The imminent demise of the human race didn’t allow Kingsley time for second thoughts. ‘I have a way to get into the Neanderthals’ lair and destroy the time machine,’ he said, ignoring the dangers that his plan entailed. And to save my father, he added to himself.

Soames, bound and at gunpoint, laughed from where he’d been propped against a decorative stalagmite. ‘Preposterous. Nothing enters that place unexamined. Even my shipments are examined.’

‘That’s why I have to do it the buried alive way.’

Evadne frowned. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘It’s very impressive, if it’s performed correctly.’

Evadne raised an eyebrow. ‘I take it that “correctly” means you come out alive instead of dead.’

‘It’s all in the technique. And it’s much safer than many other effects.’

‘Such as?’ Evadne asked, clearly unimpressed.

‘Oh, the bullet catch, for instance.’

‘The bullet catch trick?’ Soames perked up. ‘Didn’t Otto Blumenfeld die trying to perform that?

‘Er . . . I think so.’

‘In Frankfurt, if I remember correctly,’ Soames said. ‘And didn’t Michael Hatal suffer a similar fate in Brussels, attempting the same trick?’

‘Hatal? I seem to remember the name . . .’

‘A shame, really,’ Soames said. ‘Hatal had a capital twist on a magic cabinet disappearance. Quite the finest I ever saw.’

Kingsley couldn’t believe it. Soames was a magical aficionado.

Before he could take this up with him, he saw Evadne regarding him severely. ‘So your plan’s being safer than the bullet catch trick isn’t actually very reassuring.’

‘The buried alive escape leaves much less to chance. Nothing can go wrong.’

‘That’s what Michael Hatal said,’ Soames observed.

‘The buried alive trick,’ Kingsley hurried on, ‘simply requires focus and discipline. Locked in a confined space, the escaper must breathe slowly and shallowly, making the utmost of every scintilla of air, until he emerges some improbable time later.’

Kingsley liked the idea of the buried alive trick, but had never actually been able to bring himself to try it. It perfectly encapsulated the principles of escapology, almost in the purest of forms. He knew the principles and he’d experimented with them – but without the additional complication of being confined and buried.

‘How will you get out?’ Soames asked with the sort of fascination Kingsley had seen before in those who were attracted to the world of stage magic.

‘It would be best if I have a few tools with me. I’ll need a saw, and a pry bar would be lovely. I’d like a drill, too.’

‘A drill?’ Evadne asked.

‘Double purpose. If something goes wrong, I can open some airholes. If it goes smoothly, I can use it to see outside before I emerge.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Evadne said flatly.

Kingsley shrugged. ‘What are our alternatives?’ He gestured at Soames with the pistol. ‘How do you make your shipments to the Neanderthals?’

Evadne stamped a foot. ‘Kingsley! I wouldn’t trust him with a penny!’

‘Trust?’ Soames chuckled. Kingsley had to admit that the man had considerable self-possession. ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t trust me. But you can buy me.’

‘With what?’ Kingsley said.

‘I know that our Neanderthal cousins have a considerable amount of phlogiston, since I just gave it to them. I think, however, that they may have more. Am I right?’

‘Go on,’ Evadne said.

‘If I have a way to get you to the Neanderthals’ lair, then I want their phlogiston.’

After that, Kingsley was grateful it was merely a matter of details. Firstly, Evadne insisted on a dash across the city to her refuge. In the darkness, while Kingsley leaned against the fence under the Olympic stadium with a manacled and compliant Soames, she disappeared, returning with another satchel full of equipment she insisted was vital – and a device she gave to Kingsley, telling him it was even more important.

Soames then took them down the river to Wapping, where he was obviously well known. At the docks, he ushered them to a dry goods warehouse. ‘It’s mine,’ he said to Kingsley’s inquiring glance. ‘A presence at the docks is useful for a man in my situation.’

‘And you do business with the Neanderthals from here?’

‘Foodstuffs mostly, a great deal of it. They do love to eat.’

Evadne waved his pistol in front of Soames’s face before they unshackled him. He nodded at the unspoken warning and appeared to accept this as reasonable in the circumstances. Briskly, he negotiated with some underlings, organising a cart, some barrels, and several navvies to take it all to the point where the Neanderthals would assume delivery.

