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ST PAUL’S CATHEDRAL WAS packed with worshippers – correction, make that ‘gawkers’, Noel thought. There were some obvious tourists among the crowd but it seemed to be predominately locals filling the chairs. The boys in the choir were doing their best to draw attention away from the family in the front pew, as were the various participants leading the congregation in prayer, and everyone was failing utterly.

This was the first opportunity for people to see their new king and his young bride-to-be and they were taking full advantage. Noel studied the man: his bald pate shining in the light through one of the transept windows, the black mourning armband wrinkling the material of his suit jacket. In place of his now-divorced, rather horse-faced wife of forty-three years sat a young woman in a chic little hat with a net veil. Her family was also present, but the whole thing was grotesque. She could have been his granddaughter.

Henry’s only son, Edward, had been killed sixteen years ago while serving in one of those periodic conflicts that flared up in British colonies, and Edward’s wife had lost her baby, leaving only Henry’s other child, the royal daughter, Gloriana. But she had married a Norwegian prince and agreed to be removed from the succession. It amused Noel to think he had been part of the reason for that marriage. He stifled a laugh.

Gloriana was not present on this cold, grey Sunday but Noel assumed she would attend the funeral. As for Henry, Noel could not fathom why he hadn’t remained at Windsor and attended services at St George’s chapel rather than returning to London. Maybe he wanted to bask in the moment and show off his bride. Christ knows he’s waited long enough for the crown, but Richard …

Noel stole a glance across the aisle where Richard, Duke of York, sat stony-faced with Diana and their brood. Despite the rumours about his proclivities, Richard had sired an outrageous number of kids. Although based on some of the hair colours it was questionable if all of them were his.

The prayer of preparation began and Noel found his memory of the words returning. ‘Almighty God to whom all hearts are open, all desires known …’ Please let me keep my son. ‘And from whom no secrets are hidden …’ Please don’t let him ever find out what kind of man I really am. ‘Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

Despite himself, the music and language was having an effect even though his belief in any sort of divine, guiding and loving god had vanished years ago. Yet how quickly one returned to a hope that entreaties to an imaginary friend in the sky could actually help. He glanced down at Jasper, who sat with rapt attention listening to the music. The boy’s fingers were playing with the light flowing through the stained-glass windows, weaving the different colours into a fanciful design. Noel laid a hand over Jasper’s and leaned in to whisper. ‘Not in here. There’s a lot of security.’ He nodded towards the various agents positioned around the church, and the three Silver Helix agents. ‘They might view what you’re doing as a threat.’

The boy gave a small gasp and released his construct. It shattered into slivers of light that flew in all directions. Rory Campbell, known to the world as Archimedes, who was up in the Whispering Gallery, stiffened and peered down. Noel caught his eye and gave him a brief salute. The ace gave him a dirty look but relaxed.

The service continued with prayers and hymns, readings and a sermon. Noel shifted a bit on the hard pew, attempting to ease the ache in his backside. The things I do to prove I’m a fit parent, he thought. At last it was time for the Holy Eucharist. The royals received communion first and their security detail closed in to block access and even much of a view of the family from the passing worshippers.

Noel, hand on Jasper’s back, guided him forward. All six foot six of Ranjit Singh blocked the entry into the royal pew, his turban adding to his towering presence. He had been Noel’s firearms instructor when he had been recruited into the intelligence service, and the Lion had become the head of the Silver Helix after Flint’s conviction for war crimes. Noel gave him a nod as they passed and received a glare in return.

He and Jasper knelt at the altar rail as the Bishop of London, assisted by a pair of priests (no mere altar boys for a bishop), made his way down the line dispensing the host. The dry wafer caught in the back of Noel’s throat, which caused him to take a rather large sip from the chalice being offered by the trailing priest. That earned him another frown. Nobody seemed to be happy with him today. The thought amused him.

