“But …” began Stephen.

It was too late. The gentleman raised his long, white hands and gave a sort of flourish.

Stephen expected to be brought before one or other of the magicians – possibly both. Instead the gentleman and he found themselves upon a wide, empty moor covered in snow. More snow was falling. On one side the ground rose up to meet the heavy, slate-coloured sky; on the other was a misty view of far-away, white hills. In all that desolate landscape there was only one tree – a twisted hawthorn not far from where they stood. It was, thought Stephen, very like the country around Starecross Hall.

“Well, that is very odd!” said the gentleman. “I do not see any body at all, do you?”

“No, sir. No one,” said Stephen, in relief. “Let us return to London.”

“I cannot understand … Oh, but wait! Here is someone!”

Half a mile or so away there seemed to be a road or track of some sort. A horse and cart were coming slowly along it. When the cart drew level with the hawthorn tree, it stopped and someone got out. This person began to stump across the moor towards them.

“Excellent!” cried the gentleman. “Now we shall see our wickedest and most powerful enemy! Put on your crown, Stephen! Let him tremble before our power and majesty! Excellent! Raise your sceptre! Yes, yes! Hold forth your orb! How handsome you look! How regal! Now, Stephen, since we have a little time before he arrives …” The gentleman gazed at the little figure in the distance labouring across the snowy moor. “… I have something else to tell you. What is the date today?”

“The fifteenth of February, sir. St Anthony’s Day.”

“Ha! A dreary saint indeed! Well, in future the people of England will have something better to celebrate on the fifteenth of February than the life of a monk who keeps the rain off people and finds their lost thimbles!”²

“Will they indeed, sir? And what is that?”

“The Naming of Stephen Black!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I told you, Stephen, that I would find your true name!”

“What! Did my mother really name me, sir?”

“Yes, indeed! It is all just as I supposed! – which is scarcely surprizing since I am rarely wrong in such matters. She named you with a name in her own tongue. With a name she had heard often among her own people when she was a young girl. She named you, but she did not tell the name to a single soul. She did not even whisper it into your infant ear. She had no time because Death stole upon her and took her unawares.”

A picture rose up in Stephen’s mind – the dark, fusty hold of the ship – his mother, worn out by the pains of childbirth, surrounded by strangers – himself a tiny infant. Did she even speak the language of the other people on board? He had no way of knowing. How alone she must have felt! He would have given a great deal at that moment to be able to reach out and comfort her, but all the years of his life lay between them. He felt his heart harden another degree against the English. Only a few minutes ago he had struggled to persuade the gentleman not to kill Strange, but why should he care what became of one Englishman? Why should he care what became of any of that cold, callous race?