That part of the trip went off like a second honeymoon and lasted for a week. Among the best weeks of