In a private guest room in the Zenith Town Club, Mark Chew delivered a double espresso to a gentleman in a bow tie before quietly exiting via a side door into the pantry, which adjoined the private diners’ kitchen. He was only five months into the job, and at thirty-one, the youngest member of the crew. His friends said he was an old soul in a young body; one had to be, he believed, to be entrusted with the responsibility of waiting on the Club’s most distinguished members, among whom were senior professionals, business moguls, and captains of industry. A certain decorum was expected of those who worked here. His supervisor had urged him to style himself on the English butlers of old – courteous to a fault, efficient, and above all, utterly discreet.

The man he had just served was Dr Reginald Lee, President of the Singapore Peranakan Circle and a regular visitor to Zenith. He came to the Club once a week, usually on Thursday afternoon, when the room was reserved for him. From the books and magazines he read Mark could tell that he was a learned man. He was said to be a surgeon, but his interests spanned culture, history, business and politics – even, it would seem, astrology.

Once, Dr Lee had left behind an astrological almanac in the room. On returning for it some hours later, he’d instructed Mark that his books should – under no circumstances – be opened or perused. If found, they were to be put away in the doctor’s personal cabinet. It was almost as if he’d known that Mark had flipped through the almanac, even if Mark’s intention had been simply to ascertain the identity of its owner. It was uncanny what the man knew, or seemed to know. Henceforth, Mark was careful not to touch his personal effects without his express permission.

Occasionally, Dr Lee had company. It was never the same guest, at least to Mark’s recollection. Dr Lee’s visitor this afternoon was a man who cared little about his appearance: his partly tucked-in, long-sleeved chequered shirt was badly creased, and his shock of grey-streaked hair bordered on the unkempt. There was an untamed intelligence in the eyes behind the thick eyeglasses. He seated himself quickly, without the usual pleasantries, and declined a drink when Mark came over to take the order.

‘Mr Chew, if you could make sure we are not disturbed, please,’ Dr Lee’s tone was unfailingly polite, but commanded instant obedience. Mark nodded quickly and slipped out through the service door, into the pantry.

It was not the first time the old gentleman had so instructed. Mark did not consider himself a nosy person, but he found himself inching towards the pantry window. Here, he could pick up the conversation, if he listened intently, and provided the main kitchen downstairs was not too noisy.

‘How are your daughters?’ he heard the visitor say.

‘Not good…’ came the response, in a slightly fraying voice. ‘Connie’s condition is deteriorating.’

‘Then you must do what you must…’

‘You mean to permit the crossing you have spoken of?’

‘Yes, for him and the others… It is for this reason that those of our Order have laboured such long years – and the choice you must now make is hardly a choice.’

‘What – to disturb the equilibrium of spirit and matter 

between the worlds?’ Mark had never heard Dr Lee sound as agitated as he did now. ‘To return the Powers to Erda? Are you certain?’

The reply was soft but sure. ‘The stars are aligned: the Sign of the Serpent forms in the Heavens. And you, Keeper of Lore, know what that means… and what needs be done.’

‘Are you the Keeper of Secrets?’ The question came suddenly, as if on impulse.

‘You know that question cannot be answered…’

Dr Lee sighed deeply. ‘One more thing – whatever we have discussed, no one must know…’

The voices grew low, and Mark could hear no more.

But the next day, he did not report to work and by the week’s end, word had gone round in certain circles that the management of Zenith Town Club was seeking "a gentleman of impeccable deportment" for immediate hire.