‘A periapt, a charm, a spell to defend myself while traversing the desert Vaich to the heathen lands beyond.’

Josephine, sitting at her work-table, arched her eyebrows. ‘Why not just fling you across the desert with a Tertiary invocation. You’ll arrive whole, though perhaps slightly tousled.’

‘My disciples must arrive with me.’

Josephine mused. ‘Well, there is a rather rudimentary spell I could teach you. Hibbly’s Hickup. Harmless really. –but what of your doctrines? Do they not enjoin such an association with sorcery?’ She eyed her brother closely. He dismissed the matter with a peremptory wave of hand.

‘Certainly it is the will of the benevolent Yaqmoo that I arrive safely, by whatever means necessary. Do the scriptures not tell of how Ob’louch of Eek sought counsel with a certain witch?’

‘Ah, well in that case I’ll teach you the Rip-Spizzel Gyre, as well.’

Josephine rose to instruct her brother. ‘Hibbly’s Hickup is a simple procedure. Merely direct your focus to an object, and…’ she paused, glancing at the many fragile relics and scrolls displayed about her work-room, and, thinking better, said, ‘Let’s go out into the courtyard to practice.’

They proceeded to a spacious courtyard. ‘We will practice the spell using your hat.’ St. Iggimax scowled, but reluctantly gave it over, a small blue adornment of no remarkable design. ‘Observe. Simply pucker your lips like thus, and wink twice with the right eye. Then utter the activating vocables.’ Josephine puckered her lips, blinked twice with right eye, then hooted. The hat gave a jerk, and lurched from existence. ‘In essence, the spell transports the object ten leagues away. To reverse the spell, merely repeat the steps, but wink twice with the left eye, instead. Like thus.’ And the hat flopped down before them. ‘Now try.’ St. Iggimax puckered his lips, but his eyelids were not as deft as his sister’s, and the hat was lost forever. They passed the afternoon perfecting the spells, and finally, before turning to depart, St. Iggimax asked:

‘Are these the only spells you offer? What of talismans, incantations, powerful runes? What if I am beset by a horde of desert imps?’

‘In that case you will have to rely on the force of your vast erudition. Perhaps you’ll be able to confound and stupefy them with a smattering of metaphysical rant, and thereby narrowly escape doom.’

His face became a wry grimace. ‘Humph. You verge on blasphemy, dear sister. I am constantly interceding on your behalf, mind you. It is a tiresome sacrifice.’

Josephine smiled. ‘How comforting to know that my soul is being tendered to so diligently. But just in case, I am formulating a series of agents that, if successful, will prolong human life indefinitely.’

St. Iggimax nodded. ‘Doubtless an abomination. Still, I just may need to test the efficacy of your potion to better rebuke it in my epistles.’

‘Indeed,’ said Josephine.

Someone had finally beaten Jacques.

During the Golden Times, I would have been seeking merriment instead of coffee, scuffling billiards for the sake of conversation and drink, pausing to take in the girls. But that was before Gentrytown’s golden goose, the foundry, had burned. The fire destroyed the foundry, and with it, the Golden Times.

Afterwards, Gentrytown had grown meaner and more primal. The fights replaced the brass bands and the cabarets. Drunken spectators cast down grubby money, cheering when their guy won, cursing when he lost. They loved champions and ignored losers.

Everyone loved Jacques.

The men loved his company as much as they feared and admired and envied him. The women’s love of Jacques was more primal. His lack of grace outside the ring only heightened their attraction. It wasn’t charm that won their affections; his brutal efficiency and spotless record did the trick. Jacques broke no smiles, only noses and cheekbones and hearts.

Jacques’ fists worked in concerted fury, driving the fight out of his challengers. I swear his body was a conduit for the savagery of the nine hells, not only beating down his foes, but also taking a part of their soul.

Before I stopped going to the fights—my friends, and thus my good times, disappeared when my money ran out—I often watched Marie watch Jacques as he planted bare-knuckled blows into the ribcage of his over-matched opponent. His physical supremacy mesmerized her.

Between rounds, Marie often glanced at the other women in Lefevre Hall, smug in the knowledge that she would tend Jacques afterwards. Still, the other women waited. That Marie had not been the first to sit next to Jacques fortified their patience.

Without the fights, I saw less of Marie and none of Jacques. Staying away didn’t keep the rumors from reaching me that Jacques had cast aside Maria for another.

More shouts broke my reverie and scattered the images of those nights at Lefevre Hall.

I found Marie weeping along the rubble-filled stream behind the hall. A few mascara-black tears tumbled from her eyes but washed away no sorrow. Her right arm hung limp by her side, a small pistol in her hand. Jacques lay on his back, his hands resting palms up as if pleading. His face looked all wrong, as if it had been hastily assembled and painted black and blue and red.

“They beat the hell out him. I didn’t even get a chance,” she said.

Water pooled upstream of his body, swirling in little eddies before spilling over his chest. Nearby, on the bank, Jacques’ pale blue hat, like a piece of the sky fallen to earth, lay beautiful in the golden afternoon sun.