| TWENTY |

SWANN ENJOYED THIS PART MOST OF ALL. THE CARING. THE PREENING.

The tending.

The girl had been easy. Almost too easy. Had he made a mistake?

Was she unworthy of his efforts? When she left the library he followed her in his car for a few blocks on Vine Street. When the traffic behind him urged him forward, he circled the block, twice, having been swept up in center-lane traffic, unable to pull over. At first he thought he had lost her, and had a few anxious moments. When he turned north onto Sixteenth Street he saw her. She was standing at the side of the road, hitchhiking, angling for a ride on the Vine Street Expressway.

He pulled over, all but disbelieving his providence. She got in.

Just like that.

She was not afraid. She was at that age when everything still held adventure, everything was a bold and exciting escapade, an age when it was a certainty that you will never grow old, and that fear and mistrust will never become your mantra.

Had they been seen? Swann didn’t know. In a city like Philadelphia, anything was possible. In a city like Philadelphia you could be completely invisible, or you could stand out like a diamond in a dunghill, to borrow a phrase from Thomas Jefferson.

Her name was Patricia Sato. She was from Albany, New York. They talked about music and film. She was a fan of an actor named James McAvoy.

“I thought he was great in Atonement,” Swann had said. “Perhaps even better in The Last King of Scotland.”

Patricia Sato was amazed he had ever heard of James McAvoy.

Of course, Swann was well versed in pop culture—music, films, television, fashion. He fastidiously did his research, and had yet to fail to keep up his end of the conversation.

When they reached the entrance to the Schuylkill Expressway, and Patricia realized he was not taking her to Old City as she had asked, she panicked. She tried the doors. She pounded on the windows.

Swann put a hand into the air in front of her. “Gomen nasai,” he said in apology.

Patricia turned to him quickly, stunned that he spoke Japanese. He snapped the glass chloroform ampoule beneath her nose.

Moments later Patricia Sato was unconscious.

THE SECOND-FLOOR BATHROOM, just off the master suite, was added in 1938. It was clad in ecru tile with oyster accents. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard pattern. The pedestal sink and claw-foot tub were sparkling white, and featured polished nickel fixtures.

As Swann filled the tub, he poured in two capfuls of Vanilla Shimmer by L’Occitane.

“What are the six basic types of conjuring effects?”

Swann ignored the voice. He tried to enjoy the moment. He luxuriated in the rich vanilla fragrance. Soon it would smell of warm girl.

“Joseph?”

He turned off the tap, dried his hands. He attempted to fill his head with music, with selections from a recent recording he had purchased, a Telarc recording of Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique, performed by the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra.

“Joseph Edmund Swann!”

Swann closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the cold steel of the chains against his skin. The terrible licorice smell of absinthe. The voice would not leave him alone. It never did. He began.

“The six types of conjuring effects are as follows,” he said.

He crossed the space to the linen closet. He had long ago purchased a set of Turkish cotton towels in peach, just for this day. He took out a bath sheet, draped it over the towel-warmer.

“Number one. Appearance. In which an object appears where it was not.” He straightened the bath rug, surveyed his domain. More candles.

“Next!”

“Number two. Vanish. In which an object disappears from where it was.” He decided on unscented candles. He did not want to overpower the room with any one fragrance. He returned to the linen closet, removed six more tower candles—all white—and began to place them around the bathroom. When he was done, he looked at the overall composition. He was not pleased. He moved two candles closer to the head of the tub. Better.

“I’m listening.”

“Number three. Transposition. In which an object changes position in space.” Swann removed the lighter from his vest pocket, a slim Dunhill in sterling silver. One by one he lighted the candles. The bubbles in the tub created small rainbows in the soft light.

“Joseph!”

“Number four. Transformation. In which an object changes form.” He stepped out of the bathroom, into the bedroom. The girl was sprawled across the bed. He had given her a second ampoule. He needed her to be pliant for her bath. He slipped a thick canvas apron over his head, tied it in the front.

“This will not do, Joseph.”

“Number five. Penetration. In which matter passes through matter.” He undressed the girl, gently folding her clothes and putting them on the dresser, a nearly perfect Louis XVI Psyche chest he had acquired in Toronto. He took off her shoes. There was a folded five dollar bill in one of them. It was damp with perspiration, flattened with the weight of a hundred miles. He wondered how long it had been in there, what she had sacrificed not to spend it. Joseph Swann took it and put it into the pocket of her jeans.

“I’m waiting.”

Swann wanted to discontinue this routine, as he always had, but he knew this was not an option. His one weapon was the irritation of delay. He lifted the girl and carried her into the bathroom. She was feather-light in his arms.

He sat the girl down on the commode, tested the water in the tub. It was perfect. The mirrors and windows were misted with fragrant steam.

“I will strike you down, Singing Boy!”

He closed his eyes, brushed back the rage, waiting defiantly for a reprimand. He was met with silence. A small victory.

“Number six. Restoration,” he finally said, in his own time. “In which an object is restored to its original condition.”

And then there was stillness. A deep, celestial peace.

Joseph Swann lowered Patricia Sato into the frothy bubbles.