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THE MEETING OF THE Twisted Fists was taking place in an old industrial estate. It had been left idle for years and was steadily being reclaimed by nature. Green Man saw signs that rats had taken up residence in one building, and a crow appeared to be nesting in another. Broken paving stones made the van rattle as it came to a stop outside the first in a row of abandoned warehouses. He and Wayfarer climbed out of the van and moved as quickly into the old warehouse as possible.

Rust gathered in thick patches on its corrugated roof, and an array of holes perforated the walls. Through them, Green Man could see muted lights flickering within. He checked his watch. They would step through the doors at nine fifty-five, which would allow them to start at ten o’clock precisely. He might not work for the government any more, but that was no reason to let standards slip.

The others were already inside. Not all of the Fists – such a gathering would be both impractical and far too dangerous – but a mix of those who had something to say, and those that would spread word of what transpired here to the other cells. A silence fell as he approached, but he noted that it was Seizer who had been doing the talking, holding court, or rather stealing court while he could.

There was a pause as the two sized each other up. Not for the first time, Green Man took pleasure in the extra height his wild card had given him. It was a petty, primal thing, but there really was no substitute for being able to look down on someone.

Seizer had been with Fists for as long as anyone could remember. His spine curved forward at the top now, and in his overcoat he looked like a giant beetle. Egg-sized growths of calloused skin grew all over his body, including a pointed set ringing his skull that Seizer (and nobody else) seemed to think was reminiscent of a crown. Over the day these growths would flake and fall off, only to reappear the following morning. A few discarded lumps of crust had collected by his feet, no doubt dislodged by some enthusiastic arm-waving. There was a particularly unpleasant smell to his discarded flesh that everyone was studiously ignoring. Despite this, the man carried himself with the kind of arrogance one could only find in the aristocracy.

‘And, at last, he arrives,’ said Seizer.

Green Man refused to rise to the obvious bait; he knew damned well that he was on time. Or was this a broader barb? Wayfarer had told him that he’d been too absent lately. He decided it was better not to reply in either case, giving Seizer nothing but silence. The old knave made a gesture as if conceding the floor and moved to one side.

Such a peaceful city, thought Badb. Compared to Belfast, that was. But wherever there were jokers, there was prejudice and fear. Hatred for those who already suffered the most.

Who could bear such appalling injustice? Not the Fists, that was for sure.

She found herself leaning against damp bricks in the East End of London. Such were the burdens of godhood that she aged many times faster than mortals did. And bled enough over the course of the day to fill a bath.

She trembled, coughing as blood pooled in her belly and lungs.

She would need to renew herself and soon. This was why she had come to the East End. Passions ran high among the Fists. There were always young jokers eager to give their lives for the cause of equality. The perfect tools to pick London apart.

She closed her eyes. Never before had she tried following so many important people at once. Some, she had already lost track of when a bird was snatched by a predator or stuck in a crack. But she caught glimpses of Turing travelling alone in the back of a car – her biggest threat; of the younger prince pacing in a bedroom, eager, impatient, but for what? She would check back later, because suddenly, through the window of a rotting building, a wooden giant appeared: and she knew it had to be the Green Man himself! One of his joker kin stood before him now. Despite the thumb-sized boils that mottled his body, there was no mistaking the aggression in that stance, the scorn on that face. Oh, most satisfactory. A hero in the making, perhaps. A chance for her to renew herself before it was too late.

The room was already crowded with a mix of MI5 and Silver Helix members when Turing arrived, filling the seats of the long conference table. They’d arranged to have this meeting in the Silver Helix conference room, because MI5 would be chairing it. Of such uneasy compromises was government made.

Singh said genially, ‘Turing, man, you’ve been avoiding me. Every time I see you in the hallways, you’re rushing in the other direction. What are you so busy with? You must give me a game some time; it’s been too long.’ Singh towered over the gathered security forces, a full head higher than most of them, with the bulk to match; when he stood up the top of his turban would brush the ceiling. With his deep voice, he commanded attention, and if pressed, Alan would admit to having entertained a few fantasies featuring the Lion. Tragically, Turing didn’t appear to be the Lion’s cup of tea.

‘Singh, I’ve told you,’ Alan demurred. ‘I don’t play any more.’ Singh’s chessboard sat ready at one end of the conference room, two comfortable leather wingback chairs flanking it, inviting. This set, he’d heard, was one that had come from India originally, had belonged to some maharajah or another, back in the day.

‘Hmm.’ The Lion frowned. ‘You think with that computer in your head, you would destroy me? My people invented the game, you know. Now bloody computers have made the whole thing pointless.’