Once back in their seats there was more singing and more praying and then blessedly, mercifully it was over. There was a brief remonstration with Henry, the gestures from the agents – both nat and wild card – indicating that they would prefer the King to leave through a more private exit, but Henry was having none of it. He sat stubbornly still until the bishop announced that the congregation should leave. Noel and Jasper joined the throng shuffling slowly out of the cathedral. Noel contemplated transforming into his male avatar and just teleporting them out of the crowd, but decided that might cause an uproar and rather undercut his image as a responsible father.

The crows of London welcomed Badb as well as any had in Belfast. More so! She’d stowed away on a lorry, hiding under a pallet of frozen fish. When the vehicle came to a stop in a place called Billingsgate and she had tumbled out of the back, exhausted and dehydrated, a spiral of crows had descended around her to pay homage.

They did not flinch as she bit through the skulls of the two closest, swallowing the brains, sating her thirst on their blood. She sent the rest of them flying again, watching the glory of London through their eyes. Oh, this city! This unfamiliar city! Its might swept out below her in all directions. How it had ripened until such a time as she could come for it.

She flitted from one bird to the next, learning the shape of the river. There were towers tall enough to house every soul in Belfast. Glass glittered, steel shone. But not everywhere. She landed outside a room where twelve immigrant workers snored beside their own washing. She soared over a knot of narrow streets where only jokers walked or slithered or hopped. Divisions. Yes, there were divisions here too. Poverty lived within stabbing distance of wealth.

Down there, in a place called Greenwich, the IRA had a safe house. Less than a mile away, their sworn enemies in the UVF kept a hidey-hole of their own. She knew all their secrets. They would do as they were bid.

Most satisfactory.

And then, a distant crow heard the peal of bells.

Great crowds gathered around a white cathedral whose dome would have swallowed Belfast City Hall. Security guards pushed back a forest of microphones at the main entrance, but they couldn’t stop Badb drifting down to listen.

Annoyingly, the city had put in those spikes intended to discourage pigeons from landing. But the crow impaled itself willingly and would live long enough to see what came next. She left it to suffer, taking the mind of another bird and then another, circling, circling until she saw what she was looking for: weakness.

A guard absent from his post, mobile phone in hand.

She landed right behind him.

‘Not now, babe,’ he said in a thick accent. He knew nobody could hear him. The crowd was too loud, the reporters too many. ‘What? Absolutely no! They find out I’m Serbian instead of Croat, what then? Home on first plane, that’s what. Marriage? Ha! They’ll read my war record. It will be prison not Belgrade where they send me.’

Fascinating.

‘Of course, I am changed, babe, but only you know. Only you. What?’ He laughed. ‘Crazy bitch. I see you tonight.’

Behind him, the doors of the cathedral swung open. A new king emerged and at his back a wealth of other important people. So handy to have them all gathered here in one place. Leaders she would follow with crows, listening to their every word for hidden cracks in this magnificent city.

It was a raw day with lowering clouds and a cold rain that had ambitions of becoming sleet. Noel tightened Jasper’s scarf, pulled on his gloves and opened his umbrella. ‘Can we wait and watch the King leave?’ Jasper asked. ‘It’s kind of like when I play Dragon Age with all the kings and stuff. I mean, to see one for real is kind of cool.’

Noel scanned the loitering crowd and realized that a lot of people apparently shared his son’s fascination with royalty. And if he was honest, he felt it too. Not for any fanciful sense of brave kings and beautiful princesses but because of what it represented: Magna Carta and Trafalgar and the Battle of Britain and fighting on the beaches. It was that sense of history, permanence and continuity embodied in an institution to which Noel had sworn his allegiance.

He hugged his son. ‘Okay, we’ll wait a bit.’

At the bottom of the stone steps the press and paparazzi lay in wait. Camera lenses stared up at him like dead eyes. There was a growing murmur as Henry and his fiancée emerged, the young woman walking a few steps behind her husband-to-be, which left Noel wondering about that relationship.

‘Answer a few questions, Your Majesty?’ a reporter yelled from the crowd.

‘Certainly.’

