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bouts of restlessness by reading back through early drafts: ‘Even in
broad daylight, I can bore myself to sleep.’)
    ‘What were you trying to burn, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Quickman said to the boy. ‘Hope it wasn’t anything I could smoke.’
    ‘Just a few things I’m not meant to have brought with me. I thought it’d be OK, but the old man said I needed to get rid of them.’
    ‘Ah. Been there,’ said Quickman.
    ‘Been there
twice
now,’ said Pettifer.
    Fullerton grinned, and his face seemed unaccustomed to the strain of it. ‘It’s not a competition.’
    ‘Funny you should mention that,’ Quickman said. ‘We were about to start some backgammon. Ever played?’
    The boy looked away. ‘Once, I think. At school. I’m more interested in poker now.’
    ‘Poker! That’s a bit too Hollywood for us, but Tif and I have a regular dice game every Sunday, best of five, and to be frank—’ Quickman screened his mouth to
stage-whisper. ‘He’s hopeless. I wouldn’t mind having someone else to beat.’
    ‘All right,’ said the boy. ‘When?’
    ‘Tonight.’
    Pettifer coughed. ‘A bit high-stakes for beginners, isn’t it?’
    ‘Hardly,’ I said, cutting in. It was quite irregular for Quickman to extend an invitation and I wanted to give the boy every chance to accept.
    Fullerton looked interested. ‘You lot play for money?’
    ‘No. Just trinkets,’ I said. ‘We don’t have much to gamble with.’
    ‘I nearly won that pipe of his once,’ said Pettifer. ‘Another six and it would’ve been mine. Imagine the power I could’ve wielded!’
    ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘They’ve played a few epics. No one can beat Q, though.’
    ‘OK, count me in,’ said the boy. ‘Why not?’
    ‘Super! We’ll make it a triangular.’ Quickman clasped his palms and rubbed them. ‘Go and fetch the board, Tif. It’s up in my room.’ His voice was sunnier than
I had heard it in a while. ‘Knell, can we set up at yours again? We’ll need a bigger table.’
    I saw an eagerness about the boy’s eyes then, too, and I realised that it was happening just like I said it would—all on its own.

    Even though the world Fullerton had left was different from the one we knew, altered by a history that had taken place without us, his way into Portmantle was the same as ours.
The procedure for admission never changed. First, your sponsor had to seek the authorisation of the provost—no specifics could be shared without this prior consent. It was an inherited
knowledge, paid forward by residents of the past to the residents of the present, and if your sponsor could not adequately relay directions, you might never reach the place at all.
    Any guest who checked out of the refuge with a clean record—that is to say, without having wilfully contravened any of its rules—was afforded one endorsement to pass on. This could
be bestowed upon any artist whom it was felt could benefit from the sanctuary of Portmantle. It was stressed by the provost that endorsements should only be offered to artists in the direst need.
The cost of a new resident’s tenure had to be covered by their sponsor; a fairly meagre sum, paid seasonally, but it could last for an indefinite period—such was the case for MacKinney,
Quickman, Pettifer, and me. Sponsors, therefore, had to be sure that the artists they were recommending were truly worth helping, as they could remain beholden to that financial outlay for a
permanent duration. The responsibility could not be relinquished or transferred to someone else. Because of this, we stalwarts of the place were looked upon with respect—it was assumed that
our sponsors’ long-term commitment reflected their valuation of our talents. But there were some who viewed us with a dim-eyed pity, as though we were just shadows of ourselves, washed up and
doomed to failure.
    Only when the provost had accepted your sponsor’s recommendation would you be told where Portmantle was located. Only