Chapter 1

The place was known simply as the Pitch.

It lay on the ragged edge of the town’s industrial belt—a stretch of waste ground that belonged to no-one and therefore to everyone. By day it played many roles: an unofficial playground, a flea market, a resting place for those between jobs or between chances. By night it belonged to different inhabitants altogether.

On this particular afternoon, the market was in full swing.

Voices drifted across the dusty ground—stallholders calling, haggling, laughing, arguing. Somewhere a kettle hissed. Somewhere else a radio crackled with half-heard music. Above it all, clear and pure, floated the sound of a flute.

Clef stood near the front of the Pitch, his back straight despite his worn clothes, his fingers moving deftly over the holes of his recorder. At his feet lay a hat with only a scattering of coins, and behind him stretched his faithful German Shepherd, Rolf, watching the world with patient eyes.

A small crowd of children had gathered. They stood, sat, leaned, swayed—caught completely in the music.

Among them was Cameron.

He stood on crutches, thin arms gripping them tightly, his body slightly twisted with the effort of balance. Yet his face—his face was utterly still, utterly intent. He listened as though the music were something he could step into, if only his body would allow it.

Clef finished the tune with a flourish and gave a mock bow.

“Don’t stop!” one child cried.

“Another one!”

“That was beautiful!”

Clef smiled faintly, but when he bent to pick up his hat and gave it a small shake, the thin jingle of coins told its own story.

“It’s a pity,” he said dryly, “that your appreciation doesn’t come in a more ... tangible form. The food of love doesn’t fill the belly very well.”

A child piped up eagerly, “If we dance, more people might come!”

Clef shrugged. He had nothing to lose.

He lifted the flute again and launched into a lively jig. Instantly the children burst into movement, spinning and stamping in wild, joyous imitation of dances they barely knew.

All except Cameron.

He stayed where he was, watching.

And as the music rose, another figure entered the Pitch.

No one saw him arrive.

One moment the space behind the dancers was empty. The next, a man stood there—quiet, composed, watching. He reached into a worn pack and withdrew three small balls.

Then he began to juggle.

At first only one or two children noticed. A nudge, a whisper, a pointing finger—and the spell shifted. One by one, attention drifted from Clef to the newcomer. The rhythm of the dance faltered.

A ball slipped from the Gleeman’s hand and rolled towards the children.

One child broke away to fetch it.

Then another followed.

And another.

Within moments, Clef was playing to empty air.

He lowered the flute slowly.

Across the Pitch, laughter rose as the children clustered around the juggler, who now tossed balls lightly between them, drawing them into his pattern as though they had always belonged there.

Cameron did not move.

“That’s too fast for me,” he said quietly. “My inside likes it ... but my outside can’t keep up.”

Clef gave a short, humourless laugh as he scooped up his hat. “Fast or slow, someone’s always not going to like it. Seems today that someone might be me.”

“That’s not true,” Cameron protested. “People stopped to listen. They just don’t have the money.”

“Perhaps.” Clef glanced toward the market stalls. “Though some of them aren’t sure whether to thank me or curse me. Entertainment keeps customers hanging around ... but heaven forbid a coin should land in my hat instead of theirs.”