Noel noted that the equerry, a man in his fifties with the upright stance of a former military officer, blanched a bit at the response from Henry.

‘So what are your hopes for your reign, sir?’

‘I’d like to bring England back to being England again,’ Henry responded.

‘What does that mean? Exactly, sir’?’ another called.

‘Well, take London. In my youth you heard English spoken everywhere. Now you’d be lucky to hear your own language in amongst all the other gabble.’

Noel thought the equerry was going to have a stroke. The rapid fire of digital cameras was like claws clicking on ice.

‘So you don’t like the fact that London has become a multilingual, multicultural and multi-ethnic city?’ came a third voice out of the crowd.

‘It’s all well and good until it isn’t. If we lose sight of who we are we’ll be done for.’

‘Does that mean white and European, sir?’

Henry gazed down his nose at the questioner, a tall, elegant black man. ‘It means Anglo-Saxon. Make of that what you will.’

‘Damn right, I will,’ the journalist muttered.

Another voice rose out of the crowd. ‘The Pakis are one thing, sir, but what about those freaks down in the East End?’ Noel searched the crowd for the speaker and also for any sign that a riot was about to break out. It proved to be an older white man with a bulging belly hanging over his belt. ‘They’re driving down property values.’

‘It is a problem, but now there is that thing up on the moon.’ Henry waved vaguely skyward. ‘Perhaps they can be encouraged to emigrate. They’ll no doubt be happier among their own kind. Better for all concerned if they leave.’

There were more cheers than Noel liked to hear, and only a few muttered objections, but no one booed. We are so British, Noel thought. Henry was king despite the ignorant words that had just fallen from his mouth and no one was going to be overtly rude. It was at this point that Henry’s people wisely decided to rush him to the waiting car.

People began to disperse. Noel stood watching the motorcade making its way back towards Buckingham Palace and wondered if maybe a removal to his bolt-hole in Paris or even the one in Vienna was called for. Things were likely to become tense in the city after Henry’s performance. But if he left for a foreign capital it might add to the perception that he was merely a kidnapper and not a devoted father.

He also had a performance to prepare and getting sued for cancelling it was not going to aid his effort to seem like a fit parent. It was ironic that he had to keep working. His company Ace in Hand back in New York continued generating income despite him no longer doing the day-to-day management, and he was technically a millionaire because of his share of the money after that ill-fated poker game in Chicago, but he had mentally set those funds aside for Jasper; for his education and to set him up in life.

Jasper tugged at his jacket. ‘Dad?’

He looked down. ‘Hmmm?’

‘Does this mean people don’t like any wild cards? I mean, I’m an ace, but if they don’t like jokers does that mean they don’t like me too?’

You’re far too smart for me to sugar-coat this, Noel thought as he gazed down at his son. ‘We have it easier because people don’t know we’re wild cards, but yes, a lot of people don’t like us.’

‘That’s why you don’t like me to …’ Jasper allowed some sunlight to briefly become a physical golden thread in his hand then quickly released it.

Noel put an arm around Jasper’s shoulders and pulled him tight against his side. ‘Precisely.’

The weather was still shite and Glory was still dead.

Constance plugged the kettle in and started the ritual she and Bobbin had begun decades earlier. Every morning they would get in early – long before their employees – drink tea and share a post-breakfast pastry. Breakfast they ate out. Cooking was forbidden in the atelier. The smell alone ruled it out. No one wanted to buy expensive clothes in a place that smelled of eggs, sausage, beans and bacon.

Normally, they would chat about what was happening with the studio. Constance would tell Bobbin about the designs she’d been working on and how she was planning on fabricating them. Then Bobbin would look dismayed as he mentally ran through the cost of materials.

But today they had the telly on instead and couldn’t stop watching reports of Queen Margaret’s death. It hardly seemed possible to Constance. Losing two people she loved in such a short time was horrid. She had always been inclined to get angry rather than cry. And today she was livid.