That was true, if your only purpose was to win. Alan had designed the first chess-playing computer program decades ago, and then trounced it soundly. All of that had changed, though. Now even he couldn’t beat the new chess-playing computers: they were more powerful than his card-granted gifts. But Alan had still loved playing with Sebastian. When they first became involved he’d been charmed by the openness of his play, his trusting nature. Sebastian hadn’t been willing to play him in years, though – I got tired of losing, Alan.

Now wasn’t the time to think of that. ‘Chess will never be pointless, Singh. You can learn much of a man’s character from the way he plays.’

‘Or a woman’s?’ One of the MI5 people, a middle-aged woman he didn’t recognize.

Alan turned to her. ‘Or a woman’s, of course.’

She offered a hand. ‘Sarah Edwards. I’ll be heading things up today.’

Turing shook her hand: a good grip, warm and forthright.

She continued, ‘Do you know everyone else here? Let me introduce you—’

He knew the Silver Helix members, of course – Singh had pulled in the new young Redcoat, it probably was time for the boy to get some seasoning, and Stonemaiden, so it wasn’t an entirely male contingent. Edwards added a quick flurry of additional names – representatives from Scotland Yard’s RaSP division, along with a few others from MI5. Some of them he’d met before, but Alan didn’t know any of them well.

He missed Charlie Soper – after that business with Churchill so many decades ago, he and Charlie had had occasion to work together, more and more over the years. A reliable man, the sort you could count on. A good man in a storm. It was a shame there were so few of those to be found. Soper was retired now, enjoying a well-earned peace at last. A peace that Alan was determined to protect.

The Lion sat down in a broad chair that must have been specially made to handle his bulk, and the others moved to take their seats. Singh slammed a fist down on the sturdy mahogany table. ‘Enough dilly-dallying, children. We must sort out where we stand, make this transition as soon as possible. When power changes hands, there is a moment, a gap, when no one is really in control. That’s the danger – there are always dark figures waiting, lurking on the edges. They’ll be the ones rushing in to fill the gap, and it’s our job to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

Sarah Edwards frowned at Singh; she was supposed to be in charge of this meeting. ‘Yes, let’s get started.’ Edwards leaned forward. ‘Did you hear that Double Helix is back? Will he be trouble?’

Alan felt the stab of regret that always flashed through him when he thought of Noel – could he and Flint have done anything different? Trained the boy better, raised a better man? Or had Noel always been walking his dark path? ‘He says he’s retired—’

‘You can’t trust the bastard,’ Edwards said. ‘But I’m more worried about the Fists – they’re roiling right now.’

‘Can you blame them?’ Redcoat asked. ‘After what Henry said—’

The Lion frowned. ‘Hush! He’ll be joining us any minute.’

‘But, Singh …’ Alan began, but the Lion cut him off.

‘Henry is king, Turing. What would you have us do?’

Alan just shook his head. He could hardly ask them all to swear fealty to Richard instead. They’d think Alan’s hundred-and-eight-year-old brain had finally, suddenly, given out completely.

‘Threat analysis, Mr Turing,’ Edwards said. ‘That’s what we need from you – please put that brain of yours to work and help us sort through this mess. I want to know every likely attack on the throne – and I want to know which ones we’ll have to deal with first.’

Threat analysis was worth doing for Richard too, of course. And while he was at it, maybe Alan would spend a little time chasing down Margaret’s lost heir. It was hard to imagine that some lost joker child could become a serious threat at this late stage, but it was never wise to overlook a piece on the board. If you did, the next thing you knew, a pawn would make it to the far end and queen herself, or your king would end up pinned by some sneaky knight.

‘I’ll do my best, ma’am,’ Alan said, as the door opened and Henry entered the room. They all rose hastily to their feet, chairs scraping back loudly.

Henry smiled benevolently. ‘Then we shall rest easy, Alan, because your best is very good indeed.’

It was dangerous to say no to a king. ‘Thank you, Your Highness. I’d best get to work right away,’ Alan said. ‘Calculating a problem this complex will take some time.’

Stalling was his best tactic now.

Green Man stood for a few moments, letting his gaze sweep over the assembly. The last of the murmurings stopped. He had their attention now, the nervous energy of the room directed solely in his direction. He made them wait a moment more than was comfortable, then began to speak.

‘Thank you for coming. There aren’t many of us around now that remember a time before Margaret was queen. But, let me assure you, there was. I cannot deny that there will be change, and some of the change is regrettable—’

‘Regrettable!’ Seizer snorted. ‘Henry just told us to bugger off to the bally moon!’

