You think you know London, its streets and alleys like the creases of your palm. You don't know all its secrets. In its depths are places to buy amulets and tarot readings, a talisman that permits the wearer to manipulate luck hangs alongside bottles of herbs and demon's blood. Books so ancient the pages are tissue-thin jostle against postcards of buses and telephone boxes. There are bars where the clientele don't just find the dim light flattering, but downright necessary, and the smell of brimstone lingers in the nostrils. There are corners and recesses where magic isn't trickery or sleight of hand, but blood and bone and flesh and you might -- you might -- catch sight of feathers pure as snow and light, if you know where to go. If you know how to see. There's a pitched battle being fought for this other London and your London besides -- one in which every human in existence is being counted in a gamble for souls, Heaven and Hell trying to tip the scales and grave-faced Librarians holding them steady. And all the time, people go about their lives with a little pinch of something extra in a London you'll never see.
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