Not only was the lady named Victoria, but the antiques shop was called Victoriana. When she led them through the doorway and into the shop itself, Riley could not stifle a gasp, for it was like stepping back into his own time, without the usual stink of animals, sewage, and nearby death, which in truth he did not hanker for, in spite of his current circumstances.

I have always lived in the shadow of death, he thought, feeling his heart pump like a steam piston as he spied a set of brass andirons that were almost identical to the ones flanking his and Garrick’s own hearth in Holborn.

And somewhere in this place is the gateway back.

Unlike his master, Riley was in no hurry to return to the nineteenth century’s Great Oven. He had experienced wonders during the night and also freedom, however fleetingly, and now had a taste for it.

I could exist here in this future of marvels, if only Garrick would release me.

But Riley knew that there was only one way his master would ever release him.

The lady led them through a showroom that glowed softly with the amber warmth of sunlight on wood. Her small shop was presented as a Victorian drawing room, but in this drawing room everything was for sale. There were discreet tags on each item but no prices. If you asked for the price, you were halfway to buying.

What Chevie knew about antiques could be written on the back of a postcard. The oldest thing she’d ever owned was a seventies surfboard that had once belonged to world champion “PT” Townend, but even she could tell that the stuff in this room was expensive. The pieces hummed with history, and it was impossible to look at the bureau without wondering who might have once written letters on its folding lid.

“What a wonderful emporium,” said Garrick, all charm and grace. “The pieces are in remarkable condition.” He stroked the leather cushion of an angular recliner that was less ornate than the other chairs. “Is this a William Morris, Victoria?”

Victoria retraced her steps to the chair, picking up the cushion and hugging it close as though it were a baby.

“Yes. One of the very first. This was the last thing your father sent to me.”

“It seems old,” said Garrick, tracing the grain with his finger. “Shouldn’t it be almost new?”