A cluster of leaves unrolled itself from the tree and darted down, stitching the air at blinding speeds about my head.
“Another who watches,” came its tiny voice.
“The neighborhood is getting crowded,” I said. “You may call me Snuff. What may I call you?”
“Needle,” it replied. “Whom do you serve?”
“Jack,” I answered. “And yourself?”
“The Count,” it said.
“Do you know whether Morris and MacCab found their ingredients?”
“Yes,” it replied. “Do you know whether the crazy woman found hers?”
“I’m pretty sure she did.”
“So she is abreast of us. Still, it is early. . . .”
“When did the Count join the Game?”
“Two nights ago,” it said.
“How many players are there?”
“I don’t know,” it answered. Then it soared high and was gone.
Life was suddenly even more complicated, and I’d no way of knowing whether they were openers or closers.
As I made my way back I felt that I was being watched. But whoever it was, was very, very good. I could not spot him, so I took a long, long way about. He left me later to follow another. I hurried home to report.
October 4
Rainy day. Windy, too. I made my rounds.
“Up yours, cur.”
“Same to you.”
“Hi, things.”
_Slither, slither._
“How’s about letting me out?”
“Nope.”
“My day will come.”
“It’s not today.”
The usual. Everything seemed in order.
“How’s about a collie? You like redheads?”
“You still haven’t got it right. S’long.”
“Son of a bitch!”
I checked all the windows and doors from the inside, then let myself out the back through my private hatch, master Jack sleeping or resting in his darkened room. I checked everything again from the outside. I could discover no surprises of the sort I had discussed with Graymalk the other day. But I did find something else: There was a single paw-print, larger than my own, in the shelter of a tree to the side of the house. The accompanying scent and any adjacent prints had been washed away by the rain. I circled far afield, seeking more evidence of the intruder, but there was nothing else. The old man who lives up the road was in his yard, harvesting mistletoe from a tree, using a small, shining sickle. A squirrel sat upon his shoulder. This was a new development.
I addressed the squirrel through a hedge:
“Are you in the Game?”
It scurried to the man’s nearer shoulder and peered.
“Who asks?” it chattered.
“Call me Snuff,” I answered.
“Call me Cheeter,” it replied. “Yes, I suppose we are. Last minute thing, rush, rush.”
“Opener or closer?”
“Impolite! Impolite to ask! You know that!”
“Just thought I’d try. You could be novices.”
“Not new enough to be giving anything away. Leave it at that.”
“I will.”
“Stay. Is there a black snake in it?”
“You ask me to give something away. But yes, there is: Quicklime. Beware. His master is mad.”
“Aren’t they all?”
We chuckled and I faded away.
That evening we went out again. We crossed the bridge and walked for a long, long while. The dour detective and his rotund companion were about, the latter limping from his adventure of the other night. We passed them twice in the fog. But it was the wand Jack bore this night, to stand at the city’s center with it and trap a certain beam of starlight in a crystal vial while the clocks chimed twelve. Immediately, the liquid in the container began to glow with a reddish light; and somewhere in the distance a howling rose up. No one I knew. I wasn’t even sure it was a dog. It said a single word in the language of my kind, a long, drawn-out “Lost!” My hackles rose at the sound of it.
“Why are you growling, friend?” Jack asked.
I shook my head. I was not sure.