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he sprang up, balling his fists. “Go to!” he yelled. “Want the tippers, do yer? What is he, Bets, some bloody spy?”
    â€œDunno what he is,” Betsy said, holding out an arm to keep the boy back. “Talked about the place, though. The one by the river. And he has that book.”
    The boy stared. “Strike me! That ain’t the Book, though. Is it?”
    â€œShut it, Puddler,” Betsy said softly. “Let’s have some jaw work and see what we can learn. All right, American. Tell us your name to begin with.”
    â€œIt’s Jarvey Midion,” he began, “but—”
    Something exploded against him, and the next thing Jarvey knew, he lay flat on his back, with two of the boys pulling the youngest, the one Betsy had called Puddler, off him. Heaving for breath, Jarvey realized that the younger kid had plowed right into him, hitting him hard in the stomach. He groaned.
    â€œManners, Puds,” Betsy said, hunkering down close to Jarvey. “True word, American? You one of them? A Midion?”
    â€œThat’s my name,” Jarvey muttered, picking up the book, which he had dropped. “But people call me Jarvey.”
    Betsy nodded at the book. “And you use that, do you? You know the art?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘art’? Everyone keeps saying that. I don’t know what it means.”
    â€œTell us what you do know,” Betsy suggested.
    So he told them everything, from the arrival of the letter to his being shoved out of the carriage near the alley. None of them seemed to believe that he had flown over the ocean. One of the boys, the oldest one, tapped his head and rolled his eyes when Jarvey tried to explain the airplane trip.
    When he had finished, Betsy looked troubled. “You lot, scarper till I call,” she said, and without a word, the boys left the improvised room, ducking one by one through the blanket-hung opening.
    As soon as they were alone, Betsy sat beside Jarvey, who had pulled himself up to a sitting position, his back against a stack of crates. She said, “Look in my eyes, Jarvey.”
    His own eyes felt hot with tears ready to begin, but he defiantly looked into Betsy’s green gaze.
    She stared deep into him. “Right,” she said. “Now, the question. Do you or do you not have the art?”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean,” Jarvey said.
    Her lips barely moved. “Magic. Sorcery. The High Art. Can you do it or no?”
    Jarvey snorted. “No, I can’t. There’s no such thing.”
    Her eyes bored into him. “You sure of that?”
    A window shattering. Overhead lights blazing too bright, then exploding in sparks. A baseball bat blowing itself to pieces .
    â€œI’m not sure of anything,” Jarvey said at last. “But I can’t do magic, if that’s what you mean. Stuff sometimes just sort of happens, that’s all.”
    â€œSo you can’t do magic, but you flew through the air, across the wide ocean.”
    â€œSure, on an airplane,” Jarvey said. “A jet? An airliner?”
    She shook her head. “Never heard of such.”
    Jarvey groaned. “Where’s Hag’s Court?” he asked.
    â€œNever heard of that, neither.”
    â€œIt’s not far from Kensington. Look, this is London, isn’t it?”
    To his surprise, Betsy’s eyes glistened as if she were about to weep. “Nah, cully, wrong there. This ain’t London Town. This here’s Lunnon, and Nibs—that’s Tantalus Midion, and I reckon he’s a relative of yours—made it with his art.”
    â€œThat’s what someone else told me. It doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œNah, not by night tide, I s’pose not.” Betsy took a deep, thoughtful breath. “I can’t make you out at all, cully. You tell the truth, but your truth is cracked and crazy. Any gate, we saved your skin from the Mill Press. And if