“The hand knows what it must do.”

Spoken by Aristede, Count Petofi’s inexplicable aide, these words define the evening.

That, and the Count holding aloft the abominable appendage while cackling like a gibbering seaman, deranged with syphilis and scurvy.  But associates like those are more commonly in Quentin’s company than mine.

Count Petofi seems obsessed with my capacity to travel into the future.  I will see to it that he has none.




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