The infant Riley followed his father’s pointing finger to see a man pacing beyond their front door. His legs flashed past, and all Riley could make out were shining black ankle boots and a horseshoe signet ring.

Riley’s father shook his head. This guy is a pain. A royal pain. He’s trying to weasel out of testifying after all this time. But no matter how much of a jerk he is, I have to thank him, because, without Carter, I wouldn’t have you, or your mother, or your half brother, Tom, for that matter. Without him, and this gadget.

The gadget Riley’s father referred to was a Timekey slung around his neck on a thick cord.

With this, I can take you to see my home. We will all go one day. It’s a new world, my dear son.

Another scene change, and this time Tom was beside him in the bed they shared, whispering.

“I’m off for a gentlemen’s engagement on the pier,” he said. “Just between us, eh, Riley boy? No need for Mater and Pater to be informed. On my return there will be barley sugar for you, and perhaps tales of a kiss from pretty Annie Birch.”

Riley watched his half brother slip through an open window and heard an oof and slap of feet as Tom landed on the street below.

Moments later the toddler Riley felt a presence in the room and a low-tide stink of rotten fish wafted through the window. A man stood in the shadows, a blade jutting from his fist. It seemed to the child that the man had simply appeared on the spot.

“Magic,” he said. “Magic man.”

The man moved so quickly that the shadow cast by the hall lamp seemed to lag behind.

It was Garrick, come on business, and he leaned over the small boy, knife hand raised overhead, on the point of ensuring his silence, when Riley spoke again.

“Magic man.”

Something strange happened to Garrick’s face: it warred with itself until a smile broke out. Not a happy smile; rather a momentary relaxing of his features.

“Magic man,” he said, repeating the toddler’s mumbled words. “Once upon a time...”

On hearing this phrase, young Riley burbled happily, certain that a story was forthcoming. And this innocent mumbling saved his life, for Garrick found himself judged a magical storyteller by this little fella and decided not to do away with him until after the main job.

When Garrick returned barely a minute later with blood on his blade, the boy Riley still expected a bedtime story and met him with a broad grin of baby teeth.

“Story, magic man,” demanded the three-year-old. “Story.”