As she left the cafe through the small revolving door, cold wind lashed out at her. She turned up the collar of her coat and wrapped her arms around her body. Norah knew all about cold weather from Berlin but that didn’t stop it from getting her down every year. She thought about taking a taxi, but it wasn’t far to her flat and she could do with some fresh air and exercise. A tram passed her—one of the old, pretty ones. Then, just as she was overtaking a group of tourists on their way to the theatre or opera, she saw a dark-haired man of about her age coming towards her. She was about to step out onto a zebra crossing when the lights began to flash—the signal that they would soon turn red. In flat shoes, she’d have run, but it wasn’t a good idea in high-heeled boots. She plunged her hands into her pockets and waited. The first cars were starting up.

‘My God,’ someone said beside her. ‘Valerie?’

Norah’s head spun round and she saw the dark-haired man staring at her out of green eyes. She blinked in confusion, then realised that he was talking to her.

‘What did you call me?’

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise; his smile vanished.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

He was gone before Norah had time to react. The lights turned green. People surged past her across the road—the tourists, a cyclist, a bald old man with a walking stick, a girl on an electric skateboard which glowed eerily as it vanished into the darkness. By the time Norah had recovered, the lights had changed again.

32

With its red velvet seats and white-and-gold stucco ceiling, the auditorium was like that of a nice old cinema, only much larger and with a big stage where the screen would have been. Dust danced in the beam from the spotlight. The man at the front of the stage looked exactly the way you’d imagine a magician. He wore a tailcoat and a top hat that almost covered his dark hair, and he had unnaturally pale skin and big dramatic eyes under deep-black eyebrows. The overall effect was something like a silent movie star in one of the films her mother was fond of watching. Especially the eyes. His voice was loud and booming, almost frighteningly so. Norah swallowed. She was ten years old, her favourite colour was blue, and she liked things that were almost frightening.

The other children were excited too. They were, of course, familiar with rabbits being conjured out of hats and gold coins being produced from behind ears; they’d seen magic shows on the telly. But to see it all up close—and in a proper grown-up theatre—was different. Norah’s fingers were sticky with candyfloss, even after she’d wiped them on her trousers. Edible clouds, Valerie had said. Beautifully sweet and sticky.

Norah loved conjuring shows and had been pleased to get an invitation when they were handed round in the lunchbreak on Monday. Valerie’s birthday parties were always special. Fair booths in the garden, bouncy castles, go-karts.