Green Man’s wooden eyes narrowed behind the mask. He hated being interrupted. It ruined the flow of his speech. Seizer had always been difficult, but he was getting worse with age. ‘They are words, Seizer, nothing more. They can’t hurt us, and by next week the papers will have moved on to something else.’

‘They are the words of our king and he’s saying we’re no better than a pack of scrounging foreigners. Everyone who has ever hated us will take it as permission to act.’ He spread his hands. ‘And then, by God, we’ll have more than words to deal with.’

A few of the other jokers nodded along, with one or two murmuring assent, while the others exchanged worried glances. Seizer might have no idea what he was talking about, but it was clear he’d tapped into the fears of the room.

‘People are free to speak,’ said Green Man. ‘Even if they use that freedom to show the worst parts of themselves. That doesn’t mean they’re free to act. If Britain First or some other group thinks they have leave to hurt us, they will find themselves sorely mistaken. Kings may come and go, but the Twisted Fists will endure.’

Seizer tutted. ‘A fine sentiment, but it won’t protect us. We need to take action! Break a few heads to show them we mean business.’

‘If the Fists need to break heads, we will. Five for each of ours. But only if they leave us no other choice.’

‘Do nothing! Tha—’

He could see Seizer wanted to say more, so he stepped forward, his foot making a loud crunching noise as one of Seizer’s discarded growths shattered beneath it.

‘No,’ he added quietly. ‘There are many steps between inaction and bloodshed. We know Henry is not the sort of man to be won over by reason, nor by violence. If we lash out at him now, it will only prove him right in the eyes of the media. No,’ Green Man said again, ‘Henry does not care about the morality of his position, but he does care about his reputation. A discreet threat should be enough to make him back off, perhaps even retract his earlier statements.’ Green Man lifted his chin and raised his voice ever so slightly. ‘Put out the word: I want everything we can get on our king-to-be. A man like Henry will have made mistakes and tried to bury them. Get out there. Dig them up. The dirtier the secret, the better.’

The Twisted Fists were starting to move, much happier now that their nerves could be channelled. Even so, he could see Seizer considering whether to speak.

‘Dismissed,’ said Green Man, as much to him as to the room.

The old knave deferred with a bow of his bent body, even as his eyes flashed displeasure.

Wayfarer was right, he thought. My rivals have grown bold, and like Henry it’s going to take more than words to put them down.

He flexed the heavy fingers of his right hand. It was clumsier than it used to be, but stronger. A blunt instrument. He’d used it to take lives before and if need be he’d take them again. But when he imagined having to crack a skull, it was not Henry’s that came to mind, but a knobbly one, much closer to home.

‘I’m bloody well not going to do it,’ Constance snapped, rubbing her index finger between her eyes.

She gripped her phone even harder. It was difficult to keep a good grasp because of her arthritic fingers – her new iPhone was stupidly big – but she was past even noticing that they hurt.

‘I’m so sorry, but there is no other choice,’ replied the Lion. ‘It’s your duty.’

‘I won’t do it,’ she said tightly. ‘Besides, I’m retired.’

‘If there was any other way,’ he said with real sadness and concern in his voice. ‘But your skills are known to the royals, and Henry wants to avail himself of them as soon as possible. And well you know that no one really retires from MI7.’

She could almost see his face, noble and filled with compassion for her, and she resented it.

‘You’ve continued to help us even after your official resignation. You had no problems clothing the late queen, God rest her soul.’

‘That was her. Henry is nothing like his mother! After what he said? And on the steps of St Paul’s of all places? He’d rather drink poison than be served by a shop full of jokers.’

‘Constance,’ the Lion replied with a weariness she hadn’t expected. ‘This is the way it has to be. Besides, you know you’ll be going to the Palace, just as you did for his mother. He’ll never see your jokers. Out of sight and all that.’

‘No,’ Constance said. ‘No. I won’t do it. And don’t you dare ask me again.’

She poked at the off button on her phone screen a couple of times before she hit it right. Damned arthritis, she thought as she slid the phone into the pocket of her dark grey, men’s-style trousers.

‘Bravo, Constance, bravo.’

Constance spun around and saw that Bobbin and the rest of her tailors were clustered around the bottom of the staircase leading to the second-floor workrooms.

‘That’s one royal tradition we can afford to stop,’ Bobbin said. ‘He’s an odious man.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ It was Brian, one of her best tailors. He’d come to Constance desperate for work. His skills with a needle were perfection, but his skin looked like dirty chewed gum; however, while he looked disgusting, he did have a fresh, minty scent. ‘Things are going to get worse for jokers now unless we have friends like you. Thank you, ma’am.’

Constance could feel herself blushing. With two quick tugs she straightened the cuffs on her pristine white shirt. ‘Very well,’ she said, shooing them away. ‘Back to yer jobs.’ Every so often her posh accent slipped, and the East End peeped through.

