In recent years, books had become Riley’s passion and had helped him through the long, lonely hours in the Holborn theater that he and Garrick used as their digs. It was Garrick’s custom to disappear for days on end, and on his return he expected a clean house and a hot dinner. And while the assassin sat in the kitchen, blowing on his beef stew, his knees knocking on the underside of the table, he would twirl a spoon regally, which was Riley’s signal to begin the evening’s entertainment. Riley would then regale his master with an approximate summary of whichever novel he had been tasked with reading.

Lively now, son, Garrick often called. Make me believe that I’m in between the pages my own self.

And Riley would think, I am not your son, and, I wish I was in between these pages.

When Garrick had initiated this storytelling practice, Riley had hated it and grew to resent the books themselves; but The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes changed all of that. The book was simply too fascinating to be despised. Riley could no more hate Arthur Conan Doyle than he could hate the parents he could not remember, though Garrick reminded him often that they had left him hanging in a flour bag on the railings of Bethnal Green workhouse, where the magician had found him and rescued him from slum cannibals.

I could certainly do with some advice from Mr. Holmes at this present moment, thought Riley, rapping on the door with a knuckle. A genius detective is exactly what the doctor ordered—that or a housebreaker.

The cell door itself was standard prison issue, heavy steel with a window of sufficient dimensions for a medium-sized dog to squeeze through were it not glazed.

Or an escapologist.

Riley knew he could wriggle through that gap if there was a way to get the glass out.

Garrick has forced me through tighter holes.

But the glass extended into the door itself on all sides and was well milled, with no warps or bubbles.

These people know their glass, Riley had to admit. The lock, then?

The lock was of a design that baffled Riley. There was no space for even the narrowest pick to penetrate. Riley tested the keyhole with his fingertip and felt a nail crack for his trouble. The door had no visible hinges, and there wasn’t enough room for so much as a draft to squeeze through underneath.

This would be a challenge, even for Albert Garrick.

Then again, Garrick would be coming in, not going out. And getting in was always easier, especially if you could knock off the person with the key and take it from them.

Riley shivered. He swore that he could sense Garrick drawing closer, and his approach seemed to chill the air.