Ptolemy's Gate

watch without your lenses in. There is nothing more likely to ruin the enjoyment of a wedding scene than seeing a couple of round-bottomed imps emitting the fireworks in the background." Laughter. "Thank you. Can I also request that all personal demons are dismissed for the duration of the show lest they prove distracting. Enjoy the evening. May it be one you never forget!"
    A step backward; a swish of the curtain. The spotlight went out. All across the auditorium came a faint rustling and popping—the sounds of lens cases being removed from bags and jacket pockets, opened, filled, shut fast again. The magicians uttered terse commands: their imps shimmered, dwindled, and vanished.
    As he removed his lenses, Nathaniel glanced at Kitty Jones, who sat impassively watching the stage. She didn't seem likely to try anything foolish; nevertheless, he knew he was taking a risk. Fritang had been dismissed and all his other active demons were off pursuing Hopkins. He had no servants readily at hand. What if she reverted to her former type?
    A roll of drums, a rush of violins in the darkness below. Horns blared in the distance: a militaristic fanfare, which swiftly became a jaunty music-hall theme. The curtains swept aside, revealing a beautifully painted depiction of a London street scene forty years before. Tall town houses, market stalls, a flat blue sky behind, Nelson's Column in the background, fluffy pigeons on strings flying to and fro. A procession of barrow boys wheeled carts on stage from either side; as they met in the middle they exchanged loud Cockney pleasantries and began slapping their thighs to the music-hall beat. With a sinking heart, Nathaniel knew that the first song was already upon them. He sat back in his chair, thinking despairingly of the scrying glass in his pocket. Perhaps he could just slip off and check what was going on—
    "Not a bad beginning, eh, John?" As if he had sprung up from a hidden trapdoor, Mr. Makepeace was at his side, settling into his seat, wiping perspiration from his forehead. "A nice little number. Sets the scene admirably." He chuckled. "Already Mr. Devereaux is transfixed. See how he laughs and claps his hands together!"
    Nathaniel peered into the darkness. "You have better eyesight than I. I cannot make him out."
    "That is because you have taken out your lenses, like a good obedient boy. Put them back in again and see."
    "But—"
    "Put them back in again, my boy. Here in my box different rules apply. You're exempt from the general direction."
    "But what about the illusions?"
    "Oh, you'll see enough to keep you entertained. Trust me." A hearty chuckle.
    The man was a capricious fool! With a mixture of annoyance and bemusement, Nathaniel returned his lenses to his eyes. By viewing the second and third planes, he was instantly able to reduce the darkness in the auditorium and make out the magicians on the far side. As Makepeace had said, Devereaux was craning forward, eyes riveted on the stage; his head nodded to the music. The other ministers, in various attitudes of dejection and dismay, had given themselves up to the inevitable.
    On stage the Cockney barrow boys skipped off, leaving the way clear for the appearance of the young Prime Minister-to-be. The pale thin youth that Nathaniel had met at Richmond now dawdled from the wings. He wore a school blazer, shirt and tie, and a pair of short trousers from which his hairy legs plunged a disconcerting distance. His cheeks had been heavily rouged to give him the appearance of childish vigor, but his movements were oddly listless. He flopped to a standstill beside a cardboard postbox and began a quavering oration. In the darkness at Nathaniel's side Makepeace gave a cluck of dissatisfaction.
    "Bobby has proved such a trial," he breathed. "During rehearsals he developed a most dreary cough, and became quite wan. It is my belief he is consumptive. I had to give him a mighty slug of brandy just to get him on."
    Nathaniel nodded. "Do you think he has enough energy to last the night?"
    "I think so. It is not a long production. Tell me, how does Ms. Jones enjoy the show?"
    In the secrecy of the half-dark Nathaniel's eyes flitted toward the girl sitting beside him. He made out her elegant profile, the pleasant gleam of her hair, her face contorted into a grimace of fathomless boredom. Despite himself, the expression made him grin. He—
    The grin froze, and faded. After a pause he leaned back toward Makepeace. "Tell me, Quentin," he