Footage of Henry, that bastard, came on and he was saying things about jokers no decent person would, except he’d wrapped it up in that royal verbal deceit. The things he said on the steps of St Paul’s were all too clear for anyone paying attention. She may have clothed his mother, but Constance was damned if she’d ever put so much as a scrap of fabric on his back.

And just as her indignation rose even higher, a vox pop interview began, with the reporter inquiring what their reaction was to what Henry had been saying.

‘The Pakis are one thing,’ said a stout fellow with a florid complexion. He wore a cap and an Army-green zippered jacket. ‘But those joker freaks down in East End? The King is right, send ’em to the moon.’

She swore at the telly, and then there were cool fingers on her wrist. Bobbin.

‘This is only going to make you angrier,’ he said, gently tugging her into her chair. ‘You should stop watching.’

She hadn’t even known she’d stood up. Henry was talking about her people, for the love of God.

‘Why are you so upset?’ he asked. ‘It isn’t as if you’ll ever have to deal with him.’

‘You know very well I made clothes for the Queen,’ Constance said, pulling her arm away. ‘Do you think that’s going to stop now?’

Bobbin shrugged and took a sip of his tea. ‘Why would he come here? There are plenty of other tailors that cater just to men that he would probably prefer to use.’

The reason Henry would come to her was part and parcel of what she hadn’t shared with Bobbin. Constance debated whether to tell him part of her secret, but decided against it. She’d kept the whole of it hidden for so long that she wasn’t even certain how to tell anyone.

‘Come on,’ he said. He gave her his funny lopsided smile that showed off his pretty teeth. ‘Tell me about your new sketch.’ He gestured at her drafting table.

‘I couldn’t sleep last night so I thought I’d do something to honour Glory,’ Constance said, punching the mute button on the remote. She wasn’t ready to let go of the news just yet. ‘Florals,’ she said with a smile. ‘Of course.’

She lifted the protective tissue up off the sketch. A simple, but sweeping, dress was covered by bright geometric rectangles. These provided a background for stylized flowers. It felt both modern and as if it were an homage to the sixties, which was what it was.

‘It’s quite lovely,’ Bobbin said. He stepped closer, looking down at the sketch, and Constance got a whiff of his spicy cologne and the Pears soap he used. There was a hint of pipe tobacco and wintergreen mint, too. The combination was very Bobbin-like. She felt a little rush of happiness and calm.

‘I suppose you’re going to do a whole line based on Glory?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied.

‘And we’re going to need to have a lot of new fabric made up.’ There was resignation in his voice.

‘Indeed. As always.’ This was a bit of old play-acting between them and it made her feel a bit better.

‘And it’s going to cost a fortune because your fabrics always do.’

‘You have the right of it.’

Bobbin sighed. She knew he would work out a way to get the fabric made without bankrupting them and she would make sure they had designs people wanted to buy.

But out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a replay of Henry on the telly holding forth on the steps of St Paul’s.

Bastard.

Green Man sat at his desk staring at the array of newspapers, not really reading any of them. Every headline spoke of the same story, rendered in sombre lettering, and those that favoured a splash of colour in their logo had forgone it for a funeral black.

Queen Margaret was dead.

The spiteful comments of the new king, Henry, were there too, pushed to the corner but still on the front pages. A bad sign of things to come.

Green Man wasn’t a fervent royalist but he’d always had respect for the Queen. Throughout the turbulence of the war, and the ups and downs of Britain’s fortunes in the years that followed, she had been there. A thread of continuity and a thing of stability. It was not unlike the feeling of when he’d first left home but been told his old room was still available. He hadn’t needed it, but it was comforting to know it was there. Now she was gone, the world seemed that bit less safe.

A familiar knock at the door brought him back to the present. ‘Come in,’ he said.

Wayfarer stepped inside, reliable as ever. Thank God he still had her! She’d been a young slip of a woman when she’d first started working for the Fists, but time had thickened her. Despite this, her skirts remained too short, her hair often changed colour, and she still insisted on wearing sunglasses at all times. No doubt this last detail was connected to her mutation, but she’d never volunteered the information, and he’d never asked. A person should be allowed a few secrets. God knows, I have them.

