"I've lost you again, haven't I?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "I was just thinking that you haven't actually told me much about either yourself or your sister."

"There really isn't anything to tell." Harper stood up. "We ought to be on our way. I'd like to get you in to see Scott-Beck as soon as possible."

"That was a quick change of subject." I slowly pulled myself up from the chair.

"I'm too tired to be clever about it," Harper replied.

"Will you let me see your hands?" I asked.

"What?"

"Your hands." I pointed. "The things under the gloves. I'd like to see them."

"Why?"

"Because you want to hide them." I shrugged. "It's just the sort of person I am."

"You've already seen my hands." Harper lowered his voice, as if someone else might overhear us. "And a lot more of me."

"Then what's the harm in showing me again?" I asked.

"Why is it suddenly so important?" Harper asked.

"Your hands themselves aren't," I said. "Whether you show them to me or not, is."

"It's some kind of test?" Harper asked.

"Perhaps." I enjoyed using Harper's own word, though he didn't seem to note it.

Harper shook his head but went ahead and pulled off his gloves. He held his bare hands out in front of me. I studied them.

Very little about Harper seemed holy, but his hands were those of a saint. Pale and utterly flawless, they could have been cut from pearls. His long fingers stretched out in graceful curves. They were like virgin bodies, utterly untouched, even by the sun.

The urge to drag one of my black nails across the back of Harper's hand brushed through my thoughts. When I reached out and carefully touched one of Harper's fingers, I almost expected to see a dirty yellow stain left behind, but the skin remained flawless. I placed my palm against Harper's. His skin was warm and soft. I couldn't feel a single callus.

I glanced up to see his expression. He stared at me intently, waiting for my appraisal.

"Perfect." The word slipped out from me.

A smile flickered across Harper's lips. Gently, he slid his fingers down against my palm. He stroked the tender curve of my wrists and then curled his fingers up against mine. The lightness of his touch sent a shiver through my arms, and I caught another of his quick smiles.

"Your hands are perfect. Why would you want to wear gloves?" I asked, trying to draw my concentration away from the sensation of Harper's hands stroking mine.

"I don't know," Harper said. "My father always did."

"Did your stepfather wear them also?"

If I had wanted to catch Harper off guard, I couldn't have chosen a better way. For one brief moment he simply stood, frozen in place, looking as if I had sent an electric shock through him.

"I actually meant my stepfather," Harper said. "But how did you find out about him?"

"A friend mentioned him to me." I let Harper draw his hands back from mine without comment. When just our hands had touched, there had been an openness between us. We shared the honesty of simple physical pleasure. Sensation alone was easy to accept. It asked nothing. Once even a single question was raised between us, any illusion of trust fell away.

"Did your friend mention anything in particular about him?" Harper picked his gloves up from the tabletop.

"No. Should he have?"

"No," Harper replied firmly.

I had the distinct feeling that the conversation was at an end.

"It's time to go see Mr. Scott-Beck." Harper pulled the gloves over his hands and flexed his fingers against the black leather. His open palm closed again into the black fist of an Inquisitor.

Of course, I couldn't just see Mr. Scott-Beck. Not without a reference. I had to wait until he had an opening between his regular appointments. I slumped on a green loveseat in his waiting room. Other Prodigals passed me on the way in and then back out from their appointments. The wall clock chimed out a popular tune every half hour, and steadily I grew to hate it. I had nothing to do but wait and brood over the disassembly of that happy little clock.

I hoped that Harper was as bored as well, but I doubted it. He had decided to wait for me in the teahouse across from Scott-Beck's office building. When I looked out the window, I caught sight of him. He was talking to some blonde waiter. I frowned down at them for several minutes, then returned to my seat.

In the full face of boredom, I longed to drag up some scent of terror or bloodshed. For the first two hours my anticipation of danger kept me nervous and wary. I watched every movement of the secretary, every exchanged greeting and goodbye, as if it were a prelude to murder. But steadily, as I witnessed the flow of Prodigal after Prodigal through the firm's doors, my excitement waned into reason.

The fact that all of the murdered members of Good Commons had gone to this particular firm seemed damning until I realized that almost every living Prodigal seemed to use this firm. I wasn't even sure that any other legal office offered services for Prodigals. People came for dozens of different reasons. Some had wills, others needed contracts notarized, while still others were clearly criminal. I imagined that most of the population of Hells Below had come and gone through the firm's doors.

The clock on the wall rang out its sweet, happy melody, announcing yet another hour of my life wasted in this room. The waiting room exuded benign tedium. The chairs and loveseats were spread out in a loose circle along the walls, allowing clients just enough distance from each other to keep them quiet. A set of pallid watercolors hung on either side of the window, and on the wall behind me there was the incessant tick of the wall clock. The place exuded the palpable sensation of devouring hours that I would have rather spent doing almost anything else.

I gazed out the window. The blonde waiter was at Harper's table again. I couldn't see the waiter's face, but Harper gave him a slow, deep smile that made me think he must have been attractive. Fleetingly, I wished I had a rock to hurl at him.

I turned to the only other person in the waiting room with me at the moment. The office secretary looked back at me with all the charm of a halibut. I tried to study him with interest, imagining that somewhere behind his murky green eyes there might be the flicker of dark murderous longing. The secretary blinked and then returned to sorting the stacks of paper on his desk. His only deep desire seemed to be for proper filing.

No matter who came through the door, the secretary seemed to have a form for him to fill out. I had completed mine in the first minute of entering the room by simply leaving the questions unanswered and printing my name at the top of the page in the kind of deformed, clumsy script that screamed of illiteracy.

At the time, I had thought I was clever for so deftly eluding the paperwork, but now I regretted it. At least filling the form out would have used up a little of the empty time I now had.

I might have been able to amuse myself by writing in deliberately obtuse answers and a few outright lies. Instead I jabbed quietly at the cushion of the loveseat with my hard, black fingernail, slowly gouging my initials into it.

When the clock chimed out its bright little tune for the tenth time, I realized with annoyance that I had the song memorized. At his desk, still sorting papers, the secretary hummed the tune aloud without seeming aware of it. I clawed at the loveseat with a little more force.