Of all the many rooms in his townhouse on Arlington Street, Gilbert considered his study the only room that was truly his.

Corman Sansom had been both an avid traveler and collector, and so the house was filled with paintings, furniture, and other objets d'art that had been amassed during his considerably active life. Growing up, Gilbert had sometimes felt as if he lived in a museum instead of a home.

Right after his father's death, Gilbert had been reluctant to dispose of all the bric-a-brac that littered the house, finding comfort of a sort in the familiar. As time went on and more of his nights were given over to writing up patient notes, Gilbert found himself using the other rooms less, so then it didn't really matter. His world narrowed down to the offices of Janning's practice, his aunt's suite, the occasional dinner out with Henry, and his study and bedroom.

The study was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could enjoy a pipe without the butler's disapproval—well, the old man still made a face, but since Corman had smoked in the study, Gilbert assumed Clarke was lamenting Young Master Gilbert's entrapment in the Evils of Tobacco. The room also offered a splendid view of Green Park, allowing Gilbert to sometimes forget that he was in the heart of London.

Gilbert sat at the massive oak desk and packed a pipe while the setting sun brushed the treetops with splashes of orange, yellow, and pink. Those same colors flashed along the bevels in the large, leaded glass windows that made up most of the back wall of the room, scattering prisms of light on the wool rug. He lit the pipe, letting the tobacco char a bit, and then he settled back in his chair and enjoyed a few puffs before he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.

He should have heard from Joseph by now.

His aunt had sent him a quick note when she had returned home from the latest session, advising him of Joseph's intention to follow Lee. But that had been several hours ago, and Gilbert frowned at the worry that nipped on the edge of his thoughts.

Damn Henry for bringing Joseph back into their lives.

A knock on the door brought Gilbert out of his brooding thoughts.

"Excuse me, Master Gilbert?" Clarke, his butler, opened the door and poked a balding head in the room. "A Mister Shackleton is here to see you."

Gilbert exhaled, and he felt a measure of tension leave him, although he refused to identify the sensation as relief. "You can bring him up here, Clarke."

"Yes, sir." Clarke paused. "Sir? If you don't mind my asking, isn't he the same Shackleton boy who your father took on all those years ago? He looks familiar—hard to forget red hair like that."

"One and the same," Gilbert replied.

"Would you look at that," the elderly man said, "he was a boy from the slums, and now he's a famous magician. Sir Corman would have been delighted, I think."

In spite of himself, Gilbert laughed. "You know, Clarke, you're right."

"I'll go fetch him now, sir."

Gilbert pulled a few more puffs from his pipe, and while he smoked he contemplated the butler's words. Clarke was right; even though his father had been disappointed with Joseph's conduct and the ensuing expulsion from school, if Corman were alive today he would have taken great pride in the way that Joseph had succeeded in spite of that earlier disgrace, and he would have bought front row tickets to see Shackleton and Stone, Magicians Extraordinaire.

He snorted; either way, he would have met Joseph again, whether dragged there by Henry or his father.

"The house still looks the same."

Gilbert looked up and saw Joseph standing in the doorway, clad in a coachman's coat. "Come in," he said. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"Oh, God, yes." Joseph undid his coat and slung it over the back of the sofa while Gilbert poured them both a generous glass of cognac. "I'd love a bit of your tobacco, too, if you wouldn't mind."

"Help yourself." Gilbert handed him the drink and waved in the direction of the smoker's cabinet next to the fireplace. Instead of sitting back at his desk, he sat in one of the chairs opposite the sofa and took a sip of the cognac. "What are you doing wearing servant's livery? Part of some harebrained scheme of my aunt's, I suppose."

"She had me and Goran pretend to be her coachman and footman," Joseph said while he prepared a pipe. "Lady Tillsworth allowed a group of servants to watch the session, so I was able to get in the room." He took a swallow of the cognac. "Good lord, that's fine."

"I'll have to send Aunt Constance some chocolates and a bouquet," Gilbert said. "She has proved exceedingly useful, although I fear she is enjoying herself a bit overmuch."

Joseph grinned as he sat down on the sofa. "She is. She's threatening us all with dinner at her house."

"At least there will be safety in numbers," Gilbert said.

For a few moments the two men were quiet as they attended to their pipes.

"I can't get over how little this house has changed," Joseph said. "I feel like I'm a kid again, coming to stay here over the winter holiday. I'm surprised you've kept everything, Gilbert, this really isn't your style." He waved back at the masks, statues, and other carvings in the hallway.

Gilbert shrugged. "What would I do, sell them? Who would want this junk?"

Joseph pointed at him with his pipe. "It's not junk. That new museum in Kensington would go mad for all this stuff."

Gilbert hadn't even considered a museum. "That's not a bad idea," he said.

"'A gift from Doctor Gilbert Sansom,'" Joseph intoned, "'in honor of his father, Sir Corman Sansom.'" He took several deep puffs from his pipe and blew an impressive set of smoke rings into the air. "Then you'll have to travel about and find your own stuff to replace it."

"I think I would prefer this place much better uncluttered, thank you," Gilbert said.

"So," Joseph said, leaning back and draping an arm across the plush back of the sofa, "your 'Doctor Lee' is definitely a fraud, and I'm pretty sure Goran and I can duplicate his routine." He told Gilbert of his observances during the session, his theory about how they stored the glass and mirrors, and then he pulled a wrapped packet from his coat pocket and gave it to Gilbert. "Naka tripped out back, and this fell from his bowl," he said. "I'm sure you have ways to test it, but I'm pretty sure that's a chicken heart, and it smells as if Lee treated it with alcohol and copper chloride."

