Black Jack has asked John a question. For a moment John gazes at the boy’s freckles, dizzily thinking that they are like the stars in the skies, appearing random, but making beautiful patterns and stories if you look at them in the right way. He yearns to reach out and trace a finger over them. Where are such unfamiliar desires coming from?

He looks into Jack’s eyes. Black Jack is staring back at him with naked curiosity.

John’s cheeks flush. He hiccups, a little high pitched squeak which makes Jack laugh and look away.

John tries to remember his purpose. Pulling the pouches out from under his clothes, he blurts out, ‘I have money.’

‘That is a fortunate thing, Fair One. It’s always good to have coin in your possession.’ Black Jack chuckles, but his eyes seem different as he watches John’s fingers play over the pouches.

The only one he needs is the worn leather pouch. Da’s pouch.

It’s warm with the heat of John’s skin, but John sees the stale odour of Da’s body creeping out of it, a yellow fog, wrapping itself around John’s fingers.

He gulps, the saliva in his mouth tasting not of wine or oysters, but hot apples. He gives his companion a quick glance and pulls the pouch open, tips the contents out, then dropping the pouch as though it burns him and snatching his hands back into his lap.

Black Jack’s eyes dance again. Without seeming to even glance at the few coins, he says, ‘You are fortunate. I want nothing. It is me that is in your debt. And if this, and the old clothes, are truly all you have, you really would’ve been in trouble - without my friendship, that is.’

‘This isn’t enough for the room?’ John puts a finger on one of the five coins.

‘Not even for half of the meal, Fair One.’

‘But it’s all the money my da had. It’s all his money.’ And John stole it.

‘Things must be different where you come from. This isn’t even a real coin, it’s just a shard of iron.’ Black Jack picks up one of the coins between his thumb and forefinger, stares at it for a moment then drops it back in the pouch, followed by the rest. They rattle dully as he hands the pouch back to John.

‘The iron is the most important thing of all,’ John says, his voice sounding distant. ‘It keeps the bad faeries away. Da didn’t believe in faeries. He’d never believe ... But the iron’d protect him whether he believed or not… and I took it.’

Jack’s brow creases, but his eyes still smile. ‘What about you? Do you believe in faeries?’

With a sickening lurch, John hears Ma’s voice, clearer even than Black Jack’s, like a crystal note that silences the noise of the tavern below them.

My dear child, promise me you’ll never speak to anyone about these things you think you see. Not even Jetta. You may think she knows because she’s your twin, but you must never say anything aloud. Don’t mention it to me ever again. Not a thought of it in front of Da. And never, never speak of it in front of strangers.

Her voice vanishes and John’s alone with Jack again. He grits his teeth and makes his hands into tight fists. ‘Not … no. They don’t exist.’ He’s glad the hobgoblin is not around to hear his treacherous words.

Black Jack smiles. ‘Who is to say what does and doesn’t exist in this big beautiful world? What did you know of London before you came here? If someone had described it to you before you arrived, would you have believed them? In truth, I’ve oft wondered about these magical things myself.’

Jack’s words are normally an ever-flowing river from Jack’s mouth to John’s ears. These words feel different; sharp little hooks, aimed at his chest.

John desperately hopes it’s true, that Jack’s willingness to believe in the faeries is real. He gazes down at the place near his heart where he is snagged by Jack’s words. ‘You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,’ he finds himself saying. ‘You have eyes like a faerie. I mean … what a faerie might look like, if they were real.’

Black Jack stretches his arms above his head, and for the briefest moment he is a content ginger tomcat with a mouse’s tail hanging out of its mouth. But it is so quick that John can’t be sure of what he’d seen.

‘You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before either,’ Black Jack declares. ‘Though I cannot comment on whether your eyes are like a faerie’s or not, never having seen one myself. But I can say they are blue like a summer sky, and they are certainly prettier than any I’ve ever seen before.’

John is more confused than ever before.