Another brief chorus of ‘thank you, ma’am’ and then they marched upstairs. Constance waited until she heard the doors to the workrooms shut.

‘Bobbin,’ she said testily. ‘How did they overhear that conversation? I didn’t have it on speaker.’

‘You were shouting, and all they needed to hear was “Henry” and “not going to do it” and they knew very well what it was all about.’

Constance nervously fussed with her outfit while worrying about letting herself be overheard. It was clumsy and after her time in MI7 she’d learned to be anything but.

She rocked back and forth in her Converse trainers – her one concession to American fashion – and then stuck her hand into her pockets where she toyed with the bits and pieces of her craft she tucked away there. She knew the Lion would keep after her. It was his way.

‘Stop fretting,’ Bobbin said. ‘You said no and that’s that. Forget about it and come back to work.’ He took her hand then and gently led her into the back room. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tell him everything.

Losing Glory, then losing the Queen (who had insisted that Constance call her Margaret when they were alone), the weight of her secrets, and now turning the Lion down; it was a lot to take.

Bobbin took her back to her drafting table, gave her tea, and sat her down so she could get back to work. And she felt centred again. He did have that effect on her. Now if only she had the courage to tell him everything else.

It was a lady judge and she looked forbidding but also absurd. The black robe was appropriately austere, but the powdered wig perched upon her beautiful cornrows, decorated with pale blue beads, was incongruous. As if a gull had decided to fly into court and perch on her head. Noel pulled his attention from the wig and tried to read her expression as his barrister – also sporting a wig and a gown – began her argument.

Noel had made a conscious choice to hire a woman to represent him in his fight to be granted sole custody of Jasper under the theory that if he had a woman willing to represent him it would indicate he wasn’t a complete wanker. It hadn’t fooled his representative. Judith von Bredow had declared he was in fact a total wanker after their first meeting, but he was a rich wanker so she had agreed to represent him.

They had developed the arguments together so Noel listened with barely half of his attention. Only what the judge said would ultimately matter to this preliminary hearing. Instead he watched the face of the barrister hired by Niobe: an elderly man with a comfortable paunch and the air of a kindly grandfather. He was shaking his bewigged head and tsking quietly under his breath.

After dropping Jasper off at school, Noel had paused for breakfast and a chance to peruse the papers. Richard’s remarks regarding his brother had been met with a stiff and very British response from the Palace, a response so polite it could rip skin from the body.

Not so from the howling pack of tabloids. The Daily Mail and the Daily Express came baying after the Duke of York with unflattering photographs, suggestions that his and Diana’s marriage was on the rocks, and veiled claims about Richard’s sexual proclivities. Not so the Sun. Vitriol poured off the page and in the letters column an irate citizen called the Duke of York ‘an arse bandit’. Only the Guardian offered full-throated support of the Duke’s criticisms of his brother.

Noel knew the kind of people who read the tabloids. Less educated, struggling in an increasingly unequal society, ready to blame others for their troubles: immigrants, jokers or gays. And despite the British reputation for decorum you had only to witness a football mob to realize that one’s kinsmen were as capable of violence as any other member of the human species.

Judith concluded, thanked the judge, and sat down. Niobe’s barrister rose to his feet. In his black robe and with his bulk he was reminiscent of a breaching whale. ‘Your Honour, I find my learned friend’s argument to be vastly creative, appropriate when she really had no basis in law with which to support this manifest injustice.’

The judge waved a hand wearily at him. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Ramsey, but spare me your oratorical gifts today. If you have a point kindly get to it.’

He bowed his head in graceful acquiescence. ‘Of course, ma’am. The child is nine and he has been ripped away from his mother on the pretext that his status as an ace means that his mother, who is a joker, is unable to prepare him adequately for the world as a wild carder. The argument is that his father, who is also an ace, but has declined to use his powers and abilities, is a far better choice to raise the child than a loving mother. To rule in favour of this man would create a pernicious precedent—’

‘Getting a bit florid there, Ram,’ Judith drawled.

The judge snapped, ‘I’ll decide when it’s too purple, Mr Ramsey.’

‘As I was saying, it could set a precedent that jokers are inherently inferior to aces rather than treating all people, whether afflicted by this virus or not, as equal before the law. Besides which, the court has always taken the presumption that a child is in most circumstances better off with its mother.’

The judge cocked an eyebrow at Noel’s barrister. ‘I’m unconvinced that a parent should receive full custody merely on the basis of their wild card status. Therefore—’

‘Your Honour, may we have a postponement in order to gather expert opinion on the subject of families raising an ace child?’