Unlike him, however, she still had a youthful energy. A quiet spark of industry that he admired and wished he could reclaim.

‘Good morning.’

‘Is it?’ he replied, casting a glance towards the papers.

‘Sorry.’ She closed the door behind her. ‘What are the plans for today?’

‘No plans.’

‘I thought we were going to check in with the local cells.’

That had been the plan but he didn’t feel up to it. It all seemed so pointless. All these years of fighting and what did he have to show for it apart from bloodied hands? Despite their best efforts, jokers were no closer to being accepted now than they had been forty years ago.

The silence hung there for a while. He knew he should say something, perhaps give an order, but he couldn’t summon the energy for it.

Wayfarer came a few steps further into the room. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I don’t know, first Glory, now Queen Margaret. It seems as if we’re losing all of the greats. And look at her replacement: the poster boy for Britain First.’

‘I’m not convinced we should have a monarchy at all,’ said Wayfarer, ‘but I’ve always liked Richard. It’s a shame we can’t give the crown to him instead.’

‘He’s too soft. In times like these we need a king with a spine.’

‘With respect, Richard isn’t soft. He’s just not an arsehole.’ Green Man scoffed but she carried on quickly before he could reply. ‘Besides, a gay man might be just what we need on the throne. He’ll understand persecution and social injustice better than Henry ever could.’

‘He’s not gay, he’s a married man.’

It was Wayfarer’s turn to scoff. ‘Everyone knows he’s gay.’

‘It doesn’t matter either way. The crown doesn’t get passed on to the person with the most votes. It’ll go to the eldest as it always has.’

‘I think that’s a shame. We’re supposed to be living in a democracy.’

He sighed. ‘A corrupt democracy. Our elected officials get worse every year. I remember when our leaders were people of character, not these limp-wristed, career-minded …’ he searched for a suitable insult to finish his sentence, ‘lawyers!’

Wayfarer shook her head. ‘You can’t use “limp-wristed” like that. You sound homophobic.’

He’d long since learned to trust her on these matters, but it still irked him. He used to consider himself an expert on the use of language, and now it seemed as if the rules on what was and was not appropriate were changing too fast for him to keep up. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said peevishly. ‘In the old days we had politicians with morals. The kind you could be proud of.’

‘Like Churchill?’

‘Yes, now he was a real Prime Minister.’

‘And a racist,’ she retorted, ‘and a killer who ran death camps.’

Green Man nearly stood up, he was so surprised. ‘How dare you! Churchill was a hero.’ He was also the man who had charged Roger with the task of infiltrating the Twisted Fists in the first place. Roger had done so out of love for the great statesman and to secure his family’s future. Cruel fate had seen Churchill die while Roger was deep under cover, condemning him to a life as the Green Man.

‘Wait,’ said Wayfarer as she pulled out her phone. ‘Here are some things your hero said …’ She made only a few taps on the screen, suggesting that she had the quotes saved somewhere for an occasion just like this one. ‘“The Aryan stock is bound to triumph.” That’s not Hitler talking by the way, that’s Churchill.’

‘It’s hard for me to comment without context.’

‘He called Africans “savages”?’

‘Well,’ Green Man said weakly, ‘it was a different time back then.’

One eyebrow appeared over the top of Wayfarer’s sunglasses. ‘And when he fought the Kurds, he said: “I am strongly in favour of using poisoned gas on uncivilized tribes”.’

‘He really said that?’

‘Yes. He said it would,’ she made air quotes with her free hand, ‘“spread a lively terror”. And you should hear what he said about the Palestinians—’

Green Man raised a hand. ‘All right, I get the idea. Are you making a point with all of this?’

‘Yes.’ She slipped her phone away. ‘My point is that people get nostalgic about history. They forget what it was really like and it gets buried. All children learn is Churchill’s speech about fighting on the beaches and the fact he liked cigars.’

