The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(56)

“How long do you think it will take for him to hear the call?” Edwina asked.

“Oh, I think he’s heard word already, but it would never do to appear to be at any witch’s beck and call, saving for the one he serves. They’re a proud lot, elves. Diminutive in size, but their bloodlines are some of the most ancient in the New World, and they never let you forget it. He’ll be here by and by.”

“I’d never encountered one before, but he’s very loyal to Mr. Cameron, is he not?”

“Indeed. We should all be so lucky to have lived in a house set on such an important crossroads.”

“Important crossroads?”

“The lad grew up on Hare Hill. Famously occupied by the fair folk in the last age. They still pass by there on ceremony days on account of the lake and river nearby. Hob, as I understand it, became attached to the house and stayed after the original owner showed him a kindness. If I’m not mistaken, Ian’s family is the seventh generation to occupy the home.”

“How perfectly enchanting,” Edwina said. She felt a shiver, as if a sprinkle of Hob’s golden magic had settled on her skin.

“You say that now, but were you to meet any of the fair folk while they’re in a foul mood, you’d bolt the door and cross yourself. Trust me, I was married to one for nearly twenty years.”

Edwina smiled politely, while inside she was dying to ask every impertinent question darting through her mind about such a relationship.

“But perhaps you’ve more of an acquaintance with the fair folk than you give yourself credit for,” Elvanfoot said, sobering. The intensity of his startling blue eyes unsettled her casual mood and she straightened, on guard again. His gaze did not falter when he said, “I should be curious to hear more about your relations.”

Edwina wasn’t sure she was up to such scrutiny, but then the gentleman witch got a lesson in her family anyway as Mary returned to the shop. Her sister’s face was red, and the cheek under her left eye was beginning to darken into a bruise.

“Stars above! What happened to you?” Edwina asked, but her sister, looking as if she were drenched in shame, would not say. At the sight of Elvanfoot in the back of the shop, Mary covered her face with her hand and ran up two flights of stairs, where she slammed the door.

Edwina, caught between propriety and duty to her sister, excused herself with a bow of her head. “I really should go check on her.”

“Anything I can do?”

No doubt there was considerable magic he could do to attend Mary, but he’d already shown enough curiosity about them. “No, I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’ll make her a pot of tea and a calming potion and she’ll be right as rain. Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said and started to make her way upstairs to see after her whirlwind of a sister.

Elvanfoot sat on the chair with a hard glint in his eye and simply stated he’d wait.





Chapter Twenty


Ian finished his breakfast of tea and a scone, while disappointment settled beside it in his stomach. The boardinghouse on Cedric Lane in which he sat had proved the source of his indigestion. Not only was George no longer there, but the innkeeper relayed that he’d left in a rage three days earlier, the same night Ian had gone to the shore and been hit over the head and robbed of his memories. The innkeeper, an easy-mannered witch gent by the name of Mr. Wallaby who was fond of bright red waistcoats and plaid trousers, insisted George had been fine when they’d first arrived. It was only after Ian left to prowl the riverbank that the gentleman became angry. George had been left alone in the sitting room to browse the books, while Wallaby prepared his tea, when his agitation grew. Wallaby had returned to find several irreplaceable spell books burning in the fireplace. He’d bent to save them when he felt a shove from behind that knocked him to the floor. By the time he’d returned to his feet with an incantation sharp on his tongue, George had vanished over the threshold and into the night.

Wallaby entered the breakfast room still drying his hands after washing up the dishes. “Will you be off to look for that fella, then?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin at this point.” Ian threw his napkin on the table. “Is there anything else you can tell me about George Elvanfoot? Anything at all?”

“I’ve told you all I remember. It were just the one hour he were here.”

“How did he appear to you that night?”

“Well, you saw the state of him. ’Twas a right mess he was in.”

It was too much to try and explain why he had no memory of the events. Instead, Ian slid the photo of George in his costume across the table. “Perhaps you could recall how he was dressed when he was here?”

“To be honest, I nearly didn’t let you in,” Wallaby said. “Your mate smelled like he’d been rolling around in the gutter. Imagine he’d been sleeping rough and drinking. We’re a boardinghouse catering to witches, sure, but we’re no home for feral dogs wandering in off the street.”

“His outfit?” Ian pressed.

Wallaby peered closer. “No, he weren’t in no top hat or cape. I believe he were wearing a long gray coat, though ’twere dirty as a coal porter’s. And he weren’t wearing nothing as fine as that sparkly pin in his lapel.”

Ian looked closer at the pin. It struck him for the first time that George was wearing the thistle pin in both photos. An item like that must have some significance for a man to wear it in two separate photos, one in costume and one as himself. He reasoned such a thing could easily have been lost on the street. Or pawned. Actors made little enough money, and yet its absence nagged at his intuition. “Thank you,” he said and took a last swallow of tea.