Thus far, 1897 reeks of paprika, cheap wine, and Turkish cigars.

My trip found me in the most logical place possible: sealed in a coffin with no hope of escape.  I had somehow sent my essence backwards in time via the I Ching and into the awaiting vessel of my sleeping body in 1897.

With more of a presence of mind (and confidence) than I’d had in 1967, I called out to the weakest minds, and found those even more pliable than Young Loomis: gypsies!  They were drunken on potato spirits, superstition, and greed, and I was easily capable of transmitting my will to their crystal ball and arranging my release via a man, Szandor, with the moral flexibility of Young Loomis and the simian aroma of Good Mr. Ben Stokes.

He has released me, and I shall now seek out what news I can.

I only hope that this redolent immigrant can dress me in a manner unlike a seraglio’s tablecloth.  I have my doubts, but at least I’m dealing with a group for whom I do not need to explain the power of my kind.

Barnabas, old man, you are on the scent!  (And Szandor has provided me an ample pathway.)



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