The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(13)
“You’ve merely had a short rest,” she said.
The man remembered her singing something odd and lilting before his head drifted away into unconsciousness. The sensation of being under her influence was one of the very few things he had any memory of. However unlikely, he suspected that she’d somehow brought on this “short rest” against his will, as if she’d dosed him with a lungful of ether.
His hand landed on the cool, smooth gold of his watch with some relief. It might be broken, but the gold was worth something. Still groggy, he attempted to stand to be on equal footing with her, but the pain at the back of his head interfered like a blow from a hammer. “You’ve drugged me.”
“Certainly not!” After objecting, she stepped nearer. “Please, sit down. You’re in no state to stand, let alone confront anyone with false accusations.”
He wanted to argue with her on that point, but the pain in his head and the dizziness overtaking his body won out. The woman guided him to a chair in the storeroom in the back, where he took advantage of her hospitality despite his distrust. Still, he scooted the chair against the wall so that she could not get behind him and leave his line of sight.
“What’s that you’ve got?” He nudged his chin toward her closed hand as he adjusted the bandage wrapped around his head.
“I should probably take a look at that first,” she said, ignoring him as she slipped the thing he’d asked about in her apron pocket. If not for the dizziness, he would have resisted. Instead he gave his consent, arguing in his mind why he should have done such a thing. There was something strange yet compelling about the young woman. Certainly, she was pleasant enough for a thief. Intelligent. Thoughtful. Somewhat charming. He didn’t know why he had an instinct for such things, but he was sure she was also hiding something. There was a great reservoir of mystery beyond what he’d confronted her about. Yet he could not deny she had a certain skill as she peeled the gauze away from his wound, making an almost imperceptible clucking noise as she inspected the gash.
“You’re right about my sister and me,” she said. “We did take something from you, but as I tried to state earlier, it isn’t what you think.”
“Look, Miss—”
“Blackwood.” The young woman pulled away so she could look him in the eye. “Edwina Blackwood,” she said, as if the full name might mean something to him. It didn’t, and yet the fibers holding his muscle and bones together buzzed on alert, sending a tiny shiver skittling under his flesh.
He nodded in acknowledgment, despite the strangeness of exchanging pleasantries with one of the women who’d robbed him and likely taken part in knocking him unconscious. Possibly twice. Relying on their uneasy truce, he studied his surroundings. Though the shop up front struck him as normal enough, the back room was overrun with odd books with locks on their covers and bundles of dried herbs tacked to the beams overhead. A small desk with a cupboard held a mortar and pestle. Above was a shelf of unmarked jars filled with concoctions he’d rather not study too closely. Spiderwebs had been left untouched in the corners of the room so long they sagged from the weight of their collected dust.
Smiling in a reassuring manner, she rummaged through the small cabinet to his left. He leaned forward out of curiosity and saw the doors were decorated with indecipherable symbols painted in black and gold. From a shelf in the middle she took out a bottle containing a brownish-green botanical swimming in glossy fluid.
“Miss Blackwood, I am at a loss. First you rob me, of what I canna say, though I know it be of value enough for me to leave my hospital bed to retrieve it, and then you offer to doctor your victim?”
“Victim? Really, I hardly think that’s fair, Mister . . .” She stopped herself after dabbing some of the murky liquid onto a cloth. “Are you able to remember what the I.C. stands for?” She nudged her chin toward his waistcoat. “Your watch. It bears your initials, does it not?”
She’d gone through his pockets. Damn the woman.
“I was told my name was Henry Elvanfoot.” Saying the name out loud, he knew without a doubt it couldn’t be true. All the same, he produced the card as proof.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Miss Blackwood pressed the cloth to his head and uttered a peculiar yet soothing rhyme under her breath. In moments, the pain subsided along with his dizziness. “Sir Elvanfoot is a man held in the highest regard. You, on the other hand, present yourself as a . . .” She held her thought to herself for a moment behind tight lips before continuing. “. . . a man of no particular renown that I’m aware of. I mean no disrespect, of course. Only an observation.”
Suspicious again that she’d even heard of the man whose bloodied card he carried, he stood, testing his balance, and asked, “And how do you know this Henry Elvanfoot?”
“He’s quite famous. Sir Henry Elvanfoot is a master wizard who has done more for the cause of bringing the talents of magical folk out of the dark ages than just about anyone in the last two hundred and fifty years.”
“What’s that you’re on about?” His brow twitched, and he wondered if he hadn’t fallen into a hallucination from the stuff she’d dabbed against his head. “Wizards and magical folk?”
“We have more to offer the world than merely curing warts and cursing blaggards.”
Responding to his basest fear, he grabbed her wrist before she could back away. “You’re mad as a hare.”