‘I see.’ Green Man had known Wayfarer long enough to know there was more going on. He waved a hand for her to continue.

She sagged a little. ‘The truth is, I know this sort of thing riles you and I wanted to stir you up a bit.’

‘Consider your gambit a success. Now, will you tell me why?’

‘You’ve been quiet lately, and I had a feeling the news was going to hit you hard. I’m sorry, I really am, but you should be out there. The Fists need to see more of their leader, especially now that King Henry’s put jokers on his agenda.’ When he didn’t reply, she added: ‘If you don’t say something, someone else will.’

‘What do you mean?’

She looked away. ‘There’s been some talk.’

‘Let me guess, Seizer?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the old fool done this time?’

‘He’s saying you’ve gone soft, that you’re harking back to the time of the Black Dog.’

‘Let him. It’s all hot air.’

‘But the younger Fists don’t know what it was really like under the Dog’s rule. They’re scared of what’s going to happen and Seizer’s going to stir them up even more. You know what he’s like once he has a crowd.’

‘Fine. I’ll show my face and put this nonsense to bed, but not now.’

‘This afternoon then?’

He frowned. She’d been taking more and more liberties with him lately. ‘Don’t push me, Wayfarer.’

However, she didn’t back down as he had expected. ‘We need you.’

‘For goodness’ sake!’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘All right. Tomorrow.’

Alan shoved his way through the coats in the closet. They were heavy with damp: it had been raining hard outside Buckingham Palace and everyone’s coats bore the marks. This was ridiculous. Richard might enjoy playing like children at games of Narnia – what’s in the back of the wardrobe? – but he also had a perfectly comfortable flat for exactly this sort of thing, and there was no need for the two of them to fumble around in the dark. Just as Alan was thinking that perhaps he should give up and just go, Richard was there, hot hands sliding down into Alan’s trousers, a warm, wet mouth on his, fiercely eager. For a little while, Alan Turing stopped thinking at all.

Afterwards, Richard held up a phone, reflecting light and a camera so Alan could repair his make-up. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see a member of the Silver Helix looking badly tousled, or worse, silvery.

‘I’m really very fond of you, you know,’ Richard said, smiling. ‘My metal man.’

Alan’s throat tightened. ‘Can you imagine the uproar if your wife caught you with a joker? I don’t know if it’d be better or worse than her catching you with a man.’ Alan could joke about it now, play it lightly, but he’d never forget how he’d been treated during the war. Eight decades ago, but his memory was perfect, every humiliating incident recalled in excruciating detail.

Richard looked sober. ‘Worse, much worse. She and I have our understandings, but a joker might require additional negotiations. And if it went public—’

Alan nodded. ‘Yes, that would be a problem.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Are you going to respond publicly to what Henry said?’

His lover frowned. ‘I don’t know.’

Alan was fond of Richard. The Prince had a good heart inside that broad-shouldered body, a cheerful generosity that people couldn’t help but love. But after all these years, their on-again, off-again relationship had allowed Alan to know the Prince a little too well. Sometimes Richard needed a push, to be the man he ought to be.

‘Dickie. You can’t let the world think England’s royal family supports your brother’s bigotry. Your family serves as the moral compass for the realm.’

Richard hesitated, then said, ‘If I spoke up, do you think it would hurt my chances?’

‘Chances?’ Surely Richard didn’t mean …

Richard reached out, put a hand on Alan’s arm. ‘You can see it, can’t you, Alan? Henry is unfit to be king. He will drag England back to the Dark Ages.’ He squeezed, and Alan’s malleable metal skin hardened in response to the abrupt pressure. ‘The people want a brighter, more civilized future.’ Richard was standing up straighter now, dropping his hand from Alan’s arm. The light of the phone cast his face into dramatic chiaroscuro. Handsome, with those thick blonde eyebrows and mane of flaxen hair – the very picture of a king. ‘I should make a statement, make it clear where I stand. The people of England would support me.’ And then Richard’s voice dropped once more, hesitation returning, so that he looked almost like a boy again. ‘Don’t you think?’