‘Your Honour—’ Ramsey began.

‘No, I think that’s reasonable. It’s rare for two wild cards to produce a viable child. We want to give this one the best chance in life. You have five days, Ms von Bredow: make the most of them. We’ll resume at,’ she checked her diary, ‘nine a.m. on Monday March 9th. Court is adjourned.’

Wayfarer’s knock made Green Man look up. He’d been reading the papers, trying to gauge how much support King Henry was getting now the initial story had broken. This was more difficult than it used to be. Even supposedly sensible news outlets like the BBC had fallen prey to the ridiculous idea of always presenting both sides of an argument, no matter how nonsensical or irrelevant the counterargument might be.

As a result he knew that some people agreed with Henry’s bigoted statements, and that some did not. However, he’d known this before he’d read a single one of today’s articles, and couldn’t help feeling that he was wasting his time.

The papers were put aside, and the mask slipped into place.

‘Come in,’ he said, and Wayfarer stepped inside. He didn’t need to say anything more; they’d worked together long enough that she could practically read his mind these days, even when he wished she couldn’t.

‘Seizer’s been quiet since the meeting,’ she said.

‘It’s clear he’s not quite ready to strike yet. I imagine he’s waiting for me to slip.’

‘I agree.’ She absently scanned a story that mentioned Henry’s new, much younger fiancée only in terms of what she was wearing and her current hairstyle, and swept it neatly into the bin. ‘What are you going to do about him?’

‘Nothing, unless he causes trouble.’

‘Which he will.’

‘When that happens … if that happens, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

Wayfarer nodded. ‘I’m no fan of unnecessary violence, but just this once I think prevention really would be better than the cure.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, I’m afraid. Seizer is one of the old guard and not without allies. If I go after him without good reason, I’ll shatter the Fists into pieces when we need to be unified.’ He looked up at her. ‘I assume we have more interesting things to discuss than internal politics.’

‘There’s a young man outside who has a story I think you should hear. His grandmother worked at the Palace back in ’48.’

‘He has something we can use against Henry?’

‘No, but I think you’ll want to hear what he’s got to say.’

‘All right, send him in.’

She opened the door again. ‘Theo, the Green Man will see you now.’ She gestured for him to enter as she stepped out.

Green Man stifled a chortle when the ‘young man’ appeared. He was well into his thirties and looked as if he’d crammed a lot of living into those years. Leathery skin and blunt nails suggested a lot of outdoor work, probably shifting heavy materials of some kind. There wasn’t much to love about the man’s face, but he had a vitality to him and the kind of thick hair that Green Man would have envied even before his card turned. Theo’s mutation had done something to his right leg, though exactly what was hidden under flared trousers that brushed the floor.

Green Man gestured to the only other chair in the room and Theo moved towards it awkwardly, swinging one leg forward and letting its weight drag the rest of him after. He gave a happy sigh as he flopped down into the leather.

‘I understand your grandmother used to work for the Palace.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But not recently?’

‘Nah, but she used to talk to me about it.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, when you put out the word to find out about that royal cunt – pardon my French.’

‘No pardon required in this case.’

‘Right. So I remember me nan used to work there and so I popped over and asked her about the old days.’ He leaned forward. ‘And she tells me that back in ’48, the Princess had this baby, right.’

Green Man nodded. ‘Yes, that sounds familiar. A stillborn boy as I recall. Terrible tragedy.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Except me nan says all them stories were lies. The baby was alive. She saw him.’

It was Green Man’s turn to lean forward. ‘But why pretend the child was dead? It makes no sense.’

Theo nodded, looking pleased. ‘That’s exactly what I said, boss. Anyway, she tells me that there was something up with the baby, and that’s why they got rid of him.’

‘Something up?’

‘Yeah, with his skin. It wasn’t right. She said it weren’t normal.’

On the outside, he appeared as calm as ever, but inside his thoughts were whirling. It could just be a skin condition, but what if it’s more? What if there was a joker prince? And what if they’d had him disposed of? The implications were staggering. If they’d killed a royal baby for the sake of appearances, it would send shockwaves around the world, and that was before the Green Man had arranged a very special revenge strike. And even that is nothing compared to what could happen if the child is still alive!

Before the change, his cheeks would have flushed with excitement, fuelled by a thundering heart. But Green Man never blushed, his features and his heart immovable.

‘Would your grandmother mind if I paid her a visit?’

‘Nah, she loves a good chat.’ Theo passed over a crumpled piece of paper. ‘That’s her address.’

Green Man took it, committed the details to memory, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Thank you, Theo. Now tell me, is there anything I can do for you?’

