Velvet grinned and stuffed it in the inside pocket of the blazer she wore—Robby’s, of course, a muted green that was the brightest of her wardrobe. Robby considered for a second, examining the fit of the coat, and reached out to straighten the lapels. She pursed her lips, cocked her head, smiled, and walked away.

“Hey! Aren’t you even gonna try?”

For an answer, Robby held up the wallet. She looked over her shoulder to see Velvet slap at the pocket, lips parted.

“You are totally great,” Velvet said, and grinned. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“In a day? No.” Robby pocketed the wallet, outside pocket, and came back to face her. “Try again.”

“So how long have you been practicing?” Velvet bit her lip as she reached in the pocket, eased the leather out. Not bad, considering. Robby let it pass.

“I began when I was six. At fifteen I apprenticed to a magician named Alex the Magnificent; he taught me true sleight of hand. The rest of it came from my father. Try again. This time, do it faster.”

Velvet had clever fingers—not God-given instinct, perhaps, but she was trainable. Robby stood patiently while she practiced. She’d learned on a threadbare sewing dummy, bought from a second-hand shop, draped with ragged coats and unraveling suits. Da hadn’t tolerated clumsiness, not from someone who so clearly had the gift. Funny, how she could remember the smell of that room, the close musty scent of old clothes, dried sweat, old whisky. Tweed had felt so rough on her young fingers, leather so smooth. He’d watched her while he drank, nodding approval, slamming her against the wall with a casual slap when she faltered.

For all that, what she most remembered about him was how warm he’d felt when she’d clung to him that last day. Fever-warm, in the chill of the trainyard. As if, somehow, he’d known it was the last time.

“How’s that?” Velvet crowed, and held up the wallet. Robby blinked.

“Good. Very good. Now do it left-handed.”

“Left-handed?” Velvet’s grin collapsed. “What do you mean, left-handed?”

She was spared by the jingle of the doorbell. Robby checked the peephole.

Sol, dressed in unseasonable off-white. As she watched, he smoothed his hair back and checked the shine on his fingertips, frowned, and punched the doorbell again.

“So who is it?” Velvet asked. She clutched the wallet like a life preserver, and her eyes were wide and tragic and ready for betrayal. “That guy? It’s the suit, isn’t it, the one from the warehouse?”

And for a second, Robby thought about opening the door and pointing to her and saying to Sol, there she is, go on, leave me out of it. Jim would have, without a second thought.

She could see from Velvet’s eyes that she expected it.