Rook

childbirth, and a fire had destroyed the homes of several of my tenants. Politically, it had been a tricky time, with several people in Brussels—mostly Flemings—disagreeing with some of my ideas. Still, I’d had a few exceptionally successful financial ventures and wascontemplating withdrawing from politics and seeing about getting a wife and having some children.
    And then, down the lane, through the storm of leaves, my cousin came trotting on his horse. He was ten years my junior, the Count of Leeuwen, and not nearly as wealthy as I. He’d lost some money in a few highly unsuccessful ventures—one of them an elaborate con. Once or twice, he had borrowed money from me and been slow in paying it back. But I was fond of him nonetheless, and he was family. We had gone hunting together several times before I lost my leg and had enjoyed each other’s company, although he was extraordinarily excitable.
    I welcomed him, and he helped me inside while a servant attended to his horse. We were soon settled comfortably by a fire, drinking wine and engaged in the traditional chitchat. I noticed that he seemed distracted throughout the conversation, and I braced myself for his inevitable request for money.
    “Ernst,” he said, looking at me suddenly, “I’ve found a rather remarkable investment opportunity that I think you may be interested in.”
    “Oh?” I asked, trying to sound surprised and (I suspect) failing. He caught my resignation, and his intensity wavered for a moment. He nodded and leaned forward in his chair, casually drawing a belt knife.
    “Yes, I concede that I’ve had some bad luck in business,” he said. “But Cousin, I believe this could redefine our future!” He was excited now, and I sat back in my chair. I hadn’t liked his use of the word
our.
And I particularly didn’t like the way he was holding the knife.
    “Like that business with the man from Florence?” I asked dryly.
    “No, not like the business with the man from Florence!” he snapped, his cheeks flushing. The business with the Italian had almost lost him his house and had led to his fiancée’s breaking off their engagement.
    “All right, Gerd, I’m sorry,” I said, casting an uneasy look at the knife.
    “This is different,” he said. I began to wonder if he was drunk. Or possibly mad.
    “I believe you,” I said, cautiously reaching down for my own belt knife. My fingers closed around the handle and I drew the blade.
    He smiled. “I’ll show you.”
    And he cut off his own forefinger.
    “Holy Christ!” I exclaimed. Gerd’s eyes were beatific, with an ecstasythat I found almost as unnerving as the blood gushing onto my carpet. I drew in breath to shout for someone—whether to restrain him or clean up the blood, I wasn’t sure—but he held up his unmutilated hand.
    “Wait,” he said calmly and I noticed, with a small thrill of horror, that he was still holding his sliced-off digit. Even more distressing, the severed end of the finger was turning a strange sky blue. I darted a glance at his wound and saw that it was turning the same color.
    I’ll confess that at this point the possibility of satanic possession began to occur to me, and I tightened my grasp on my knife. I was bracing myself to stab the blade into his eye and call for the servants when he brought the severed finger up to his hand. Before my eyes, the blue patches writhed, and I watched tendrils reach out to one another. I heard a faint sucking sound, and then his hand was whole again. He stared at his fingers with rapt fascination as he wiggled them all.
    “Holy Christ,” I repeated softly. He smiled seraphically.
    Needless to say, I was intrigued, if still slightly concerned that my cousin was trafficking with the devil. It occurred to me, however, that if this was not an abomination in the eyes of God that would lead to our eternal damnation, it represented a marvelous business opportunity.
    So it was with an open mind, and a couple of extremely large fellows from my estates as backup, that I accompanied my cousin to his residence, where a handful of grubby men were engaged in some extremely complicated experiments in a barn. They were too socially awkward and uninterested in me to be recruiting agents of the devil. Rather than making any sort of overtures for my soul, they spent several hours explaining to me exactly what their work consisted of. Their earnest descriptions gave me a headache, but their optimism about providing me with a