Alan couldn’t resist running the calculations. It was an interesting strategic problem, considered in that light, without any regard for bloodline or right of inheritance. Who would be better for England, Henry or Richard? Richard, surely. Henry was cold, unfeeling – the sort who would cut you dead at the dinner table, would blithely ruin you and your family too. Afterwards he’d go straight to bed and sleep as well as an innocent babe, certain he’d done the right thing; men of his sort always did, by definition.

Henry was elderly too – at seventy-one, he’d make an aged king, and would likely only survive for a few more years. No doubt that was the sort of maths that had made Henry set aside his wife of forty-five years. Was he so sure that young Emily would be able to give him an heir? But even if she gave Henry a litter of heirs, it would be a long decade and more before any of them would be old enough to succeed him. Richard, by contrast, was only fifty-five, a far more suitable age for a monarch, one who could serve England for a long, steadying reign.

But would the people support him? That was less clear: there were too many variables. When Alan tried to calculate the possibilities, dozens of futures spun off behind his eyes. England triumphant, a land united. England in flames, torn apart by civil war. The stakes were frighteningly high, and he could understand why Margaret had desperately wanted there to be a better option. But some lost heir, with no training, to take the throne based solely on an accident of bloodline? Nonsense. Surely Richard was better suited than that? The people would likely agree; the odds were surprisingly in his favour. Alan frowned. ‘I cannot promise, but I think … they might actually support you.’

Richard took his hand then, pressed it to his chest. ‘And you, Alan? Would you support me?’

Another interesting question. Richard was far from a perfect man. Yet there was the warmth under his fingertips, and a man who had never flinched away from Alan’s joker attributes. Under his rule, the jokers would have a champion. Surely, for England’s sake, Alan Turing should support the best man for the throne? Wasn’t that one of the lessons he’d learned during the war, that sometimes the right path to follow wasn’t necessarily the lawful road?

Richard’s hand was warm on his, his blue eyes steady and intent. ‘Alan? Are you with me?’

Alan hesitated, then said softly, ‘I’m yours to command, sir.’

‘Good.’ And then Richard was kissing him again, wildly. The make-up would have to be redone, but Alan couldn’t bring himself to care. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to catch a decent breath. What had he just agreed to?

King Richard IV. It did sound good.

‘What’s this do?’ Jasper asked. They were at the warehouse where Noel stored the equipment for his magic act.

Jasper was standing next to a tall wardrobe, resting his hand on the polished black wood. Noel walked over to join him. ‘That’s where I make people disappear.’

‘But they don’t really disappear, right, Dad?’

‘Correct.’

‘Am I going to go with you when you do the show?’ Jasper asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll miss school.’

‘Travel is also educational.’ Noel had a low opinion of American educational standards but so far Jasper seemed to be doing well at the private school, so apparently American private schools were keeping up standards.

In late April Noel would be performing in Tokyo, an eight-day run on a big stage that required large equipment that supported the big illusions. He had already shipped the stage that would be installed over the theatre’s actual stage. Now he was inspecting the tools of his trade. Though in a world where people could ghost through walls, turn into thousands of wasps, actually fly, and (like himself) teleport thousands of miles in the blink of an eye or (like his son) braid and craft light into intricate designs, he wondered if there was still an audience for stage magic. In truth, he had started to abandon the bigger, flashier stunts in favour of close magic and mind tricks with cards and numbers. Those still had audiences oohing and aahing in wonderment. For some reason the Japanese wanted the big show and they were paying well, so he would oblige them. In his pursuit of sole custody of his son Noel had had to turn the day-to-day management of his Ace in Hand company back in Manhattan over to his assistant. He still drew a salary, but he had taken a pay cut so Dogsbody would get a rise. Which had necessitated a return to touring in order to maintain their lifestyle.

