Blood sat up in his chair. "What? Oh, come on! What sort of idiot do you take

me

for?"

"There's no other way he could have known those things," said Wyrdrune.

"He might have read about them somewhere," Blood said, though he sounded

uncertain.

Wyrdrune shook his head. "No. That concert fire made the papers, but I doubt

if

it would've made the news over here. It might have, but it was five years

ago,

and in any case, the stories never mentioned my name. And there's no record

anywhere of who Merlin's father was. That means he couldn't have read it

anywhere."

Blood glanced from Wyrdrune to Billy and back again. "It also means there's

no

way to check your story. How do I know you haven't cooked this up between

you?"

"You know we've never seen each other before," said Wyrdrune.

"On the contrary," said Blood. "I don't know that at all."

"'Ey, I'm gettin' sick an' tired o' this," said Billy, suddenly speaking in

his

normal voice. "Do somethin' an' show 'em!"

"/ don't want to overtax you, lad," said Merlin, though only Billy "heard"

him.

"I don't bloody care! 'Ow else can we convince 'im?"

"I'm sure there are easier ways to—"

"Look, just do somethin', all right?"

"Very well," said Merlin. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Everything on Blood's desk suddenly floated up into the air.

"What the devil—" Blood snatched at his papers, but they seemed to dance out

of

his reach. Pens and pencils rose into the air, his wooden in and out trays,

his

appointment calendar, his paperweight, the bottle of Scotch— Makepeace barely

managed to snatch his glass in time— then everything started spinning end

over

end in midair. Blood's file drawers opened as if of their own accord and

Blood

yelped in helpless protest as their contents came sailing out, as if all

gravity

had been leeched out of the room. Then the chairs floated up into the air,

turning as they rose, and Blood held on tightly to the sides of his chair as

it

slowly spun around.

"Stop it!" he shouted. "Stop it, I said! Put me down!"