Malarkey slapped his thigh with the riding crop. “You is a dazzling one, but perhaps too smart with your verbals. I have found in this particular kingdom that it is generally prudent to keep the gob shut, do your business, and ask no questions. I would like to know why such a celebrated man would want to see you in the dirt, but in this game knowing too much can see you dead quicker than knowing too little.”

An idea popped into Chevie’s head. “What if I fight, big man? How would that be?”

Malarkey’s crop froze in mid-swing. “You, fight? We couldn’t abide that here. We only started admitting ladies into the Hidey-Hole recently.”

Riley was thinking three steps ahead. “Mr. Malarkey, this lady has special Injun skills. I seen her punch out a Cossack and his horse. She don’t look it, but she’s a dervish, sir. A foresighted man could make some serious coin betting on Chevie.”

Malarkey rubbed the price list on his chest. “The odds would be long, so the gamble would be small. But one fight for one place. That still leaves you out in the cold, boy.”

“Not a problem,” said Chevie. “You pick your two best bruisers, and I’ll fight both of them.”

Malarkey guffawed in surprise. “Both of ’em? Fight ’em both, you say?” He winked at Riley. “Just how high was this wall she took a tumble from?”

The Red Glove

ORIENT THEATRE. HOLBORN. LONDON. 1898

Albert Garrick had mixed feelings on the subject of the Orient Theatre. On the one hand he was too much in love with his memories of the performer’s life to ever let it go, and on the other it caused him great pain even to gaze on the mechanics of his once-famous illusions.

He trod the boards now, tightening a rope here, adjusting a mirror there. Each contraption brought a rueful smile to his thin features.

Ah, the Chinese water bowls. How the crowd had cheered in Blackpool. Lombardi, they cried. Lombardi, Lombardi.

It occurred to Garrick that with his improved physicality, no illusion would be off-limits to him.

I am more supple now and could escape from a seltzogene if need be. The Great Lombardi could be the most famous illusionist on earth.

It was a tempting notion, to travel the courts of Europe, dazzling tsars and kings. To have jewels strewn on the tail of his velvet cape.

So many possibilities.

Garrick retired to his larder, preparing a simple meal of cheese and meats, which he consumed standing, with a crust of slightly hardened bread and a flagon of watered beer.

Of course I would need an assistant. This time I will choose wisely, and not show so much kindness. It was my own soft hand that spoiled Riley.