The night was yet young, and the quiet man sat, nursing his Pile Driver (prune juice and vodka). Untroubled, his brow unfurrowed, he unconsciously traced the curves of his rapiet's hilt with his left index finger.

The party was starting to get rowdy, now that the whist players had been rescued. The snow drifting through the hole in the roof added a seasonal touch, the flakes catching the colors of the lights on the tree -- or, he mused, the coloUrs of the lights for those living in countries which spelled things in odd ways.

Interesting, too was watching Liz and Sinsull trying to capture the baby bodhran. They had the thing cornered, but it was spitting and snarling, its baby fangs dripping with bodhran venom. The quiet one knew that the most the venom of such a young one could do would be to paralyze its victim for a few hours, a condition not unlike drinking certain liquors.

"Ah, yes," he thought, "For I have been to Ludlow Fair, and left my necktie god know where. And if I don't find it I'm gonna be awfully pissed off, since it set me back better than thirty bucks US."

At that juncture a body fell through the hole in the roof, landing with a thud amidst the rubble and dust of the floor.