The redhaired boy seems to belong to this city, a natural part of all the noise and crowds. Yet he also seems so vibrant that it doesn't matter where he is, he’ll always be lit up and everything around him will be nothing but grey background.

John has never met anyone who can talk this much. True, he has not met many people, but surely this isn’t normal? At home…no, that place is not his home anymore. He made that choice. At the Village words are a mere means to communicate information, mainly about work and weather. Here his strange new companion treats words as if they’re his personal playthings.

It is difficult for John to distinguish between different parts of London, it is all too many overhanging buildings and a swarming of shouting people. Yet the redhead has stopped them outside a tavern, which looks like every other tavern they’ve passed, and is telling a story which makes it sound like the most unique place in the world. John has long lost track of the point of the story, only that it’s clearly meant to be funny, as the boy keeps laughing.

In contrast the hobgoblin, skin grey, hair white and wiry, is staring through one of the tavern windows and hissing at something within. John gazes at the faerie. If only the faerie had been there hissing outside the city gates, warning him not to enter. But then he would not have met this boy who is treating him like a friend. And he would never have been kissed.

A hand grips John’s chin, and lifts it gently up so that he’s looking into a freckled face with merry green eyes, and a slanted grin.

John bites his lip. ‘I was just…’

‘Not listening to a word I said.’

‘Sorry. You’re being so kind. I don’t know why … but can we leave? Please? I don’t think this is a good place.’ His words are somehow both rushed and hesitant: he couldn’t have made his voice do that if he’d tried. How lucky he is to have a gift for sounding like both a blabbering and dithering fool, all at the same time.

But the other boy hasn’t noticed, hasn’t even heard. ‘This is a bene place to have a drink and get to know each other. Likely many of my friends will be here, and will be interested to meet you. But stay close to me until…’

The door swings open, releasing a waft of staleness and a clamour of voices. A man staggers out and slams it closed behind him, pausing at a drooping angle, his body apparently deciding whether or not to stay upright.

John can’t tell if the man’s clothes are falling off him, or if he is falling out of his clothes. As he watches, the man’s head jerks upwards. It seems impossible that the man can focus on anything with his dazed, blood-shot eyes, but all the same he raises a hand and calls out, ‘What ho, Black Jack!’

As the redheaded boy returns the greeting and chats on in cant John can’t follow, the man leans against the tavern wall to relieve himself. His water trickles down to join a pool already darkening the ground outside the inn.

The man belches twice then looked at John, his head falling sideways as if too heavy for his neck. ‘You be boy or girl? Can’t rightly tell.’ He shrugs. ‘No matter. I have three-farthing left, what’ll you do for that? I’m drunk enough, your face is pretty enough to...’

The hobgoblin spins away from the windows and kicks the man in the head with one crabbed little foot. The man falls face down with a grunt, and lays there unmoving.

Sniggering, the redhead links his arm through John’s again. ‘I think you’re right, Fair One, you deserve somewhere finer for your first night in London. There’ll be plenty of time for you to get acquainted with the likes of him.’

‘Shouldn’t we check he isn’t hurt?’

‘No need, he most certainly is hurt. Do not fret, though, you tender-hearted thing. If he’s so drunk that he cannot see clear you’re a girl in boy’s clothes, then he’s too drunk to feel pain.’

The hobgoblin is now a pale green, dancing through the air away from the tavern. John’s insides churn with an odd mix of disgust and something that could be pride: his new companion still hasn’t realised he is a boy.