They drank in silence a while and then Vinculus looked up at Childermass. “What was all that nonsense about bonnets and princesses?”

Childermass laughed. “Oh, that was just a notion I had. Ever since the day you appeared in his library my master has been petitioning all his great friends to help him destroy you. He asked Lord Hawkesbury and Sir Walter Pole to complain to the King on his behalf. I believe he had an idea that His Majesty might send the Army to make war upon you, but Lord Hawkesbury and Sir Walter said that the King was unlikely to put himself to a great deal of trouble over one yellow-curtained, ragged-arsed sorcerer. But it occurred to me that if His Majesty were to learn that you had somehow threatened the virgin state of his daughters, he might take a different view of the matter.”¹ Childermass took another draught of his spiced ale. “But tell me, Vinculus, don’t you tire of fake spells and pretend oracles? Half your customers come to laugh at you. They no more believe in your magic than you do. Your day is over. There is a real magician in England now.”

Vinculus gave a little snort of disgust. “The magician of Hanover-square! All the great men in London sit telling one another that they never saw a man so honest. But I know magicians and I know magic and I say this: all magicians lie and this one more than most.”

Childermass shrugged as if he would not trouble to deny it.

Vinculus leaned forward across the table. “Magic shall be written on the faces of the stony hills, but their minds shall not be able to contain it. In winter the barren trees shall be a black writing but they shall not understand it.”

“Trees and hills, Vinculus? When did you last see a tree or a hill? Why don’t you say that magic is written on the faces of the dirty houses or that the smoke writes magic in the sky?”

“It is not my prophecy!”

“Ah, yes. Of course. You claim it as a prophecy of the Raven King. Well there is nothing unusual in that. Every charlatan I ever met was the bearer of a message from the Raven King.”

“I sit upon a black throne in the shadows,” muttered Vinculus, “but they shall not see me. The rain shall make a door for me and I shall pass through it.”

“Quite. So, since you did not write this prophecy yourself, where did you find it?”

For a moment Vinculus looked as if he would not answer, but then he said, “It is written in a book.”

“A book? What book? My master’s library is extensive. He knows of no such prophecy.”

Vinculus said nothing.

“Is it your book?” asked Childermass.

“It is in my keeping.”

“And where did you get a book? Where did you steal it?”

“I did not steal it. It is my inheritance. It is the greatest glory and the greatest burden that has been given to any man in this Age.”