The thing on Art's plate looked like a leg—a potato-sized lump of meat with a bone protruding from one end. It rested in a pool of sauce.

A lifeless limb in a puddle of its brown blood.

"I have warned you," Sven said.

His colleague was sitting opposite Art in the lunchtime noise of the institute's canteen.

Carefully, Art poked the leg with his fork. The meat was soft and yielding. "It does look like leg."

"Pull the bone." Sven's blue eyes sparkled. They, and the snowflakes whirling in the large window behind him, were the only things Nordic about the dark-haired Swedish physicist.

Holding the lump stationary with the fork, Art seized the bone between finger and thumb and pulled. It came free easily—a bone stick with blunt ends—someone must have stuck into the meat. 

He turned the bone between his fingers. "Not a leg. Fake."

"Yessir," Sven said, "it is nothing but a burger-cum-bone."

Art tapped the bone against the plate. It made a ringing sound. "Burger-cum-polymer-bone, I'd say."

"Right, that's what they call a Pozharsky steak." Sven grinned.

"Okay..." Art shrugged. The thing was bizarre, but he was hungry, so he put the bone to rest at the edge of the plate, reached for his knife, cut a piece of what looked like tender burger-muscle and placed it in his mouth. Its texture was grainy, its taste salty. He swallowed. "Is this a Tavetian specialty?"

"No, I don't think so." Sven shook his head. "The canteen at Stockholm University serves them, too. It may be a pan-European delight. Or a secret joke of the university chefs."

"I hope they'll serve something different tonight, I'm invited to a Tavetian pre-Christmas party."

"Sounds intriguing," Sven said.

"If you say so..." The thought of the party or the Pozharsky muscle—or both—made Art's stomach tighten. "I'm nervous, though. It's my first Tavetian party."

He had never told Sven, nor any other of his colleagues at the institute, about the murder. It was easy to write about it to Dan, on the other side of the globe, but a completely different matter when sitting face-to-face with someone you saw daily, someone you worked with, someone who might see how the whole thing had gotten under your skin.

"Tavetian parties are like parties anywhere, don't worry." Sven loaded his fork with rice and delicious-looking chicken curry. "Small talk, food, and drinks—and the more drinks you have the larger the small talk becomes. It turns into large talk, you see. There is just one thing to be aware of..."

"Yes?"

Sven was chewing while pointing his fork at his wristwatch. He swallowed. "When will it start?"

"At six, they said."

"Okay. You see, if they say six, they mean six. Not sixish... not cum tempore... It is six o'clock sharp." With the last word, he stabbed a piece of chicken.

"Anything else I should know?"

"Bring something." Sven directed the skewered meat towards Art's face.

"They told me I shouldn't."

"They lied."

In the evening, at 05:59:30, Art stood before the door of the Meiers' residence, with a bottle of wine in his hands, a pounding heart in his chest, and firm intentions to watch everyone's moves.

He heard steps on the stairs behind him and turned. Rashid came into view and smiled as he saw Art. He carried a bouquet of pink flowers, brandishing it like a defensive weapon.

Art felt his muscles unknot, to some degree. "Hey, Rashid."

"Good evening, Art."

"To be honest, I'm relieved to see you." Art kept his voice low. "It's my first Tavetian party. I'm happy to have another alien to guide me through the moves."

Rashid winked. "Just relax. They won't bite you."

Yeah, they're more the strangling types.

Art refrained from uttering this thought aloud. Instead, he made room for Rashid at the door, gesturing for him to take the lead.

"The flowers go to the hostess, the wine to the host," Rashid whispered conspiratorially, then he rang the bell.

Ralph opened the door. He wore a white shirt, a jacket, and a tie.

Formal dress?

Worried, Art quickly checked Rashid's attire and was relieved to see him clothed in a sweater with no tie in sight. Untied. Like Art. But then, Rashid was a foreigner, too.

"Art?"

His name tore him from his musings of wardrobe, and he stared at Ralph's hand proffered towards him. He shook it. "Hello, Ralph."

"Welcome!" Ralph motioned his guests to enter. The grin on his face and his stout build made him look like a gnome.

"Thanks." Art hesitated, then gripped his bottle with both hands. He offered it to Ralph, making sure the label was facing upwards. It was as if offering a newborn to some mischievous, dwarfish god.

"Oh, but why? I told you not to bring anything."

Art was unable to decide if the plaintive wail in the man's voice was skillful acting or genuine exasperation, and the knots in his bowels tightened again. But then, to his relief, Ralph took the bottle and ogled it reverentially.

"Senza Parole... that's a good one, thanks." Ralph nodded, then motioned towards the hallway once more.

As Art entered the living room, he saw Mrs. Meier scrutinizing Rashid's flowers with an expression between surprise and appreciation similar to the one her son had worn seconds ago.

"But they are beautiful, Mr. Pathan, thank you so much," she said. Then she turned towards Art. "Good evening, Mr. Sharpe. Do come in." Transferring the flowers to her left, she reached out to shake hands with him. Her grip was strong, and her smile was toothy.

Strong hands. Strong enough—

"Drinks, anyone?" Ralph stood beside a monstrous sideboard of dark wood that extended along a wall. One of its doors stood open, displaying a hoard of bottled liquids. "We have Martini, Cynar, Campari. Or some white wine." His hand touched lightly on a long-necked bottle standing on top of the stately piece of furniture, beside a parade of glasses.

"Or we have orange juice and sparkling water... if you prefer," Mrs. Meier chimed in.

"I'll have a glass of orange juice, thanks." Rashid took the lead and walked over to Mrs. Meier.

"And I'd love some white wine, please." Art joined Ralph, hoping the alcohol would loosen the tightness in his chest.

The doorbell rang.

"That must be Ms. Costello, I'll let her in." Mrs. Meier placed a glass of juice in Rashid's hand and left the room. Her son poured the wine while Art pored over who Ms. Costello was. The name seemed familiar—Adriana.

And, indeed, seconds later Adriana entered the room. Art paused as he saw her. Her long, indigo dress gave him a feeling of déjà vu—the garment reminded him of one that Jane used to wear. Adriana's blonde hair rested on her shoulders like streaks of hay against a summer evening sky. She gave him a small smile when she saw him.

"Look what Ms. Costello has brought us." Mrs. Meier entered the room behind her, holding a transparent bag filled with small biscuits. She looked at it with a fond expression. "Christmas cookies. She made them herself."

As Mrs. Meier carried her prize over to the table, Adriana greeted Ralph, Art, and Rashid.

Ralph enquired about her drinking preferences, and she went for the wine. "Mom, will you have some wine as well?"

"No thanks, dear. I'll have a Martini." She walked over to the sideboard to prepare her drink. Then she joined the others and raised her glass. "Our surprise guest will arrive later, so I suggest we start with the preparations. Thanks for joining us."

They clinked glasses, each one with everyone.

n*(n–1)/2, in this case the number n of glasses being 5, so we have 10 clinks.

When Mrs. Meier clinked Rashid, Adriana, and Art, she explained that her first name was Agatha.

"I'm Art." He smiled.

The wine had a fresh, fruity scent, a slightly yeasty taste, was pleasantly cool, and hovered in the comfort zone between sour and sweet.

Rashid cleared his throat. "So, who's that surprise guest?"

"That is..." Ralph spread his arms, the movement bringing his wine close to sloshing out of its glass. For a moment, he stood still, everyone's eyes on him. "... a surprise."