The man looked down, embarrassed. ‘There is this one thing …’ Green Man sat back, knowing this game well. Theo was trying to seem coy, but he’d come here with this request in mind. ‘There’s this foreman. We call him, well, it don’t matter … I want some help with him.’

‘He’s causing you some trouble?’

‘Yeah. He’s always giving me the worst jobs and then pushing me about when nobody’s looking. I take it on the chin, y’know? But sometimes he blames me for stuff and they dock my pay, and I can’t have that. Money’s tight.’

‘Would you like us to have a word with this chap on your behalf?’

‘That’d be great. Nothing heavy, I just want to be able to do my shift in peace.’

‘Send me a rota with his times on it and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

Green Man stood and shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Theo.’

Alan spoke softly into his phone. ‘I’m sorry, Sebastian. Truly. I’m so sorry I had to cancel our lunch yesterday – I was looking forward to it. And I apologize for not getting home last night, but. Given the King’s gaffe, resentments have sparked throughout the city. Now there are multiple forces moving against Henry …’

As Turing said the words, Richard shifted beneath the covers, his hand tracing small, wicked circles in very distracting regions. Forces moving? Richard mouthed, and Turing shook his head, firmly, only to be further ignored. He took a quick, steadying breath and continued.

‘… I’m going to be here all night, I’m afraid, working with some of the MI5 chaps. Just put the telly on, maybe that baking show you like? That’ll give you something pleasant to fall asleep to. Yes, yes – tomorrow, lunch, I promise. Why don’t you make us reservations somewhere nice? Or I can do it – no, of course I don’t mind. I’ll go online right now and set it up; I’ll text you the details in the morning. But make sure you get some sleep; you’ll be an absolute bear at lunch if you haven’t had your rest.’

Roar! Richard mouthed, making claws out of his fingers.

Shut up! Alan mouthed back. Could you say that to your king-to-be? Apparently, because Richard was laughing now, silently, thank all the gods. Laughing and gesturing to Alan to hang up. Hang up!

‘I really have to get back to work now. Sleep well, husband.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘I love you.’ The truth was, Alan had never really been comfortable saying that sort of thing out loud, but Sebastian needed to hear those words every day. He’d even made Alan put in their wedding vows that they were not to let a day go by without saying, I love you.

He’d be lost without Sebastian. Alan just didn’t see why he couldn’t have Richard too. When vast amounts of property – actual kingdoms – were involved, then certainly it mattered who was spending time in whose bed, and what children resulted from it. But once you stopped worrying about which man had sired which baby, there was no good reason for cleaving only unto one other. Monogamy wasn’t logical; the heart wanted what it wanted.

All right, maybe his heart wasn’t the driving force here. Alan hung up the phone, finally, and reached for Richard, his dick already hardening – only to have the Prince slip away, laughing out loud.

‘Oh no, no, my lovely metal man. I want more from you tonight. You’re the smartest man in the world, and I – I should be king. How can we take the throne from my brother?’

It was a difficult problem. The simplest method, of course, would be to kill Henry. Turing had ordered his share of deaths as a member of the Silver Helix, but killing a king carried tremendous risk. Was Richard truly willing to take that step, to commit fratricide? There was little love lost between the brothers, but murder was surely extreme. Could Turing condone such a thing, assist with it, if Richard asked it of him?

Thankfully, he hadn’t asked it. Not yet. And there might be other options than murder. A sufficiently large scandal would force Henry from the throne. They had seen it with Edward VIII, after all: the country could not abide divorcée Wallis Simpson as queen, and so Edward had abdicated. There was precedent. The problem would be creating the scandal, as quickly as possible. Henry was still new to his throne, uncertain of his place. It would be far harder to unseat him once his buttocks were firmly planted on that royal seat.

‘Let me think about it, Dickie. There may be a way.’

Richard seemed ready to protest, to press for more – but then he subsided. He had, after all, seen Alan work on other problems before; he had some small understanding of the process. He murmured only, ‘Soon, Alan. Calculate quickly.’ And then he was sliding down the bed, disappearing under the covers. For a little while, Alan stopped thinking at all.

‘Bobbin,’ Constance began. They’d let the staff go home early and were closing up.

‘What is it?’ he replied. His smile was warm and kind. The patches of colour on his face – faded now – were as familiar to her as the constellation of freckles on her arms. Those freckles hadn’t been there when she was younger – age had left them in its passing. And age had left the gold rimming his eyes, eyes that crinkled even when he wasn’t smiling.

‘I need to tell you a few things,’ she began. She drew the curtains across the front windows and went around the room shutting the atelier down for the evening. ‘You should sit down,’ she said.

‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘But, do you want to go out to dinner tonight? I know you’re fond of the pies at Barley Swine.’

‘No.’ She sat down in one of the grey velvet, Danish-style armchairs arranged around the low catwalk where they often showed their pieces. He pulled one of the chairs around and faced her.

A queasy feeling settled in her stomach. Suddenly, it seemed like a terrible idea to tell him, but she knew she couldn’t keep her secret any longer.

‘What is it?’ Bobbin asked. ‘Something awful?’ He laughed and leaned forward. ‘Don’t be afraid. I don’t scare easily.’

It suddenly felt very warm and Constance peeled her cardigan off.

‘A long time ago,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘there were three of us friends.’

The memory was crisp and clean. It seemed as if the older she got the easier her youth was to recall.

‘Glory and I had another best mate when we was – were – growin’ up. Her name was Frances. She became famous, but not like Glory and me. She became famous because she was married to Reggie Kray.’

‘One of the Kray brothers?’ A shocked and slightly thrilled expression bloomed on his face. ‘The gangsters who ran the East End? Those Krays?’

Constance nodded. ‘What most people don’t know is that his brother, Ronnie, was an ace. He was also barking mad, and that made him having such a power worse. There’s not much to be done about an ace who is insane. Or even one a bit touched. And Ronnie wasn’t just a little touched.’

Constance rolled up her left sleeve. It had been almost fifty years, but the scars still hadn’t disappeared. They’d turned a silvery white, as if spider webs had been carved in her flesh, but they were still deep, the skin puckering around them. She held her arm out where he could see it. He let out a low whistle and reached to touch her, but she shrank away. The memory of what had created those scars, a terrible phantom pain, flared.

‘See, Ronnie’s ace was in his touch,’ she continued, rolling her sleeve back down quickly, fastening the button at the cuff. ‘If he thought about it, he could slice someone open all razor-like.’ It made her stomach flip again just to talk about it. She tried to make it sound matter-of-fact, but her voice betrayed her.

‘You might have told me that Ronnie Kray had taken it upon himself to carve you up,’ Bobbin said, reaching out to take her hand. She pulled it away. ‘There was no reason not to tell me. You can tell me anything.’

She cocked her head to one side, considering him. She knew him so well, yet she couldn’t be certain how he would react. There was only one thing to do and it was to get across this heavy ground as lightly as possible.

‘Bobbin, I killed Ronnie Kray. Well, Glory and I did.’

He stared at her, shocked. Well, what did you expect? she thought. Silence stretched out between them. It felt as if she was looking at him from the wrong end of a telescope.

‘But … Reggie Kray went to prison for killing Ronnie,’ he said at last. She stopped feeling as if he was moving away from her. At least he was still talking.

‘I know,’ she replied with a sigh of relief. ‘It wasn’t an easy thing to sort out.’

His face scrunched up. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How did it happen?’

‘I was trying to get away from them and Glory was trying to help me.’ The memories of killing Ronnie rose up with terrible freshness.

‘Ronnie found us. He tried to kill us. Sliced Glory’s flowers clean off. Tried to cut me up again.’ She remembered Glory’s slippery blood on the floor smelling like copper mixed with the scent of her shorn flowers.

Constance pulled her shears out of her pocket. They were her special ones. ‘I used these,’ she said, holding them out flat on her palm.

He gazed at them as if they were going to bite, then he looked back up at her. ‘Why do ya still have those?’

The shears teetered and she closed her hand around them and then slid them back into her pocket. ‘Because … because I didn’t want to forget. Didn’t want to take anything for granted.’

‘You were just about a girl, how could you cover up something like that?’ he asked, frowning. ‘How did it get pinned on Reggie?’

This was where it was going to get tricky. She knew she had to tell him, but she was loath to. Maybe if he just had part of it now – the worst part – maybe the other … that could be put off.

‘It was Mick who helped us,’ she replied smoothly. ‘See, he and Glory, well, they’d always been sweet on one another …’

Bobbin waved his hand. ‘Yes, yes, everyone knew about that.’

She laughed. Bobbin had never been one for scandals.

‘Mick knew a lot of people. A lot of people who were interested in him … like MI7.’

Bobbin burst out laughing. ‘Mick Jagger? In MI7? Were they completely daft?’

‘It was a different time, Bobbin. They were trying to recruit people. Mick was famous. They wanted a sort of counter-culture face while they were recruiting.’

‘Seriously?’ Wonder bloomed on his face. ‘Mick Jagger.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, we all know he isn’t part of MI7 … unless … Is he? No, and how would you know anyway?’ He chuckled.

