The entrace to Zaira's pavilion is curtained off by strings of beads, stones, and medallions. Within, my fellow Watchers and I walk into clouds of frankincense. Kneath-Evans, the tactless philistine, gives Zaira a look of disgust after three not-so-subtle coughs. The crone wastes no time. Mumbling to herself, she pulls a shawl from a hook on the wall, throws it round her shoulders, and takes a seat on the other side of a small table. Awkwardly, we find our own places to crouch and sit, careful not to sit on a cat or knock over a bottle of some curious brew. Madame Zaira taps her long, brown nails upon the cloudy orb of visions, and begins her search. "Name him and he shall be found." "You need a name?" I ask with surprise. I know Zaira better. She is no fraud. "You know perfectly well who it is we seek, Zaira. You knew it before we arrived, I'll warrant." Droning, Zaira's eyes roll back into her head and her eyelids tremble. Shadows shift throughout the pavilion as though the sun were passing across the horizon, a whole day spent in mere moments. The soft burn of incandescent light burns through the orb upon her silk-draped table. Flickers of images appear for us all to see, moving photograph projections from a source below the table, I imagine. It's certainly stunning enough to see, especially for the superstitious folk of Drakesheath. But anyone who has seen moving pictures knows that there is no magic at work here. It is the images, themselves, that truly astound us. Lord Drakesheath kneels, breathless, in a misty moorland. Encroaching upon him is a strange body of men and women. At first I do not recognise them. Suddenly, Carmilla gasps. A moment later I see what she sees. Their masks. The Vipère Société!