- Vol. 04
- Chapter 07
You can only see him from the corner of your eye —a wisp, a blur, a shadow. His art is to remain hidden. He walks on slippered feet, stands behind velvet curtains.
When a guest drops a silver spoon onto the Turkish carpet, he whisks it away before anyone notices. The wine is poured, the soup is served. The guests lean in over stemware and dinner plates, telling tales, laughing.
They suck flesh off tiny quail bones, crack lobster claws, slurp oysters from their shells, belch discreetly behind linen napkins.
They do not see him there, watching.