“Tell me, Claude,” Sharpe said, his tone as sanguine and unruffled as if he’d been asking the sommelier at Claridge’s whether or not he might recommend the 2018 Chablis over the 2015 Bourgogne, “this little bit of interior redecoration, it wouldn’t have had anything to do with the chap I just saw legging it down the road, trailing splinters, would it?”

Furbelow gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. It caused his wispy hair to float about his head like dandelion seeds.

“Aye, that it would,” he said, heaving a sigh.

“Am I right in thinking that the rotund man making such excellent speed away from your fine boutique was none other than the man known affectionately in certain circles as Half-baked Harry?”

“Is that who it was?” Furbelow said. “I thought there was something familiar about him. He’s looking rough. Times must have been tough for him of late.”

“Times are regularly tough when you’re in the habit of going through life with only half a brain,” Cornelius Sharpe said pleasantly.

“The damn fool managed to leave his accomplice stone-cold petrified on the floor in there.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Sharpe said. “I was wondering where that little fellow came into things. Are you thinking of keeping her?”

Alfie noticed Furbelow shoot a shrewd glance at Sharpe. “Maybe,” he said evasively.

“Well, I know how you enjoy keeping those rare pets of yours out back,” Sharpe said amiably. “A gorgon might be just the thing to add to the collection—and before you say it, don’t worry, I won’t say anything to anyone about the menagerie that you’re quietly keeping and collecting out there, Claude. None of my beeswax.”

“Now, Provost Sharpe—”

“No! Really,” Sharpe said, holding up his hands and making a solemn face. “If a man is willing to flagrantly flout the laws of this land and keep magical creatures in built-up suburban areas, all in the quest of bringing said magical beasties back to full health, then my only hope for that man is that he do well, fly under the radar, and that his neighbors have adequate protection against fire and, perhaps, acid-proofed their houses.”

“Not that I wouldn’t have been grateful if you’d come walking along ten or so minutes sooner,” Furbelow said. “Thankfully, this young lad burst out and discomforted my assailants by the expedient approach of smacking one of them in the face with a mirror.”

“That’ll do it,” Sharpe said, nodding approvingly.

“And then, he surprised me by revealing he was a Fortifier. Of the Earth variety, to be exact. Used it against the second idiot as he was making a break for it.”

At the mention of the Fortifier power, a light of interest kindled deep within the tawny eyes of Cornelius Sharpe. The enigmatic smile widened by a fraction of an inch.

“Hold on, Provost?” Alfie blurted out. He had been watching the elegant, assured gentleman, trying to figure him out, but he was still trying to play catch-up with what had transpired—and was continuing to transpire.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Of course, Provost, laddie,” Furbelow said. “Dinnae tell me you don’t recognize the man.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you that,” Alfie replied.

Sharpe chuckled. He was still gazing at Alfie with keen interest. Then, as if he had decided something, he nodded to himself and straightened up.

“Provost is like a fancy headmaster, right? Like at Cambridge or Oxford?” Alfie asked.

“Spot on, Mr. Turner,” Sharpe replied.

“So, what is it you’re headmaster of?”

“I wasn’t aware that you were much of a one for strolling about in the capital, shopping and whatnot, Provost Sharpe,” Furbelow said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a car being driven through a cafe window.

“Needs must, Claude, needs must,” Sharpe replied in a blasé voice. He turned back to Alfie and then flicked a speck of dust from one sleeve. “As for what I’m the headmaster, provost, and indubitable pedagogue of all things fun and dangerous of… Well, I was rather hoping I could talk to you about that. Perhaps over a refreshing beverage?”

Alfie considered this. He reckoned that, in anyone other than Charlie Sheen, Axl Rose, or John Belushi’s book, his day could have been considered one for the records in terms of weirdness. He looked thoughtfully at the tall man with the silver hair and impeccable tweed suit.

“I’m buying,” Sharpe said.

That settled it. It wouldn’t hurt Alfie to listen. He could always leave if things ended up making less sense than they already did.

“All right,” Alfie said. “But I’d say I’ve earned a bite to eat, too.”

“Of course,” Sharpe replied genially.

“Come on, then,” Alfie said. “I know a great little pub just around the corner.”

“Ah, the noble English pub,” Sharpe said, exhibiting unmistakable pleasure at Alfie’s suggestion. “Truly, it’s the public living room. A place to sit and drink and enjoy a chinwag with your friends and neighbors, with none of the pressure of inviting acquaintances into your home, no worrying about cleaning up after, and it manages to exert a more or less entirely leveling influence, don’t you think? The postman lifts a pint with the parliamentarian, the doctor knocks back a scotch with the dog catcher. It’s the cornerstone of what makes this country great.”

Although Alfie must’ve been at least thirty years younger than this remarkable gentleman, he couldn’t help but think he was onto something with that sentiment. Alfie’s own father, Steve, was a passionate advocate of the equality that could be found in the local boozer.

“Let me give you some simple advice, Son,” he had once said to Alfie, after coming home from The Bunch of Carrots at about nine-thirty. “Sad? Pub. Happy? Pub. Sacked? Pub. Promoted? Pub. Wedding? Pub. Funeral? Pub. Win? Pub. Lose? Pub.” He’d then promptly nodded off in front of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Before they left the square, Claude Furbelow caught Alfie by the sleeve of his jacket and thrust a small box into his hand.

“For your uncle, laddie,” the old man said. “It’s the Charlatan’s Lodestone he wanted.”

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, no. It’s on the house, laddie, on the house.”

Alfie smiled, put the box in his jacket pocket, and held out his hand. Furbelow took it, and they shook.

“Be seeing you, mate,” Alfie said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, laddie,” Furbelow said. “Good luck, and thanks again.”

Alfie led the way out of the tiny, empty square. He didn’t look in the box Furbelow had given him. He didn’t want to tempt fate. Things had been uncanny enough for one afternoon.

And speaking of uncanny.

He called you, “Mr. Turner”, Alfie’s memory whispered in his ear, having finally got abreast with everything that had happened. Only, you never told him your name. Did you notice that?

Alfie had noticed. He could only hope that some explanation for that might be forthcoming.

You have been awarded a subspace for containing items!

Current size: 1 meter x 1 meter

Progress in mage level to increase subspace’s size.

Subspace? Alfie thought. Now just what is that?

It said that it contained items, so was it some kind of inventory? This was just getting stranger and stranger by the minute.

This really was like some kind of video game. He had no bloody idea what this was all about, but he was almost certain it was real, and he was about half as certain that having a bit of grub with this Sharpe character might lead to some answers.

If not, well, there was always the asylum.

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