‘What do I owe you for the food and lodgings?’ John looks around the room that is too big for the two of them, larger even than the one his whole family and their animals had shared. A huge bed dominates the space, hung about with heavy curtains, and with a proper mattress and pillows instead of bug-ridden straw and logs. The hobgoblin would love twirling amongst all this finery, but the last time John has seen it, it was splashing about in burly men’s drinks, leaving them to blame other burly men for spilling their ale.

For just the two of them, John and Black Jack have a tankard of ale, a bottle of wine, a crusty pie, a plate of oysters and a handful of strawberries. They sit on the floor, their backs against the wall, their legs stretched out and the food between them. There is still some daylight seeping through the window, but Black Jack has lit a candle which cast long shadows.

John’s stomach growls, but he waits for the other boy to give him things rather than grabbing them. He glances down at his knuckles, seeing them as they were flayed skin, red-blood raw, from that time when hunger had made him foolish enough to take food before Da gave him permission.

Instead of responding to John’s question about cost, Black Jack produced a knife and cracks an oyster shell open, deftly cutting the meat free and holding it up. Without thinking, John tips his head back and swallows the ugly grey thing. To his surprise, he enjoys the way it slips over his tongue and the salty-sweet tang. He should know - better than most - not to judge on appearances.

Then Jack passes him wine. John tries to take just a sip, but with a grin, Black Jack tilts the bottle and the liquid floods John’s mouth. It has been sweetened, and John gulps it down as if it were fresh water.

‘That’s right, don’t be shy, Fair One, I’ve paid, drink up.’

John frowns. ‘I have money. You don’t have to pay for everything. Tell me what I owe you,’ he says again.

He hears his own voice, yet it feels like someone else is speaking. His mind blurs, as if the wine is washing thousands of separate images together. He has to concentrate to remember where he is and what he is doing here.

London. To become a man. To be made new and clean in the sanctuary of the Faerie Queene.

Who is nowhere to be found.

And somehow he isn’t frightened. It must be the sweet wine, or the tiredness, or the noise and stink of this city suffocating his capacity to feel things properly.

But he is feeling something.

Not hollow disappointment, after running from home, and finding that his dream of London has all along been chasing a nightmare.

He isn’t feeling the things he should, not since the alleyway, not since the kiss…