Wall defaced, the Stone broken, the Midnight Mayor weakened. You cannot be weak in the city. He should defend the stones, the streets, the history, the ghosts. Two thousand years of ghosts are sitting on the banks of the Thames, on whose bodies the houses were raised and the stones settled, a history too big, a life too immense for any one mind to comprehend. That is why the dragons are mad, Swift, the ones who guard the gates of London. When you look into their eyes you see nothing but endless insanity. They comprehend how big the city is, how great and how deep and how beautiful and how dark, and it sends them mad.
“But you . . . Midnight Mayor . . . for you to be here, you must be seeking the traffic warden’s hat. You must know about her. You must know that Penny Ngwenya is a sorceress, though she does not understand it. To know this and to not have killed her is unforgivable. For a one in eight million, for 0.0000000125 of a city, you will let London burn. Damnation waits for you, Midnight Mayor. It is the ultimate failure of your office.
“I am sure you have learnt much - much too much - of what you need to about Penny Ngwenya. I have no interest in what motivates you in your mistakes. At the end of the day, regardless of the brand on your hand, of your bright blue eyes, you are also 0.0000000125 of a city, and even fewer will notice your passing this time than they did the last.
“The death of cities is coming for you, Matthew Swift.
“A child stole her hat, a kid on a bike stole Penny Ngwenya’s hat, and a stranger beat her for doing her job, and a stranger spat in her face, and strangers abused her, and strangers called her names. Little frightened sorceress, who saw life and beauty and magic in the city, who stood by the river’s edge and felt the beating of its heart as if it were her own, who stared down on the lights of the city and saw the starlight of the world spread beneath her feet for her to tread lighter than the breeze. Do you remember how it was, sorcerer, when you first began to breathe the magic of the city, to taste its burning brightness, to dream in neon and rejoice to smell the streets in your sleeves? She could have been so bright, little Penny Ngwenya, but not any more. Strangers beat, robbed and spat at her, faces she will never see again, and who will never see her, too many million between her and them. They did it not for who she was, or why she was, or what she was - but because she was there and they did not have to care for her, a stranger. A cruelty without consequence, a deed without responsibility.
“The night that this boy, Mo, stole Ngwenya’s hat, she walked to the river. You and she have that in common; you seek the river to calm you; you breathe deep of its magics and become lost in time and movement, for that is what the river is. She went to the river, as you would, and stood upon the bridge at the height of rush hour. She turned her head towards the sky and her arms towards the water. Tourists, commuters, workers, travellers, call them what you will - the bridge was full, London Bridge, the heart of the city, the oldest bridge, the last barrier to the city, the final part of the city wall, she stood there as the city moved around her and - for whatever reason it was, for whatever cruelty - she turned her hands towards the water and her head towards the sky and called out to these passing strangers, ‘Give me back my hat.’
“And no one listened.
“Not a single man or woman turned their head.
“Crazy woman alone on a bridge.
“Crazy shouting woman alone.
“Leave her alone.
“Give me back my hat - sorcerer. This was her curse. Give me back my hat!
“And no one listened.
“Except Mr Pinner.
“Sorcerers love to burn.
“It is why the blue electric angels love the sorcerers - you are moulded of the same light and fury, the same madnesses.
“You see magic where there is life.
“So it was with Penny Ngwenya.
“She stood on the bridge and saw the magic of the city, a harsh, cruel, unloving thing, stood alone and cried as