Is this real? The alleyway is whirling, the walls moving as if they are breathing, living things. Yet the thumping of his heart makes him feel very alive and here.

‘Was it too much?’ The flame-haired stranger picks up the cloak he’s just abandoned and tucks it into John’s bundle, talking all the while.  ‘Did I go too far? I thought it needed to look convincing. Marry, I will pay you well, though. That was closer than I like. And you saved me, you sweet thing.’ He spins on his heel in a kind of half jig. ‘Did you see them? The fools. They passed right by. To think such a simple trick saved me riding the horse foaled by an acorn. And instead of hanging from the gallows, I’ll be keeping company with the fairest maiden I’ve ever seen.’

John follows the boy’s every movement. He opens and closes his mouth, he needs to deny being a maiden, but somehow the words won’t come.

The redhead tilts his chin, his brow creases. ‘What an odd thing, though, I was certain when I first laid eyes on you that you were wearing a skirt. I can even picture it now, a plain cheap country thing but covered in the loveliest embroidery. Indeed, it was just like this.’ He holds up the bundle of Jetta’s skirt.

John puts his hands out for the clothes, but the tall boy stows them back under one arm, and links the other through John’s. John’s feeble attempt at protest is smothered by the stranger chatting on.

‘I’ll be dragged to Bedlam, next thing I know!’ He chuckles and shakes his head. ‘But don’t you mind me, you’re right to be wearing boy’s garb. Few can pull off that trick but it works for you; makes your face look even prettier. It’s the contrast that does it, isn’t it? I’ve got an eye for these things.’

John’s mind struggles to keep up, his body torn between twin desires - to snap away from the touch of the stranger’s arm, or to lean further into its warmth.

The redhead keeps up his friendly flow. ‘When did you get here? You must be fresh. You’d never be on your own in an alley otherwise. Come now, we mustn’t tarry.’

He strides forward, but John pulls back against his arm, finally saying, ‘You kissed me?’

The boy grins down at him. ‘The magic of your pretty red lips saved me from hanging. I am ever in your debt. You can tell me how to repay you over some ale - being so close to death makes a body thirsty.’

‘I don’t know your name,’ John protests, then adds in a rushed voice, ‘And my lips are just … ordinary lips, like any boy has.’

As he speaks these faltering words, a round-bellied man bumps into the stranger. The two of them curse at each other, the red-haired boy refusing to back down, despite the man’s size. The argument descends into a good-natured scuffle, until eventually the man steps back, barks out a laugh, glances at John and says in a low voice, ‘You’ve found a rare precious mort there, Black Jack.’ Then he booms out, ‘Stow you, wrench,’ and barrels away.

The boy winks at John. ‘That was good distraction, Fair One. You’re bringing me even more good fortune, seeing Starving Robert like that by chance. He’ll pay me well for that favour. Several finely-dressed gentlefolk paused to look at you.’

John is in a dream where nothing makes sense. He hasn’t seen anyone stopping, finely-dressed or otherwise.

But it isn’t a dream, is it? The sharp smell, slicing through his nostrils. The shouting, the hungry cries, the turbulence that seems part of the city itself. And the living warmth of this boy next to him. It is no vision, not this time.