Once upon a time there was a warlock in London during the reign of King Charles II. He lived in Cripplegate in a small house in a room under the roof, reached by a narrow staircase. He was very nervous and didn't like daylight. In the time of the good King Charles II, it was still the custom to execute sorcerers, wizards, and anyone who dealt with magic, and Emelius, if he made a mistake or made an enemy, could end his life in a very unpleasant way through the efforts of an annoyed client. If Emelius had been braver, he would have given up this dangerous trade, but his father's money was all spent on his witchcraft training, and the young man himself was too weak-willed to decide to start all over again. In 1666, Emelius turned thirty-five, but he aged prematurely, was thin and nervous. He jumped at the slightest squeak, turned pale if a moonbeam fell on his face, and shuddered when his own shadow appeared. In the bright daylight, the warlock did not look too neat: deathly gray skin, matted hair hanging in tangles, thin limp hands, all stained. An expensive velvet cloak with fur trim was splattered with mud and soaked in the smells of the kitchen. Pulling out the wick that was floating in a bowl of oil, after sprinkling it with yellow powder to turn the flame blue, he grabbed a couple of dried frogs and a bunch of henbane and, froze for a moment, hurriedly, without letting go of his trembling hands, blurted out a short spell. At the same time, he kept one eye on the clavichord and the other on the door. There was a knock on the door. An uncertain, hesitant knock.

Who's there? the sorcerer asked, ready to blow out the blue flame immediately if anything.