Gilbert opened the handkerchief and examined the charred lump he found within. "Copper chloride?"

"For making that fancy blue flame. You can make fire be any color of the rainbow, if you have the right chemicals."

"I'll take it to the laboratory we have in the back of Janning's offices," Gilbert said, "and do some proper testing on it." He rose and put the bundle on his desk, and then he refilled their glasses. "My aunt said that you were going to follow him after the session."

"We did," Joseph said, "we followed him right to a small, run-down warehouse in the middle of Whitechapel."

Gilbert whistled. "Nasty part of town."

"Nasty place for a nasty man," Joseph said. "That Lee is a right bastard, Gilbert; he's beating Naka—when the kid fell his tunic flew up, and his back was covered in bruises."

Gilbert's mouth thinned to a grim line. "I noticed a bruise on his upper arm, just beneath his sleeve hem, when I saw him," he said, "so you're probably right. But I'm afraid there's not much we can do."

Joseph sat forward, his drink sloshing in the glass. "Not much we can do? We can tell the police!"

Gilbert shook his head. "It's not that simple," he said. "Lee is his father, and there's also the complication of his being a Chinese immigrant. I highly doubt that the police would intervene."

"We have to do something."

Joseph's agitation was obvious, and Gilbert wondered at the intensity of his reaction. "Let's take care of Lee first," he suggested, "and in the meantime we can try and find some solutions for Naka." Between his aunt's connections and Henry's influence, Gilbert figured they would be able to set the young man up with a place to live and possibly employment.

"All right," Joseph agreed, albeit grudgingly, and he walked over to the smoker's cabinet and began to clean out his pipe. "So, for our session, Goran and I talked about things a bit before I dropped him off on my way here. We think it would be best if we had a fairly large space, like a decent-sized ballroom, because we're going to want to have a lot of people there. Like I said, we're confident that we can re-create everything."

Gilbert joined him at the cabinet, and as he re-packed his own pipe he was uncomfortably aware of their proximity; he fought to keep from jerking away when Joseph's hand brushed against his as Joseph reached for the cleaning brushes. How silly, he thought, to still be affected by this man, so many years later. "My aunt has offered us the use of her residence," he said, stepping back once he'd finished with his pipe, "but she wants to ask Henry to host the event at his place in Surrey. She feels that an invitation from the Earl of Choughton to spend a weekend at Hakken Hall—and see a very exclusive performance by Shackleton and Stone—will bring every matchmaking society woman out of the woodwork, with marriageable daughters in tow."

Joseph laughed. "Your aunt is a bloody genius, mate. I completely agree. And, not only will it put 'meat in the seats,' as we like to say, but it will make Henry have to prepare his house for visitors. Something which, I've gathered from his letters, he's not done in a long time." He set his pipe in the carved holder, and shut the cabinet door.

"No," Gilbert said. "Not since Karenna died."

Joseph met his gaze, his smile fading. "He seems like a ghost of himself, Gilbert."

"You're not wrong," Gilbert said, "but I think he might be starting to re-join the living. He's been much less stubborn about going out lately, and it seems as if the cloud above him has lifted a little. I think it's partly thanks to getting him involved with all of this nonsense, and also…" Gilbert hesitated, and then he admitted, "renewing his friendship with you."

A corner of Joseph's mouth quirked up. "You agreed to my help for his sake, didn't you? Because when I was egging you on at the Red Lion I swore at one point you were going to tell me to fuck off, but you didn't."

"Yes."

Joseph's smile widened. "And you came along to the show to make sure he would, knowing he would want to come backstage."

"Yes, damn your eyes," Gilbert said.

"You're a good friend, Gilbert, even when you don't want to be," Joseph said, and with a swiftness Gilbert didn't expect, Joseph leaned close and brushed his mouth against Gilbert's.

Before Gilbert could react, Joseph stepped away, walking over to the sofa to pick up his coat.

"As it happens, we don't have a show at all next weekend," Joseph said, as if nothing had happened, "so that would be the best time for me and Goran to be away from London."

It took Gilbert a few seconds to find his voice. "You'll be ready by then?"

"Yeah, it's a fairly easy routine, and the setup is easy as well," Joseph said. He walked over to Gilbert's desk and scribbled on a spare slip of paper. "Goran and I have rooms in Soho, here's the address. Drop me a note, and perhaps we can meet for a meal this week to convince Henry, and finalize our plans." Joseph headed for the door, and before he left he paused, his gaze dropping to Gilbert's mouth. "Always a pleasure, Gilbert."

Gilbert stood motionless at the cabinet, listening to the stair treads creak as Joseph headed downstairs. Bits of conversation floated up the stairwell.

"Mister Clarke, I'm glad to see you in good health."

"You as well, Master Joseph! Didn't think old Clarkey would remember you, now did you? You've done well for yourself, lad."

"Thank you, Mister Clarke. I'll be sure to give Gilbert a ticket for you to come see our show."

"Why, thank you, Master Joseph! I look forward to it."

Gilbert sighed as he shut the study door. He was probably going to have to see the show again, with his butler, because he doubted the old man would be able to go by himself.

"Damn your eyes," he muttered as he drained his glass.

Damn your mouth.