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‘Every time I see you.’

‘Well, it’s true. He played nine games for the first team, scoring his only ever Football League goal with a far post header against Scarborough.’

‘Which would have resulted in a famous victory except for a contestable last-minute penalty?’

‘A one-one mid-table draw that no one except my dad, me and you remember. How is your aunt, dear? I’ve been meaning to stop by for a coffee for ages.’ She flapped a hand around the inside of the empty shop, then let out a sigh. ‘My booming business stops me from getting out much.’

‘How is business?’

Daphne flapped a hand. ‘Mostly mail order these days. No one seems to like going outside, browsing the shops, having a chinwag for a while. I spend half my time packaging and posting. You don’t know anyone who’s a dab hand at wrapping spices in crêpe paper, do you? It’s getting a little hard on my arthritis.’

‘I’ll ask around.’

Daphne clapped her hands together loud enough to make Jacob jump. ‘But we have Christmas coming, don’t we? Things always pick up.’ She leaned forward, a conspiratorial grin on her face. ‘Will there be a little Christmas love in the air for Brentwell’s most eligible bachelor?’

‘Eligible in that I’m thirty and not married off, which in terms you and Aunt Marjorie would understand means that I’m like a packet of biscuits found at the back of the cupboard with a sell-by date of 2005? Like, you could probably still eat them, but they’ll be a bit stale?’

‘Oh, dear, you have such a way with the metaphor. Why aren’t you an English professor?’

‘In a parallel universe, I’d be much more successful.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’m happy, you know? Helping Aunt Marjorie, doing a little volunteering here and there.’

‘You’re a good boy. But you’re an underachiever, you know?’

‘I’m not sure I’d prefer the alternative.’

Daphne frowned. ‘Oh. You’ve seen, then?’

‘Seen what?’

She flapped another hand, turning away with a swirl, and dance-walked deeper into her shop. After a pause, he followed her.

‘What do you mean? What have I seen?’

Daphne reached her counter and leaned down. The rustle of ruffling papers suggested she was rummaging in a rubbish bin for something crushed at the bottom. When she rose up, she held a crumpled poster in her hands.

‘I found this flyer in the letterbox,’ she said, laying it down and smoothing it out. I threw it away, of course, but I’m sure you’ll be seeing them in shop windows all across Brentwell before long. Few share my scruples. Your stepbrother is back in town.’

Jacob stared at the poster. A man with jet-black hair, jaw so chiselled it could have cut glass, stubble so even it could have been glued on, piece by piece. Eyes that bored into a person’s soul. Black suited, top-hatted, white-gloved. A dove took to flight inches above his outstretched hands. Fireworks lit up the black background, and flames licked at the poster’s lower edge, a backdrop to locations, dates, ticket prices, and showtimes.

The Master Illusionist: James Steamblack.

Jacob’s stepbrother.

The man who had done everything he could to destroy Jacob’s family.

And in many ways, succeeded.