"You are mighty," Crowley muses, reaching out for his own wineglass, "because you are mighty. A philosophy I can get behind."

There's a flash of colour, bright against the black of Crowley's sleeve and his pale, sallow skin. At his wrist, strung on a plain leather thong (starting to show signs of wear, now, lightly cracked and slightly frayed), is a small rose, carved of the clearest apple-green jade.