From outside there is a roaring of rockets, a plethora of pyrotechnic, an explosion of explosives. Roamin' Roman candles toss their balls into the black velvet sky, burning holes in the fabric of space-time. And from one of those holes a Hand reaches down, scoops up the pile of bursting bombs, and is withdrawn. The night is again quiet, except for the melee going on in, over, under, through, and around the Tavern.

Not bad, he thinks. Divine intervention? That BATFE agent might have injured himself, dropping a lighted cigar into the fireworks like that. As it is he just set his clothes alight, and he stopped, dropped, and rolled right into the pond.

Slipping off his handcuffs and shucking off his shackles he heads back inside. There he wraps himself around a superb eggnog with potcheen, nutmeg sprinkled on top, of course.

Severn has reached the point where he is disrobing to the music.