‘Further than I remembered to this oyster-house,’ he said now, panting. ‘Not used to these crowds; forgive my lack of breath. What a swarm this is – eh? As if London is one great decaying tree trunk through which the maggots and the weevils chew their way, selling bits of bark to each other for farthings … Ah, but I imagine you feel more at home than I do, Elusivo? After all it was on streets like this that you once scrambled to survive, did you not? Chewing your quid and watching out for the bobbies …’

Luis watched sweeper boys at a corner, competing to clean the path of grander folk passing to and from the theatres, some of them somersaulting or handstanding in hope of a tossed penny. He had the uncomfortable feeling that this Hackett knew far too much about him – about a life he would prefer to remain his own secret.

It was a sorry affair after all: his father a shopkeeper who had died poor, of consumption, his mother marrying again before dying herself in childbirth – and a stepfather who had never treated Luis with anything more than contempt, and had eventually thrown him out on the street. Luis was nine years old. Well, he had joined Hackett’s ‘maggots and weevils’ of London to survive, at first sweeping the streets just like these boys he saw before him now, and using his unusual talent to get him out of scrapes – and, yes, away from the bobbies when he needed it. But then, aiming higher, he had developed a street act based on his disappearing tricks: popping out of existence behind a barrel, only to emerge from a doorway across the street. And that had got him noticed, and a job in the warmth of the Surrey-side theatres in variety shows or as an interval turn. All the while he had kept his secret: that his magic tricks weren’t tricks at all – though if they weren’t magic he wasn’t sure what they were.

And now, it seemed, he had been noticed again.

There was no point beating about the bush, he decided. ‘Never mind your oysters. So you can do it too, sir. I thought I was the only one … May I ask firstly what you call it? I do not like people having the better of me.’

‘I have a name for it. But does a name matter? And as for you thinking that you are unique, all I can say, sir, is: so do most of the others. As has been true all the way back into deep history, probably. One of my own ancestors, or so the family story goes, was Hereward the Wake, and he was damned elusive too, wasn’t he? Shall we prove it to each other?’

‘Prove what?’

Hackett halted, glanced around, and led Luis into the shadow of an alley. ‘What’s your preference, Mr Valienté?’

‘Preference?’

‘Widdershins or deiseal?’

‘I don’t know what the devil—Oh.’

‘There are always two directions in which to travel, aren’t there?’

‘I think of them as dexter or sinister.’

‘Fair names. Of course we don’t know which of our terms is congruent with t’other, do we?’ He held out his cane – which Luis now recognized as a sword cane, containing a hidden weapon. Hackett said, ‘Come – grasp the stick. Do me the honour of allowing me to take the lead. Widdershins for this first experiment, I think.’

Staring at the man, Luis considered. He had the feeling that his whole life hinged on this moment, the choice he took now. The chap could have no more on Luis than guesswork so far, guesses based on observing his stage show – it must be so, for Luis would surely have clocked the fellow if Hackett had followed him into the sinister forest to spy on him. Luis could still bluster this out. What could the man do, after all? He couldn’t force Luis to cross over into the eerie silence of the widdershins woods …

On the other hand, of course, once they had crossed, and were out of sight of any bobbies, Luis might get the chance to silence the fellow for good and, simply, leave him there. To survive in London’s demi-monde Luis had had to learn to be good with his fists from a young age. He was no killer, though he had before considered the possibility as a way of keeping his uncomfortable secret, in extremis. His life or Hackett’s, that would be the choice. And yet, and yet …

His racing thoughts juddered to a halt. Here was another like him. Here was a fellow, educated enough by the look and sound of it, who might be able to explain this peculiar phenomenon which, it was true, Luis had always imagined was his and his alone, his peculiar gift and burden, a secret to be kept even from his own family.

Oswald Hackett grinned, studying him. Luis had the feeling that the man knew exactly what he was thinking, the choices he was weighing up.

Luis didn’t trust this chap as far as he could throw him. But Luis had always been something of an opportunist; that feature had shaped the entire pattern of his life, his career. He would, he decided, see what the fellow had to say. If Luis didn’t like what he learned, he could always slip away into shadows and anonymity, as he’d done several times in his life before – although it occurred to him that it mightn’t be quite so easy to evade a man who could follow him even into dexter or sinister.

His choice made, without another word, he grasped the cane.

Hackett nodded. ‘Good man.’ He glanced about, evidently to make sure they were unobserved.

And, with the usual slight jolt to the Valienté gut, they were in the forest green.

Luis released the cane.

The trees here were oak, and not the wretched soot-coated specimens that populated the London parks but tall and handsome, like the columns in some great church, Luis often thought. The sky was bright and blue and not hidden from view by the city’s pall, and it was a colder day here too. The city, that great reef of humanity with its buildings blackened by centuries of soot and smoke, did not exist here – if this dexter or sinister forest corresponded to the London Luis knew at all. The ground underfoot was firm and dry, as Luis knew well, for he popped over here several times a day in the course of his stage act. Not all of the terrain was so accommodating; much of the landscape hereabouts was a marsh through which a broad river and its tributaries washed: a version of the Thames perhaps, but untrammelled by humanity. Luis had to choose his theatres well for his performances. The stages he used needed to map over to higher terrain here, or at least dry land, for the punters might be confused by his magical reappearances if they always came accompanied by wet feet.

He became aware of Hackett, who was again doubled over, clutching his belly, breathing hard, looking pale. Luis had never made such a journey other than alone before, and now the presence of another in what Luis had come to think of as his own private refuge was something of a shock.

Hackett straightened with an effort, dug a paper packet from his waistcoat pocket, and gulped down a couple of pills. ‘You don’t suffer this?’

‘What?’

‘The nausea. Like a punch in the gut from some East End footpad.’

‘Never had it.’

‘Then you’re blessed. And you saw I had a dose of it before, when I did my quick switch back and forth to show you my credentials.’ Hackett straightened up and eyed him. ‘I envy you, sir, you are evidently a more adept Waltzer than I am.’

‘Waltzer?’

‘It’s my name for what we do – this. To Waltz. Don’t you think the borrowing is appropriate? For we dance, you and I, as light on our feet as two German princelings, and skip to left and right, or in some direction, faster than the eye can follow. Waltz, do you see? Although I know the dance isn’t so fashionable yet in the twopenny hops of Lambeth as it is in Windsor. And here we are, having Waltzed to the forest. Tell me, have you explored this – new world – to any extent?’

Luis shrugged. ‘What for? There’s nobody here.’

‘No profit to be had, eh?’

‘England’s my world, sir. London.’