He is in another street. Different but causing the same overwhelming terror.

It feels like his nose is rotting away; the whole place is heavy with the stench of decay. He can’t tell any difference between the filth that has been thrown on the ground for the rats to fight over, and the stuff people are expected to buy. He edges to the side, his head moving constantly, around, above, below. Still he manages to bump into a man.

This person does not yell at him, but holds his palm out and speaks in a low whine. ‘Alms for a poor wounded soldier, fresh returned from the wars in Ireland, young sir.’

John peers more carefully at this person than he has at anyone else. The man’s clothes are stained rags tied around his body, and from his shoulders hang an aged leather jerkin that looks like it has been made to fit a much fatter man. He has light brown hair and a darker scraggly beard with draggles of spit running through it, but the most remarkable thing is  his right leg, that stops at the knee. The man leans on a long stick.

John tries not to stare, he knows what it feels like to be stared at, but his eyes are drawn back to the missing limb. ‘I… I don’t have any… alms… I don’t think. Is there any… other way I can help you, gentle sir?’

The man’s face crinkles into a smile, but before he could reply, there’s a fluttering touch on his elbow. At last, the hobgoblin! He swings around, and sees instead a finely-dressed woman with wide skirts and a smart hat of a design John has never seen before. It takes a moment for John to register that she’s the one touching him.

Her cheeks colour. ‘No harm done. Just brushing a little dirt off.’ She pats him again, looking past John at the soldier with narrowed eyes, and hisses, ‘Don’t say a thing.’

The soldier laughs. ‘I baited perfect for ye, but still the great Bess Porch ain’t able to pick a simple country gull.’

The woman put her hands on her hips. ‘Bring a waste!’

As they are no longer paying him any attention, and their voices have hardened, John slips away with a backward glance. What on earth has just happened?

He skirts his way around a barrow filled with foods he doesn’t recognise, though his eyes work well enough to know that the fresh produce on the top can’t quite hide the rotting vegetables below. Then he pauses beside a tall man holding a tray of ribbons. Jetta would be wide-eyed with wonder to see such a rainbow of colours. It’s like nothing he’s seen before, but is obviously so commonplace in this world that no one else is stopping to marvel. He bites on his little finger, wishing Jetta could be here.

For a moment there’s peace in his heart. He imaginew how she would tug on his sleeve, telling him to be brave and have a look with her. Even if they couldn’t afford to buy, at least they could see treasures to visit in their dreams.

The tall man notices he has John’s attention and beckoned him over. ‘Come here, my pretty one, you deserve beautiful things to dress that golden hair.’

John’s cheeks burn, his hand darting to his head, where his hair has tumbled free of his cap. He has to find somewhere quiet where he can stop and collect himself.

The houses are packed together, as if all these shouting people want to be as near to one another as possible. He feels sure that at any moment one of the huge buildings will topple forward and pull the whole city down with it. But when he spies a gap between two houses, he creeps into the shadows and leans back against the wall. It’s damp and slimy; the air hangs heavy with the stench of stale piss. He imagines gangs of boy-dogs racing around every crevice of the city morning and night, marking everything as their own.

He sighs, wishing he could calm his mind. So many people. So much colour. So much noise. And no harmony: everything in constant battle. A carnivorous monster so hungry it’s trying to devour itself. Surely this can’t be where the Faerie Queene lives?

There’s nowhere he’s willing to put Jetta’s clothes down so instead he struggles to balance, crooking them in his arm as he works his hair back under the cap. He moves slowly, knowing that concentrating on this meant he doesn’t have to think about anything else. But he has to decide what to do. He needs to work on the way he speaks and moves; he needs to pass as a normal boy without having to concentrate on it all the time. That would free up his mind to work out all the other truly important things.

‘Good morrow,’ he says in a voice quieter than his normal one. ‘Good morrow,’ he repeats. The ‘good’ sounded fine, but the ‘morrow’ disappeared into uncertainty.

He says the words again and again. But his eyelids are heavy and drooping, and the pleasant thought drifts into his mind that if he lets his body fall into oblivion he’ll wake up at home, with Jetta and Ma praising him for how well he’s mended their clothes.

A noise startles him awake.

A person has run, clattering and panting, into the alleyway, and is pelting towards him. Whoever it is wears a dark, flowing cape. Inside its hood is a deep, black nothing that is going to swallow John whole.

There’s no time to run. The caped attacker is upon him.