‘You’re thinking of his masters, aren’t you?’ Kingsley said to her.

‘You’re practising a mentalist act now? “Kingsley the Reader of Minds”?’

‘The set you have against them shows in your face.’ Kingsley refrained from mentioning that she’d also been tapping the finger that wore the silver ring. Part of her mystery lay in that ring, he was sure, but he was also sure that a direct query would be rebuffed.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ she said. ‘I’d been hoping to build a reputation as inscrutable.’

Two navvies rolled a barrel across the warehouse. Kingsley rubbed his chin. The barrel was smaller than he’d thought.

‘Kingsley.’

He turned. A myrmidon that hadn’t been there a moment ago was at her feet.

‘Here,’ she said, and thrust Soames’s pistol at him. ‘Watch that man. I don’t trust him.’

‘What? Where are you going?’

‘Outside. Someone wants to talk to me.’

‘Here? Who knows you’re here?’

‘Someone who is now convinced who we are and who has also found a way to talk to my myrmidons.’

Kingsley undertook what he had to admit was one of the worst jobs of supervising since a foreman in Pisa glanced at some foundations and declared they were plenty stable. He kept flicking his attention between Soames, who seemed genuinely absorbed in the delicacies of organising and haggling, and Evadne, who was talking to an extremely nondescript man in the courtyard outside the warehouse.

Kingsley was sure the man was the same one who’d been after them for some time, cloaked in his utter ordinariness.

Divided as his attention was, Kingsley had no idea how long it was before Evadne came back. Ten minutes? Twenty?

‘Kingsley,’ she said. ‘I want to tell you my secret.’

‘Here? Now?’

‘Yes.’

Evadne’s sudden urge to share unnerved him. Her voice was as steely as her gaze. ‘That man. What did he want?’

She smiled, but for once it didn’t sit easily on her face. ‘He had a useful message.’

‘From whom?’

‘From the past.’ She took out her watch, glanced at it and put it away. ‘Do you remember the Retrievers?’

‘Those poor souls back in the Great Fire?’

‘They certainly remembered us. They were grateful that the Immortals had left their London and the children were freed.’ She glanced outside. A patter of rain touched the cobbles. ‘They charged a law firm in their Demimonde with some information, to be kept for two hundred and fifty years.’

‘For us.’

Another jarring smile. ‘I’m afraid, Kingsley, it was for me. We didn’t leave names, you see, and my appearance . . .’

‘So that man finally found you. What did he tell you?’

‘Something interesting about secret river gates and diversions at Greenwich. Without too much effort, I should be able to flood the Immortals’ lair.’

‘Capital! When I get back from this we can plan an assault, arm ourselves with some of those splendid weapons of yours . . .’ He saw her face. He hesitated. ‘You’re planning something. Something dangerous.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Telling me your secret. You’re making a clean . . .’ He stumbled. ‘You’re wanting to set things right before you do something reckless.’

‘Nonsense.’ Evadne did her best to affect briskness, but Kingsley could see how superficial it was – and for a fleeting instant he wondered how he’d come to know this surprising young woman so well and so quickly. ‘I know your secret and, if we’re to have a useful working partnership, you need to know mine.’

‘I –’

‘Don’t interrupt, there’s a good fellow. This is going to be hard enough as it is.’ Evadne took off her gloves and tucked them into the pocket of her coat. She held up her right hand. The ring glinted. ‘My story about leaving home to seek my fortune wasn’t the entire truth. This belonged to my sister, Flora.’

Ah. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’

‘I don’t. Not any more.’ Evadne’s hands fell to her side. Then, she lifted them. Without looking, she made a few ghost throws with invisible juggling balls, but her pattern fell apart.

Kingsley took a step towards her, impelled by an instinctive urge to comfort the hurt, but she moved away. She clasped her hands and touched them to her chin, still not meeting his gaze. ‘Let me tell you what happened.

