"Patterns make up the world," Knave said. "The world and the solar system and the galaxy and the universe. Patterns within patterns within patterns. Fractals and tessellations and Euclidean and non-Euclidean patterns. It's the same with magic."
"How so?" I asked. We had moved on from the telephone poles to a different area, one lined with houses, all of them with darkened windows. Nobody awake at this hour.
"There was a story," he said, "that Aleister Crowley used to tell. He said he once started following a man, patterning his footsteps after the man until they were perfectly in sync. And then Crowley stepped out of sync and the man in front of him tripped."
"But that's not magic," I said. "That's just a trick."
Knave looked at me and laughed and his laughter echoed down the cul-de-sac. "Magic is trickery. Magic is legerdemain, sleight of the hand. Only instead of hiding the card up our sleeves, we're hiding the card in different dimensions. Magic isn't just blood and sight - it's knowing how to use them, having the ability to display your talent. Giving your audience a treat via a trick, you might say."
"But real magic-" I started to say.
Knave's smile vanished. "You don't know anything about real magic," he said. "Everything I've told you is like an adult explaining how the world works to a child. So simplistic, it might as well be lies."
I didn't say a word. This sudden outburst had surprised me - I hadn't seen Knave angry before. His anger simmered underneath, like it could erupt at any moment. Then he closed his eyes and the rage vanished and when he opened them, he smiled again.
"Come on," he said, "more to show and more to see."
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