Mr. West found himself in a straight-backed leather chair, in a room that was a mirror image of his. The east window was open, and the lush cherry blossoms of the tree outside it anointed the soft breeze. He fidgeted; or perhaps we should say he ‘writhed.’ It was the wrong sort of chair for one whose lower back needed a bit of help. This is a dream, he reminded himself. I feel fine.

He faced a young man in uniform in an identical chair. He wore the crimson crown insignia of a major. He looked rather like Lord Tor, if one were to disregard the bullet hole under his right eye. Blood pulsed out of it unceasingly, but it seemed not to trouble him.

The major stood and offered his hand; “Percy Tor at your service,” he said crisply. “I gather you wish to speak to me.”

Mr. West reached to clasp the hand, but paused. Blood was dripping from it. Instead he pushed himself to his feet with the aid of the chair arms. “You are an invader of this house,” he wheezed importantly. “You must be gone.”