‘I was ten. Flora was five. We were playing in our garden. Naturally, I was in charge of my little sister but, as much as I loved her, I found her to be a terrible trial. I became absorbed in collecting pine cones.’ She smiled at Kingsley, and his heart ached at the fragility of it. ‘I wanted to make a battalion of pine cone soldiers. I didn’t notice her wandering away.’

‘She became lost?’

‘She was abducted. Three other children in the district were taken that week. Flora was the first of them.’ She took a sharp breath. ‘Do you know the word vendetta?’

‘The blood feud. The Corsicans practise it.’

‘In some ways, vengeance is easy if you know who was responsible. Since I didn’t, my vendetta is with all those who take children.’

‘Like these Immortals.’

‘They’re the worst. Now that they’re active again, I won’t rest until I bring them down. With your help, I hope.’

‘And the help of Clarence?’

Evadne pursed her lips. She took hold of the chain around her neck and withdrew her pendant. She opened it. It was empty. ‘There is no Clarence.’

‘I had an inkling.’

‘I cut it out of a postcard. A comely chap.’

‘And you keep him in your locket for a reason?’

‘I’ve found him a useful defence. Certain people tend to leave me alone once I point out that I already have an intended.’

‘You strike a blow in advance.’

‘Precisely. It saves so much nonsense.’

Kingsley sensed that this was a time to leave well enough alone. ‘I appreciate your sharing, but I insist that it still suggests you’re about to do something dangerous.’

‘Kingsley –’

He had it. ‘Your rat. It came just before the nondescript man. It told you something.’

Evadne trembled. Just slightly, but Kingsley took it as a sign of the effort it was taking her to remain composed. ‘Mrs Oldham’s School for Girls has been burnt to the ground. All the children were abducted, according to Lady Aglaia. I’m going to rescue them and, finally, to destroy the Immortals.’ She crossed her arms. ‘There. Now you have it, go and ready yourself, prepare, sing a song, whatever it is you do.’ She turned away and when she turned back she’d changed glasses. These were so dark he couldn’t see her eyes. ‘Please go quickly. I’m barely restraining myself at the moment. Every part of me wants to rush out and save Meg and the others.’

‘I can’t let you go alone. I’m coming with you.’

‘Kingsley, there’s no telling how soon the Neanderthals might act. They could have the dates and be ready to begin! You have to go and save the world!’

Kingsley sought for the appropriate words, and they were there so quickly that he hardly thought before he spoke: ‘I’m not sure that a saved world would be worthwhile if you’re not in it.’

Evadne didn’t reply. She remained still and silent. The world beyond them, with barrels rolling and oaths echoing from the rafters, was distant, as if behind a haze. ‘Kingsley,’ she finally said. ‘That’s the sort of romantic tosh that makes me . . .’

‘Melt?’

‘Makes me want to throw something.’ She smiled. This time, it was entirely Evadne – challenging, enigmatic and staggeringly fetching. ‘But I’ve learned something from you.’

‘How not to lose one’s mind while being pulled in a hundred different directions?’

‘I’ve learned something about control.’ She patted him on the arm. ‘You go and save the world, I’ll go and save the children and afterwards we’ll meet for tea at the Savoy.’

‘I –’

Soames chose this inauspicious moment to stride towards them, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in anticipation. ‘Now, what about showing me some of this escapology business, eh?’

With a wrench that could have torn several major muscle groups, Kingsley brought himself back to the task at hand.

He was almost amused at how interested Soames was. The man questioned him endlessly as Kingsley arranged himself at the bottom of the large barrel, asking his opinion of Herrmann and Devant. Kingsley realised that Soames had seen hundreds of magic performances. His opinions were well-considered and informed. His enthusiasm changed him. His oiliness disappeared. His face became open, his voice direct.

The man has hidden depths, Kingsley thought. Who would have suspected it?

He braced his shoulder while Soames himself leaned inside the barrel and nailed in the false bottom. The noise was hurtful, and soon after Kingsley felt the extra pressure when the barrel was filled with split peas. Kingsley hoped that Soames had nailed well, fitting the bottom into the extra croze in the barrel. He didn’t want to be suffocated by split peas, an ignominious end if ever there was one.

Kingsley’s resting place smelled of dust and oil. He wrinkled his nose, not wanting to sneeze. He lay on his side, curled around so that his head and his knees were nearly touching.

