Bahorel grins at the obvious unsaid question. "It's not especially dire. But it is our business, at least somewhat."

He holds up the book, in its red leather binding. "Some thirty years after our death, Victor Hugo-- do you recall him?-- seems to have written about us. That is, he wrote this, and we're--"he grabs a small number of pages to illustrate "--featured. Some of us more at length than others. Bossuet gets quite a speech."

He makes no particular move to hand the book over, though he's hardly hiding it away. "There is, I think, nothing too dangerous to us, here. But this book is evidently quite known. It was Monsieur Lecter who recommended it to me."

And it's worth something, to know what others are expecting from you. Why Lecter would hand that over is a question he's willing to consider; but not the most immediate one.