“Well.” His grandfather scratched an ear. “Like I say, depends how you interpret it, Alex. What if it meant . . . willpower? The power to know your own mind. You’ve shown a bit of that, too, and maybe that’s more important, eh?”

“I just don’t get you!” Alex exploded, frustration quickening into anger. He gestured around them. “We’re in the middle of all this, this . . . magic. You’ve been up to your neck in it for over a hundred years. You’ve dragged me into it. And it’s like you still pretend you don’t believe in it.”

The old man winced. “Well. I told you before, Alex,” he said quietly. “I’d much prefer that all these old stories were just that: interesting old stories. I’d prefer to live in a world where all of this was gone, consigned to the past. There’s enough magic and mystery to be found in life without wasting time on this nonsense. And enough horror.”

“But you just asked me to . . . you must believe in it. You’ve seen the proof. You are the proof.”

“Alex.” The old man sighed in exasperation. “Look. There are countless people on this planet today perfectly content to believe all manner of things without any proof for any of it. Faith, they call it, right? Well, I’m just like that, except in reverse. I’ve seen the proof, and I’m happier not believing. Get the idea? It’s like . . .” He stood searching for words, then brightened. “It’s like rugby.”

“What?”

“Yes. One of the sports I hate most. Now: I know that rugby exists, okay? But I can perfectly well choose to live my entire life without ever having to think about it or get involved. See?” He beamed.

“No.” Alex kneaded his forehead. “No.”

“Well, maybe rugby’s not such a good example.” His grandfather frowned. “I’ll think about it some more, and we can have a good old philosophical discussion about it once all this is over—”

The old man suddenly dropped his bag and spun, swinging his stick hard at the air. There was a rattling, clashing noise and something fell whining to the ground before him, jabbing out with sharp little arms. A flier. Missing one wing, which now lay severed off a few feet away. He placed a boot on the thing, holding it down as it buzzed furiously.

“So: Harry?” Alex’s grandfather sent him a searching look. Alex shook his head.

“No.” The old man sighed. He stood head bowed for a moment. “Well. Can’t be helped. Could you take my bag?” He lifted the Gladstone and handed it to Alex. “And I’ll grab this.” Gingerly, taking care to avoid the slashing hook and blade, he picked up the flier, pinning the arms down. He wrapped a handkerchief around its amber eyes like a blindfold, then gave Alex a nod.

“Let’s get going, then.”

XVIII.

DOWNHILL