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his study with
     descriptions of all the tricks he could do. I have a few of the notebooks still here, and
     you could probably look up some of the tricks he did in Stoke Newington. But it's even
     more complicated than that, because most of the tricks have minor variations, and he's got
     all those cross-referenced as well. Look, this number here, ”10g“. I think that's what he
     was paid: ten guineas.”
    “Was that good?”
    “If it was for one night it was brilliant. But it was probably for the whole week, so it
     was just average. I don't think this was a big theatre.”
    I picked up the stack of all the other playbills and as she had said each one was
     annotated with similar code numbers.
    “All his apparatus was labelled as well,” she said. “Sometimes, I wonder how he found time
     to get out into the world and make a living! But when I was clearing out the cellar, every
     single piece of equipment I came across had an identifying number, and each one had a
     place in a huge index, all cross-referenced to the other books.”
    “Maybe he had someone else do it for him.”
    “No, it's always in the same handwriting.”
    “When did he die?” I said.
    “There's actually some doubt about that, strangely enough. The newspapers say he died in
     1903, and there was an obituary in
    
    
     The Times
    
    
     , but there are people in the village who say he was still living here the following year.
     What I find odd is that I came across the obituary in the scrapbook he kept, and it was
     stuck down and labelled and indexed, just like all the other stuff.”
    “Can you explain how that happened?”
    “No. Alfred Borden talks about it in his book. That's where I heard about it, and after
     that I tried to find out what had happened between them.”
    “Have you got any more of his stuff?”
    While she reached over for the scrapbooks, I poured myself another slug of the American
     whiskey, which I had not tried before and which I was finding I liked. I also liked having
     Kate down there on the floor beside my legs, turning her head to look up at me as she
     spoke, leaning towards me, affording more glimpses down the front of her dress and
     probably well aware of it. It was all slightly bemusing to be there, not fully
     comprehending what was going on, talk of magicians, meetings in childhood, not at work
     when I should have been, not driving over to see my parents as I had planned.
    In that part of my mind occupied by my brother, I felt a sense of contentment, unlike
     anything I had known from him before. He was urging me to stay.
    Outside the window the cold afternoon sky was darkening and the Pennine rain continued to
     fall. An icy draught came persistently from the windows. Kate threw another log on the
     fire.

The Prestige

PART TWO
    Alfred Borden

The Prestige
    1
    I write in the year 1901.
    My name, my real name, is Alfred Borden. The story of my life is the story of the secrets
     by which I have lived my life. They are described in this narrative for the first and last
     time; this is the only extant copy.
    I was born in 1856 on the eighth day of the month of May, in the coastal town of Hastings.
     I was a healthy, vigorous child. My father was a tradesman of that borough, a master
     wheelwright and cooper. Our house at number 105 Manor Road was in a long, curving terrace
     built along the side of one of the several hills which Hastings comprises. Behind the
     house was a steep and secluded valley where sheep and cattle grazed during the summer
     months, but at the front the hill rose up, lined with many more houses, standing between
     us and the sea. It was from those houses, and from the farms and businesses around, that
     my father took his trade.
    Our house was larger and taller than others in the road, because it was built over the
     gateway that led to the yard and sheds behind. My room was on the street side of the
     house, directly above the gateway, and because