89.

The Little Boy sits politely, hands in lap, molesting the shiny knife rows with his eyes. Cairo smiles, hands him one. “They’re made to be touched,” he says. “And don’t be excessively careful.”

He gulps. “What are they all for?”

“Hurting people.” Cairo twirls a blade in a curt spin, sheaths it, watches.

The apprentice copies – hums a riddle: “Sticks and stones may break my bones…” – fumbles; looks, fascinated, as a ribbon of blood winds down his finger.

Cairo half-smiles, weak. “You made up a name yet?”

“Manchester?”

“Alright.”