"I still can't figure out how he did it," Gilbert said as he nursed his second glass of brandy. "There wasn't a mark on Cheswick, not a single scratch."

The two men sat in Henry's study, a room that was surprisingly intimate considering the high, ornately plastered ceilings and the walls that were filled floor to ceiling with books. They weren't even a fraction of the books Henry owned, Gilbert reflected idly, while he took another sip of the truly excellent brandy Henry had produced upon their arrival. Even the house's library—which was twice the size of Lady Hempstead's—only held perhaps a third of what Henry owned. The rest resided in a massive set of rooms in Henry's Surrey country home, and Gilbert was pretty sure that Henry had read most, if not all, of the books in his possession.

"It was a very authentic performance," Henry replied.

Gilbert sat forward in the overstuffed leather chair. "That's exactly what it was, a performance, but I'll be damned if I can explain it. I'm sure the 'ghostly' appearances can be attributed to trickery—and I'm positive that Lee's son is an accomplice. I told you that I overheard Cheswick complaining about his uncle."

Henry nodded. "I think we can assume that Naka was the one who chose the people who Lee selected. He was in the parlor almost the whole time we were there; I imagine he listened very carefully to the conversations around him. Did you also notice that except for the times he brought something to his father, they never stood together?"

Gilbert thought about it for a moment, and then he nodded. "You're right. They were fairly far apart each time a 'ghost' appeared and disappeared." He frowned. "Although they were standing together when Lee levitated the names from the bowl."

Henry took a sip of his brandy. "That particular trick was probably a simpler one."

Gilbert scowled at him. "It's not bloody simple if we can't figure it out!" With a groan of frustration, he pushed himself back to sprawl in the chair. "I don't know what to do. It's not enough for me to say I think he did this or he probably did that—to be truly effective, I have to be able to reproduce that session in its entirety."

"Three weeks is not a lot of time, Gilbert," Henry said. "Lee probably spent years perfecting his techniques, much like a magician does." He raised his glass to take another sip when he stilled.

Gilbert glanced at his friend. "What is it?"

Henry blinked a few times, his gaze focused not on Gilbert but on his desk that was on the far end of the room. "I wonder…"

"Master Gonow," Gilbert drawled, in a perfect imitation of one of their schoolmasters, "are those thoughts floating about in the aether of your mind something you would care to share with the rest of the class?"

Henry laughed, and returned his attention to Gilbert. "You always did do the best imitations of those stuffy old beaks." He turned the glass snifter in his hands, seemingly absorbed in the way the amber fluid moved within. "There may be someone we can turn to… someone who happens to be uniquely qualified to help us."

Henry was taking the long way, Gilbert noticed, and he wondered why. "And this paragon of assistance is…?"

His friend's gaze flicked up to meet his. "Joseph Shackleton."

Gilbert flinched at hearing the name. "I don't know how you think that person could possibly help us, or why you think I would ever accept such help." He rose abruptly from his chair and went to pour more brandy.

"Oh come now, Gilbert, 'that person' was your friend—"

"He wasn't my friend," Gilbert snapped as he pulled off the cut-crystal top of the decanter with far more force than was necessary.

"No, he was more than that, wasn't he?" Henry regarded him from his chair, eyeing Gilbert over the rim of his glass. "I know that you and Joseph had been lovers."

Gilbert almost spilled the brandy. "How did you—"

"You hid it very well," Henry said. "I think it helped that your personalities naturally abraded, so that everyone just assumed that you didn't get along. And you are very good at hiding how you feel."

"At least I didn't hide behind a perpetual smile, like you did—and still do," Gilbert retorted.

Henry chuckled, not the least bit offended. "No, you hide behind a perpetual scowl." He rose and joined Gilbert at the side table, holding out his glass for Gilbert to refill. "You and Joseph were my closest friends during all those horrid years at Charterhouse; my only friends, really. I know something happened between you during that last summer your father had Joseph and me spend the holiday at your country home, when we were all sixteen and about to go into sixth form." He smiled. "Those summers were some of the happiest times of my life. I still remember picking fruit in your father's orchards, and enjoying the 'fruits of our labors,' as they were, in our meals and desserts."

Gilbert still remembered, too; sitting with Joseph, high in the branches of an apple tree, watching him cut an apple with his pocket knife and protesting when Joseph pushed a slice of the fruit into Gilbert's mouth; and moments later, when Joseph had leaned forward and licked stray droplets of juice from Gilbert's lips, his sticky hand curled behind Gilbert's neck, drawing him closer to steal slow, deep kisses that had left them both breathless and achingly hard. That night, and many nights afterwards, they had crept out of the house to meet in a tiny, unused gardener's cottage, shedding their clothes and spending stolen hours pleasuring each other with eager mouths and hands.

He stifled a curse when he felt his body respond to the memory, and he took a generous gulp of the brandy.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

Gilbert nodded. "How did you know?"

Henry refilled Gilbert's glass. "It was more in how Joseph acted, really. He's the most honest of the three of us, you must admit; he never bothered to hide his thoughts or emotions like we did. It took me a bit of time to realize it, but there were times he looked at you like a lover does, even though you both continued to bicker just like before. And when we returned to school, he became rather… protective of you."

Gilbert stared at his friend. "I always assumed that those wretched boys stopped grabbing my arse because we were in sixth form by then, and that they'd finally grown out of their nonsense. You mean to tell me that the reason was Joseph?"

Henry nodded. "I came upon him dispensing justice a few times, and while he'd always said 'keep your filthy hands off my friends,' the episodes were too close to times when you had been accosted to be truly including me as well."

"That bloody idiot." Gilbert sank back down in his chair. "None of this changes the fact that Joseph got involved with Banright and his 'gang' later that year, and that their disastrous association ruined everything. Or did you forget that after they were all expelled, you and I had been in danger of expulsion as well, simply because we were known to have been Joseph's friends? It's only thanks to my father and his friendship with the Headmaster that we managed to graduate from Charterhouse without any taint." He took another calming mouthful of brandy.

"I agree he was foolish," Henry said, "and I won't say that I wasn't angry too, even though I knew he had been taken in by Banright's poisonous opinions. But that was ten years ago, Gilbert, and people can change. Did you not get a letter from him a few years ago?"

"I threw it in the fire," Gilbert replied, "unopened. And I did the same with every other letter he sent."

Henry sighed. "Well, that's a shame, because there was a sincere, heartfelt, apology in it, as well as an admission that he'd been a complete fool. Joseph has managed to do quite well for himself, in spite of not continuing his education."

Gilbert frowned. "You've been corresponding with him?"

"We exchange a few letters a year, "Henry said. "He's spent most of his time between Dublin and Edinburgh, with a little time on the Continent."

"So Joseph admitted to being an ass," Gilbert said, "and he has managed to make an honest living. Good for him, and good for you that you've rekindled your friendship. But what the blazes does Joseph Shackleton have to do with the problem at hand? How on earth can he help us?"

"Oh, I didn't say that Joseph makes an honest living," Henry said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Our erstwhile friend is now a professional magician. He's apparently a rather famous one—he's booked at the Egyptian Hall Theater in Piccadilly until September, and in his last letter he sent me two tickets, imploring me to come see the show."