“Ethically challenged magical practitioners,” I said.

“Just to satisfy my curiosity, you understand,” said Nightingale, “given that the only people ever likely to hear us say the words black magician are you, me, and Dr. Walid, why is changing them so important?”

“Because I don’t think the old world’s coming back anytime soon,” I said. “In fact, I think the new world might be arriving.”

OXFORD IS a strange place. As you go through the outskirts it could be any city in Britain, the same Edwardian suburban build, fading into Victorian, with the occasional mistake from the 1950s, and then you cross the Magdalen Bridge and suddenly you’re in the biggest concentration of late-medieval architecture this side of the eighteenth century. Historically it’s impressive, but from a traffic management perspective it meant it took almost as long to thread our way through the narrow streets as it did to drive up from London.

John Radcliffe, Royal physician to William and Mary, was famous in his own time for reading very little and writing almost nothing. So it stands to reason that one of the most famous libraries in Oxford was his creation. The Radcliffe Science Library is housed in a circular domed building that looks like St. Paul’s with the extraneous religious bits cut off. Inside was a lot smoothly carved stonework, old books, balconies, and the strained hush of young people being unnaturally quiet. Our contact was waiting for us by a notice board just inside the entrance.

Outside the big cities my very appearance can sometimes be enough to render certain people speechless. So it was with Harold Postmartin DPhil, FRS, curator of special collections at the Bodleian Library, who had clearly been expecting Nightingale to introduce someone “different” as the new apprentice. I could see him trying to parse the phrase but he’s colored in a way that wouldn’t cause offense and failing. I put him out of his misery by shaking his hand; my rule of thumb is if they don’t physically flinch from touching you, then eventually they’ll make the adjustment.

Postmartin was a stooped white-haired gentleman who looked much older and frailer than my father but had a surprisingly firm handshake.

“So you’re the new apprentice,” he said and managed to avoid it sounding like an accusation. I knew then we were going to be fine.