APARTMENT #N.50 — JUNE 16TH, 1936 — 6:00 A.M.

With a soft hiss of satin slippers and the faint clatter of a tray, Fagotto ascended the dim, winding staircase of Apartment No. 50.

The hour was uncertain, neither morning nor night, for the apartment obeyed no earthly clocks, and a faint odor of brimstone mingled with the sweet perfume of lilacs drifting from somewhere unseen.

His checkered suit, flamboyant even in the half-light, caught glints of green and violet from the dancing flames of the chandelier above, and his pince-nez flashed dangerously on the bridge of his long, crooked nose.

“Ah, our most august sovereign of the shadows is still abed, no doubt composing the downfall of the righteous in his dreams,” Fagotto muttered, his voice rich with feigned solemnity and mischievous irony.

He paused at the heavy velvet door, balancing the tray; a silver platter laden with dark coffee, a slice of lemon, and a cigarette smoldering in a crystal dish, as though it were a royal offering.

Then, clearing his throat with exaggerated pomp, he pushed the door open just enough to let a sliver of flickering lamplight through.

“Your faithful valet, humble servant, and part-time philosopher, Fagotto, begs leave to disturb the mighty Woland in his celestial slumber!” he announced, bowing so deeply his pince-nez nearly fell off.

"The sun itself refuses to rise until you do, and the devils downstairs are beginning to whisper that Moscow grows bored without your command. Shall we, messire, dress you for the day?"