Noel returned to his work and Jasper picked up a deck of cards and laid out a hand of solitaire. ‘You could do your homework,’ Noel tossed over his shoulder.

‘I know. Can you show me how to do a card trick?’

Noel sighed, but he wasn’t really annoyed at his son’s interest. He came to Jasper’s side and gathered up the cards. It was hard to manipulate the cards slowly, but he tried to so that he could demonstrate how to control the placement of each one. ‘Now you try.’ He handed over the deck. The boy’s hands were a bit small to grasp the skill successfully but he tried until the cards suddenly fountained out of his hands, and he burst out laughing. Noel loved him for that. There was no pouting or fury, just enjoyment and a touch of self-deprecation. It was clear Jasper took more after his mother than his irascible father.

‘Let me show you how to pick a lock,’ Noel said as he removed his lock-pick case from his inner jacket pocket. They went over to the small door into the warehouse and Noel demonstrated. He started to hand over the tools when Jasper gave him an impish look.

‘I don’t need those, Dad. Watch.’

He tried to reach for the setting sun but clouds had rolled in and he wasn’t able to make an effective plait. Noel turned on the flashlight function on his mobile phone and Jasper used that to fashion one of his creations. He then thrust it into the lock. Noel heard the tumblers fall and gave a sharp laugh of surprise.

‘Oh well done, you!’ He hugged Jasper close. ‘It’s getting late and cold. What say we stop for some takeaway and go home?’

‘Okay.’

Noel locked the door again, and with his arm draped over his son’s shoulder they walked to where he had parked his Aston Martin. Is this my midlife crisis, he wondered. Or was stealing away his child more evidence of aberrant behaviour? Noel had always been coldly analytical until an infant had wrapped his tiny fingers around his thumb and he was lost. He dropped a kiss suddenly on the top of Jasper’s head. The boy looked up, startled, and gave him a shy smile but sadness lurked around the edges.

‘I love you, Dad, but I wish you and Mom would just … talk.’

‘We will. Eventually. And she’ll come around.’

‘That’s not talking, Dad, that’s telling.’

Noel was stunned speechless. You are your mother’s child. Kind and empathetic. Is there any part of me in you? I suppose your intellect, but you will be a better man than me.

‘Get in the car,’ he said roughly. ‘It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.’

Jasper turned on the radio as they headed towards their favourite Chinese restaurant, scanning through the stations in search of the music he liked – God help me, Noel thought, why must it be Justin Bieber? Perhaps he will outgrow it – when he heard the voice of the second son of Queen Margaret. ‘Wait. Stop.’ Jasper gave him an eye roll and the sigh that Noel had no doubt would become even more pronounced once he reached his teen years, but he complied.

‘… think it is kind to call my brother’s remarks unfortunate. I think that does not begin to describe them. Such naked bigotry has no place in our country, and it is simply unacceptable for divisive and hateful sentiment to be voiced by the King of England, who, as the head of our county’s government, should be setting a moral and ethical standard for the nation, not dragging it down into the gutter.’

The BBC announcer returned to say, ‘That was His Grace the Duke of York commenting to our own Christy Walsh on his brother’s remarks earlier today. Wouldn’t you say that’s rather remarkable, David—’

‘Fine, that’s enough. Go find some music.’ Jasper complied and soon the latest pop tune was echoing through the car.

‘Do you think he’s right? What that duke guy said?’ Jasper asked.

Noel sucked in a deep breath and blew it out in a gust. ‘I agree with what he said, but he shouldn’t have said it.’

‘That’s kinda weird. I don’t understand.’

‘For better or worse, Henry is king. We owe him our allegiance and loyalty and I’m sure the Palace advisers are assiduously working to rein him in and clean up the mess from today. Richard is his brother, a representative of the House of Windsor, and he needs to shut up, stop undercutting his brother and let the Palace handle this.’

‘So you believe in all this king stuff?’

‘I do. I don’t think Britain would be Britain without the royals.’