I can never point to the genesis of any of my novels, can never remember the specific eureka moment – if there is one. Some books grow as slowly and secretly as seeds in the dark.

But I do remember scribbling a sticky note – les mecs – the name, the collective identity of the performing troupe of puppets I was accumulating, for this most theatrical novel. There were four, and I saw them immediately in my mind: the Chevalier, half-man, half-horse. The skeleton Bishop. Lovely, dancing Miss Lucinda. And the antic, icy provocateur Pan Loudermilk. All of them bound for the brothel called Under the Poppy.