“I am well, Agent. The ether fog will lift momentarily, trust me—I have experience.”

“Get out your pick,” said Chevie. “Free yourself, then me.”

Riley wiggled his ankle. “My pick is gone. Lost in the day’s exertions, or found by the coves what lifted us.”

Chevie breathed heavily through her nose, like an angry young bull. “Great. So now we gotta sit here, trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys, and wait for this Malarkey character to show himself. Who is that guy, anyway?”

“Otto Malarkey is a person of considerable importance in the city. He is the mister-master of the Battering Rams, a criminal gang of bully boys who take a slice of everything from thimble rigging to opium dens. Nobody pulls a stroke in the Great Oven without first tipping their cap to Mr. Otto Malarkey.”

“I understood about half of that,” admitted Chevie. “So what you’re saying is that we’re in trouble again.”

Riley looked around. They were imprisoned in a large storeroom, possibly underground, judging by the chill. Sides of beef lurked in the shadows, suspended by chains from a ceiling beam, and wedges of light shone through gaps in the ill-fitted floorboards overhead. The hubbub of both commerce and merriment filtered down from above, punctuated by crashes and cries of dispute. Various liquids slopped through the boards, splashing on the mud floor. Riley saw wine, beer, and the slow drip of blood.

“We ain’t swine food yet, Chevie. Now, tell me a tale.”

Chevie started. “Tell you a tale? I gotta say it, Riley. I was not expecting that request.”

Riley began to tense and relax his muscles. “I am Garrick’s apprentice in murder and magic. One leaf of that book is escapology. But a get-out like this one is the veriest devil of a job. I don’t know the knots and I ain’t humping no tools. So tell me a tale while I wriggle my way free.”

Chevie was stumped. “I don’t have any stories, Riley. Books are not my thing. I like a good movie, though.”

“Tell me something of yourself, then. Why the strange tattoo?”

Chevie glanced at her right sleeve, which covered the tattoo spanning her upper arm. “The Chevron? Yeah, maybe that is a story.”

“This may be your last chance to tell it.”

“True enough.” She rattled her manacles in frustration. “I cannot believe any of this is happening. How can I be trapped in the past?” The rattling produced nothing but noise, so Chevie settled down. “Okay, you want to hear about my tattoo?”

Riley’s face was slick with sweat, and his body was rigid as a board. “Please.”