‘I called Mick after Glory and I, well, after. Glory was hurt badly. I thought he could get us out of the country. The Stones were going on tour … He called MI7 to make a deal with them. They would help cover up the murder, help us get out of the country and he would join them.’

‘Well, obviously, that didn’t happen.’ Bobbin looked perplexed. He rubbed his palms on his trousers and left little rips from his needle protrusions.

‘We worked things out with them and I got to stay here and Glory went on to the States with Mick.’

‘And you got to stay …’ His tone was thoughtful.

She smiled. He was taking it remarkably well.

‘And then you started making clothes for Her Majesty. Do I have the right of it?’

‘Yes!’

‘And you were working for MI7 then, weren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Making clothes … For MI7.’

‘Yes.’ She wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

‘MI7 is for aces. They let Mick get away because they had you. That was the deal you made.’ She recoiled from the expression on his face.

‘I … I … It was the only thing to do! Glory got to be safe. She had Mick to take care of her. Reg went to jail. And all because I went to work for them.’

‘So, you’re an ace, then.’ He said it with a flat voice.

‘Yes,’ she replied shakily. ‘My clothes …’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I should have known. Should’ve realized. You making her clothes all the time. Henry wanting you to make his clothes. Being so intent on it. Must be an awfully powerful ace.’

‘No,’ she said softly, shaking her head.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ he snapped back. ‘You been lying enough.’

‘I haven’t been lying! I couldn’t tell anyone!’ That he would think she’d been lying to him wounded her.

‘You’re an ace. Working a shop full of jokers. Working with me for forty years and ya never told me. Never told me we were alike. Both of us infected. And working for MI7 …’ He shook his head. When he looked at her again, it was with disgust.

‘What exactly would you have had me do?’ she asked. She tried to keep the pleading out of her voice. She had nothing to be ashamed of, after all. She’d saved all of them and protected the Queen for decades. He had no right to judge her.

‘You had forty years to tell me the truth!’ he yelled. ‘I thought I knew you!’

‘Well, I’ve told you now.’ It sounded weak even to her ears.

‘Because you had to.’ It was an accusation.

‘No,’ she said, reaching out to him. He recoiled. ‘Because I wanted to. Because …’

‘I don’t care,’ he said, suddenly weary, slumping in his chair. ‘You hid yourself from me. You pretended to be something you’re not. I don’t know who you are. I’m not certain I want to know you.’

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ she said defensively. ‘I’m me. You know me.’

‘No, Constance, I don’t. You’ve killed a man – one that needed killing – but even so. And you’ve been working for MI7, as dirty an organization as there is. And you’re an ace. How pathetic you must have thought I was with my needled hands and piebald face.’

She jumped to her feet, ignoring the pain in her hip. ‘I’ve never thought ya were anything other than a fine man, Bobbin, and well you know it.’

He looked up at her and shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he said, with a hitch in his voice that was almost worse than when he was angry. ‘If ya had thought I was a fine man, ya woulda told me.’

It felt as if she’d been hit in the chest with a rounders ball. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her voice high and jittery. She took a step towards him, but he backed away. The pain in her chest grew. She wondered if she was having a heart attack.

‘Bobbin,’ she said, her voice cracking now. ‘Bobbin …’

But he’d already spun on his heel and was striding out of the door far faster than his usual gait. A cold burst of wind blew through the door as it swung shut.

He’d left his hat and jacket behind. She stared at the closed door with fear. It was just as she’d expected. She’d lost him. Staggering to a chair, she sat down, doubled over, and hugged her chest.

It hurt worse than anything she could have imagined, but she knew with sudden clarity it wasn’t a heart attack at all. This was what it felt like when your heart was broken.

And then she started crying.

The man sat nervously with his face to the wall, exactly as he’d been instructed. She watched him from a crow, but stood around a corner. Other crows were waiting to peck him to death if he attempted to run around and look her in the face. But she doubted it. The goddess had used hundreds like him over the years.

‘You are a war criminal,’ she told him, modifying her voice so that it sounded disapproving.

‘I am changed man.’

The bodyguard did not look so fierce without his bullet-proof jacket and his shades. He trembled, as was proper in the presence of divinity. ‘And you think I don’t know this is blackmail? You think I betray my employer? No! Do what you want. I not traitor.’

Badb knew better.

‘I am here to help the King,’ she told him. ‘I will give you the Green Man.’

The bodyguard twitched. ‘Do not look around.’ He froze again. He was still trembling, but with excitement now. The new monarch hated jokers and probably Muslims too. He might overlook the fact that this man had forgotten to feed a few hundred of the latter in a long-ago war.

‘Here is the address,’ she told him. ‘They have booby-trapped the alley to the north, but the main street … well, they wouldn’t get away with that, would they?’