The Man Who Won November

Epilogue

One evening in October 1890, a carriage pulled by a tired old nag stopped outside a dingy little pub near the West India Docklands. A man came out; after straightening his robes and inspecting the building for a few minutes, he stepped inside the warm and bustling pub.

John Wilkes stuck out like a sore thumb in this landscape of crowded tables and ragged people, wearing expensive robes and a half-smile on his face that seemed to mock whomever he met. He was young and rather tall, but moved with a lazy elegance that made people look up and stare at him. His dark hair was cut short, and curled around his ears.

He approached the bar where he ordered a glass of red wine. For a while he sat there staring into the glass, and when the people realised that he wouldn't provide them with any entertainment they soon lost interest and went back to their conversations. After making a grimace from the cheap, sour wine, he beckoned the barman closer. He seemed to lose some of his self-assurance as the Muggle leaned over to him. "I've heard that a...a storyteller usually frequent this place, a man named Red Vance," he said, imperceptibly pulling a few inches back. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find him?"

"Red? He's over there, in the corner. Buy him a pint, and he'll tell you any story you'd want to hear."

John looked in the direction the barman had pointed out. "Thank you. Give me one, then."

He got the pint, and waited another minute before walking over to the table with slow, hesitant steps. A man in his forties sat there, next to a red-haired woman who watched John with an expression of distrust, as though she was guarding the older man by her side. But John didn't bother to give her more than a brief glance; all his attention was focused on Red. Unshaved and dirty he sat staring out into the air. John sat down, and placed the pint in front of him. "I hear you tell stories," he began and sat down on a vacant chair.

Red turned his face to look at him, and their eyes locked. For a long time they both stared. Slowly, a smile crept over the older man's face, but John himself was dead serious. Soon he could no longer hold his gaze. "Do you have one to tell me?" he asked, looking over at the bar to avoid those dark eyes, so much like his own.

"Yes," Red replied, his voice thick with emotion. "I've been waiting to tell this story for twenty years."

John's fingers were nervously playing with the wine glass when Red reached out and covered the young man's hand with his own, and John didn't pull it away. As he once more raised his head to look into Red's face, there were tears in the older man's eyes. "You look like your great grandmother," he muttered - not surprised, just quietly stating the facts.

"I know," was all John managed to say.

Red took a sip of his beer and cleared his throat. "Once upon a time there was a very young man who travelled to London for the first time..."