Doorman stood between the two marble lions perched atop the mansion’s front steps, absentmindedly shuffling his cards, as he watched Mr. North turn his car off and step out.  The circular driveway had been plowed, and the menagerie of animal statues surrounding the ornate fountain looked liked they were dusted in powdered sugar.  Though it was technically still autumn, and the bright sun was beginning to melt the previous night’s snow, this first day of November foreshadowed the long winter ahead.

  As his visitor approached, Doorman sent the cards in a fluttering arc from one hand to the other, his long fingers manipulating them with ease.  Then, with a flick of the wrist, he splayed them out into a neat fan.  Mr. North, nodding his head in greeting, selected one from the middle and handed it back without looking.  

  The corners of Doorman’s mouth turned up slightly.  It wasn’t a full smile, but for a man who rarely showed emotion, it was akin to jumping up and down with glee.  He turned the card around to reveal an hourglass symbol, the twin to one that might be found on a battered old mailbox somewhere deep in the valley.

  With another almost-smile, Doorman snapped his fingers, and the card spun upward.  It rose above the two men’s heads, coming straight down to disappear into the side of the deck with a satisfying thwack.  Slipping the cards into his jacket pocket, the pale, bald man in the light blue suit leaned forward and opened the door.

  Mr. North’s shoes clicked loudly on the hard floor of the dark cavernous room as he made his way beneath the glittering chandelier.  Reaching the other side, he paused in front of the small nondescript door and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.  Then, knocking once, he entered.

  It was difficult to tell whether this room was bigger or smaller than the one he’d left.  Every surface of the space, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, even the back of the door he’d just walked through, was painted a gleaming white.  There were no other entrances or windows, and the only pieces of furniture, an antique wooden desk and matching chair, gave the uneasy impression they floated at the center of a space without form or depth. 

  Mr. North approached and stood.

  “Any fallout from last night’s activities?” Mr. Noxumbra asked, setting the book he’d been reading onto the otherwise empty desk.  He wore his usual black suit, tie, and matching dark glasses.

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle,” replied Mr. North.  “Though, it was fortunate it happened on Halloween.  It’s the one evening of the year in which people are already predisposed to dismiss anything unusual as pranks.  Even the light show is rumored to have been teenagers taking advantage of the snowstorm to set off fireworks.  We made sure there’d be plenty of spent bottle rockets and exploded firecrackers around, should anyone feel inclined to check.” 

  “Good.  And the boy from Salem?”

  Mr. North let out a slow breath and ran his ungloved hand through his red hair.  It had been a long night.

  “It’s hard to say.  We combed the area, but there was no trace.  His release was unusual, but it does appear to have been effective.  I’ve never seen one go that way.  The color, the lack of heat.  No scorch marks or ash.  Even the Wrasps couldn’t penetrate it.  Do you think it had something to do with the charm the boy used to remain in flux for so long?”

  “That,” Noxumbra said, “or the other thing.  If Ms. Poole is to be believed.”

  “Don’t repeat this to Patricia,” said Mr. North, “but is it wise to hang our hopes on the musings of Jennie Poole?  Didn’t we put all that to rest after you sent me traipsing halfway around the globe with her in pursuit of a legend?  You were right to call it off and direct our resources in a more logical direction.  The fact that she refused to return, instead choosing to spend years chasing shadows, shouldn’t make her opinion more valid.”

  “Your concern is noted,” said Noxumbra.  “Now, tell me more about this charm.”

  “Well,” Mr. North said, thinking.  “It appeared to be made of iron and had three interlocking circles, about yea big.”  He made a loop with his index finger and thumb.

  Noxumbra leaned in close.  Then slowly sat back in his chair.  “Swirls,” he said quietly.

  “Pardon?” Mr. North asked.

  “I think you’ll find they were three interlocking swirls, not circles.”

  “You’ve seen this before?”

  “I have.”

  Mr. Noxumbra pulled back his left suit sleeve.  From a thin waxy string tied loosely about his wrist dangled an iron charm identical to the one Thomas had worn.

  Mr. North stared in amazement.

  “It really is fascinating how much you look like your ancestor,” Noxumbra said, removing his dark sunglasses.  A deep scar sliced his right eyebrow in two, and the eye beneath stared across the desk through a permanent bloody swirl.

  “Sigil?” said Mr. North.  “You were there?”

  “I was.  It was your great, great, great, great grandfather William’s idea to hire the boat.  We never boarded it.  Instead, we let those fools chase it back across the sea while we headed inland.”

  Without his glasses, Sigil Noxumbra appeared far younger.  Had anyone else been there to witness it, they might have marveled at how someone his age had come to lead such a prominent business like The Council. 

  Mr. North stared at the bloody eye as though hypnotized. 

  “Is that all?” Noxumbra asked.

  “I wish it were,” said Mr. North, returning to the moment.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small package wrapped in black cloth.  He set it gingerly on the desk as if afraid to wake whatever was inside.  “It’s what we’ve always feared.”

  Noxumbra pulled back the corners of the parcel, revealing a small stone carving of a scarab beetle.  The detail was impressive.  Its segmented body looked as though it might scuttle away on all six of its legs at any minute.  In between its front pincers, it held a glass ball that caught the light, making it appear to glow from within.

  “Then it has begun,” Mr. Noxumbra said, prodding the beetle with his finger.  “Whether we like it or not, we’ll have to hope Ms. Poole is right.”

  “Does it have to be him?” Mr. North asked.

  “I’m afraid so, but don’t worry, he won’t be alone.  We’ll provide all the guidance that is within our power to give.”

  “And if he won’t accept it?”

  Mr. Noxumbra refolded the cloth and passed the wrapped beetle back across the desk.

  “With the old postmaster gone,” he said, “we’re the only ones who know.  We’ll have to pray it buys us enough time for him to be made ready.  That task I’ll leave to you.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Mr. North turned and walked back to the door, its outline invisible in the vast whiteness.

  “See that you do, Edward,” Noxumbra called after him.  “For all our sakes.”