There could be no doubt. The pigeons were out to get him.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise to Nelson, who saw a kind of kinship between the pigeons and people of London. Both flocked to the streets in droves whenever the sun could be bothered to show itself. Both moved in jagged, unpredictable lines. And both were undeniably stupid.

And that wasn’t Nelson’s opinion, it was an undeniable fact. He stood apart from the rest of the population, his intellect saw to that. In fact, he often preferred to actually stand apart from the rest of the population, things were simpler that way. People were so … chaotic. It was no wonder that Nelson preferred the calm, quiet environment of his workshop.

Occasionally, he would brave the madness of the outside world, if only to collect more materials for

his work. Unfortunately, that day was today. Which went some way to explain why he was feeling

particularly harassed. The pigeons were following him.

With their beady orange eyes and frantic flapping motions they tailed him as he walked, scarf wrapped up to his mouth to protect him from the biting wind. Nelson was so preoccupied with thoughts of the persistent pests that he failed to notice the other boy until he was practically on top of him.

‘Watch where you’re going!’ Nelson snapped, intent of untangling his scarf from the boy’s jacket

buttons than engaging in conversation.

‘Sorry,’ the other boy mumbled, lifting his ungloved hands to help.

His hands were the colour of Nelson’s workbench, a warm auburn, the fingers twitching from the cold. Nelson raised his eyes to study the boy’s face and was slightly taken aback to see that he was smiling.

The boy caught his stare and the two stayed like that for a few moments, not saying anything, until

Nelson became uncomfortable.

‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, yanking his scarf from the boy’s grip, ‘I must be going.’

‘Wait!’ The boy exclaimed, kicking up a cloud of dust as he raced to catch Nelson’s long strides.

Nelson didn’t wait, or even turn round. It was more likely than not that this boy was a beggar of some

description, the worn cotton of his trousers was testament to that, and Nelson didn’t have the time, or indeed the finances, to engage with beggars.

‘Hey!’ The boy yelled again, his voice blessedly feint against the clamour of carts and press of people in the street.

And just when Nelson was mentally congratulating himself for another spectacular evasive manoeuvre a hand gripped his elbow.

He immediately recoiled. ‘Look here –’

‘I know you,’ the boy said, voice breathless from running. ‘Nells, please, just listen to me for five

minutes.’

Nelson bristled. ‘How do you know my name?’

The boy scrunched his forehead. ‘I make it my business to know other who possess a level of

intelligence like mine.’

Whatever Nelson had been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. He shrugged his arm out of the boy’s grasp.

‘And?’ he said loftily. ‘Are you proposing we start a club?’

The boy groaned. ‘I am suggesting,’ he said slowly, ‘that we talk. You’re heading to the Isle of Dogs,

right? I’ll walk with you.’

Nelson narrowed his eyes. How had the boy known his destination? They were in Limehouse, at least another half hour’s walk from the docks. Had he been following him?

‘Are you coming?’ the boy asked, hands shoved deep in his pockets. ‘Believe it or not,’ he added,

expression clouding, ‘I’m on a tight schedule.’

‘Fine,’ Nelson replied sardonically, ‘but I’m not known for my conversation. But you probably

already knew that.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ the boy countered, holding out his hand for Nelson to shake, ‘I’m Marcus, by

the way. Marcus Mayweather.’

Nelson gritted his teeth. ‘And I don’t care.’