He cradled the device Evadne had given to him as contribution to the plan.

After that, he heard a tap on the side of the barrel, the stave right near his head. Evadne’s voice came to him clearly: ‘Tea at the Savoy, remember?’

The barrel jerked. He was off.

Time became inconsequential. It had to be inconsequential. Kingsley couldn’t afford to pay attention to it. He needed to drift, to detach himself as best he could from his surroundings. It was something that he found extremely difficult – and his wildness found it almost impossible. Not pay attention to one’s surroundings? That was the way to ending up in someone’s belly.

He had to soothe his fretting wildness, calming it, sending it to sleep while he maintained his regime of leisurely, even breathing.

Dockside sounds, wheels on cobblestones, grunts and curses, all were irrelevant as Kingsley concentrated on the sound of his heartbeat. Slow is good, he repeated to himself over and over. Slow is good.

He retired from engaging with the world. He drifted. Every sound, every movement, every smell, was background, a mattress on which he rested.

Curled up in the dead space, nailed in under the consignment of dried peas, Kingsley knew that death was hovering nearby, waiting for the air to lose its goodness. He pushed the concern away lest it grow into fear, then panic. He deliberated instead on lying still and conserving what little air there was.

The blackness came closer as time stretched. When stray thoughts came to his attention he wiped them out, casually cleaning the blackboard of his mind. Every breath was long and flavoursome. He had time to welcome each one and to feel disappointed at its departure. Dimly, he became aware that the air in his tight space was growing thick, but he took it as comforting, like a blanket on a cold night.

His wild self roused for a moment and looked at the blackness for what it might contain. He could roam free in it, forever, if he chose.

Rest, he told it. Your time is not now.

A banging, a settling, a time of nothing at all – no movement, no sound. He had to remind himself – and it was difficult to stir enough awareness to do so – that Soames had said that the barrels would be delivered to a place from which the Neanderthals would take them. Breaking out here would be a disaster.

He slipped back into the drowsy embrace of torpor.

Guttural voices, heavy footfalls. The barrel lifted suddenly, shockingly. Movement, rumbling, travel – but irrelevant, a far-off tale, hardly real or bothersome.

He didn’t sleep but he wasn’t truly awake either. He breathed, his heart beat, and that was all. Savour each breath. Take all that it has to offer before letting it free. Repeat.

He knew his body was in pain, curled and unable to move as it was, but it was an abstract thing, as if it were happening to someone else.

He drifted.

Control.

If he couldn’t control his actions here, he’d be lost. If he couldn’t control his breathing or he couldn’t control his wild self, he would die.

Control.

Rocking, halting, descent. Tipping suddenly, enough to startle. For a moment, his surroundings came to him, an urgent welter of sounds and smells. He was shaken, disorientated when the barrel rolled on its side. Up and down exchanged places with each other, again and again. His tiny, dark world spun.

In time, he was on his side again. He sipped once more at his tiny corner of air. Easy, he told his heart, no need to run away. Easy.

All was quiet. All was still. Kingsley existed until he knew it was time.

Move.

He opened his eyes, saw nothing but blackness. He found the hacksaw blade in his sock. He used the pry bar to ease the staves apart and he slipped the saw between them. He cut the chime hoop, the one nearest the base, then the quarter hoop. He was halfway through the bulge hoop when the barrel gave way. Kingsley spilled onto the floor in a tide of green split peas.

I did it.

Lying on the floor, surrounded by dried legumes, Kingsley breathed freely and counted his aching muscles. Then he revelled in his triumph. He’d succeeded. He’d kept death at bay simply through his self-control. His will had overridden his body’s natural impulses and he’d survived.

He rolled over, aching everywhere, and regarded the ceiling, accepting what had happened. He needn’t shy away from anything again. He could keep his wild side leashed. He could attempt the most dangerous escape. He could approach life squarely.

He rolled to his feet. He made a fist and shook it, bubbling with the triumph that came from success, but also from the exhilaration that came from understanding a little bit more about who he was.

Something ran into his boot. Kingsley looked down. He almost kicked at the furry shape before he realised it wasn’t a rat but one of Evadne’s myrmidons.

The creature circled at Kingsley’s feet, chasing its tail, then it sat up on its back legs and blinked at him. At least, two of its eyes blinked.

Kingsley went to his knees, curious. The myrmidon must have followed the delivery, but what had Evadne been thinking?

The myrmidon dropped to all fours, then it wriggled. A tremor passed along its length, then it hunched and opened its mouth wide.

The creature shook its head, then spat out a tiny vial. It looked up at Kingsley, then it nudged the vial with its nose.

Kingsley picked it up. The vial was half the size of the phlogiston vials and it was dull grey, not glowing at all. He tilted it to the light and made out fine script etched along the side.

Anti-phlogiston.

Breaking in was a great deal like breaking out, Kingsley decided as he listened at the door he’d just slipped through. He’d kept the pry bar with him after freeing himself from the barrel. While he was ready to use it as a weapon, it was mostly for reassurance – and for some quick ingress when he had no time to pick a lock.

After so long being shuttlecocked around, it was good to be fighting back.

The Neanderthals’ complex was even busier than the last time he was there. Anyone he’d seen was carrying tools or materials – and hurrying. The whole place had an air of urgency that Kingsley wasn’t at all happy about.

However, this activity did mean that the focus of the Neanderthals was on things other than expecting an intruder.

With something approaching confidence, Kingsley called on his wild self, hoping that its wariness would be helpful. He crept around the disconcerting corridors, halls, chambers and galleries; on several occasions he sensed the approach of Neanderthals and hid just in time.

Meanwhile, his civilised self noticed the patterns of movement and gave him a destination. By and large, the Neanderthals were all moving in one direction, along corridors or via stairs and lifts.

The great project of the Neanderthals was drawing them all together.

The True People, Soames had said the Neanderthals called themselves. Kingsley wasn’t surprised. Hazily, he remembered his wild upbringing and knew that there were only two sorts to the pack: us and others. Strangers were to be feared.

So many of the world’s ills could be attributed to that sort of attitude. Kingsley wished that the Demimonde had a magic to change it.

Increasing pandemonium and an industrial cacophony of steel and steam told Kingsley that he was approaching the major workshop.

He waited, patience itself, watching eager, chattering workers come and go. He recognised one, the red-haired female Evadne had rendered unconscious with her dart gun. She spoke expansively to her colleagues, flinging her arms wide in her enthusiasm.

Inside his jacket, his fingers found the pocket watch and phlogiston device that Evadne had given him. In Soames’s warehouse she’d used jeweller’s tools she’d brought from her refuge and constructed it with dazzling speed from her own pocket watch and some wire. He remembered how her juggler’s hands had moved with grace and precision.

Listening intently, alert for any presence, Kingsley slipped into the workshop that was the home of the time machine.

He stared. The machine had changed.

The inner spiral was still present, but the disc from which the golden wires had hung had been removed. An airy framework was in its place, made of exceedingly thin wires radiating from the central tower, joining to an equally thin hoop supporting the golden curtain. The tower was now connected to the ceiling by a complicated arrangement of pipes and cables, all of them a bright silver that flashed in the light.

Near the control panel, had been Evadne’s instruction. Directly underneath the control panel struck him as close enough, so he used the wire to lash Evadne’s device around the pedestal, up high, as close to the underside of the control panel as he could make it. He took a step back and it couldn’t be seen; not unless someone dropped on hands and knees and peered upward. He couldn’t imagine the humourless Neanderthals engaging in a spot of leap frog or shamble-my-toe, so he congratulated himself on an optimum solution.

He went down on all fours, then reached up for the two loose copper ends and twisted them together. With the device securely anchored and well hidden, he stood. He straightened his jacket, then his tie, and had a wistful moment regretting that he had no gloves to straighten and thereby complete the set, ready for the next part of his performance.

Trapped deep underground, at the very furthest reaches of the Neanderthal lair, surrounded by brutish people who would soon have their cherished dream of revenge snatched away from them, he had one hour to perform his greatest escape while rescuing his crippled foster father at the same time.

He had to do it. He was not going to miss having tea at the Savoy with Evadne Stephens.