The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(57)

He was still pondering the missing pin when Hob popped up out of a coal scuttle near the fireplace. The little fellow shook off, creating a cloud of black dust.

“Hob? What the devil are you about now?”

“They are looking for you,” Hob said. “Miss Blackwood and Sir Elvanfoot.”

The peculiar pairing of names unsettled him. “What? Where? Henry Elvanfoot has arrived in the city? They’re together?”

Hob twirled his finger and the dust lifted off him, swirling into a funnel that emptied back into the scuttle the moment he hopped out. “So many questions.” The little imp grabbed a scone off the table and broke off the corner to eat. “He is at the shop with milady. They await you there, but it is set to be a sorry affair.”

“But how? Never mind. Come, we must go.”

“Not I,” Hob said, unbothered by the crumbs falling out of his mouth. “I’m to go north and fetch Sir his books first.”

“His books? Whatever for?”

“What does one ever need books for? To read what is not already in the head. ’Tis the other Miss Blackwood who has roused him to it, methinks.”

“Very well, I’ll meet you there.” Both had turned to go their separate ways when Ian stopped, baffled by what he’d heard yet again. “By the way, why do you call Miss Blackwood ‘milady’?”

Hob jumped in the coal bin and shrugged. “It would be rude not to.”

While he suspected there was more to it, the elf’s logic could not be argued with, so Ian bid his mate safe travels. After consulting with his pocket watch to check the street, it took a mere five minutes for Ian to walk to the shop. Curiously, the boy with the dirty face and head full of nursery rhymes was propped against the window again. Ian approached the shop front and peered through the glass as if window-shopping for a new spoon, pretending to ignore the boy.

After a few moments standing side by side, the boy was the first to comment. “You back again?” He grinned and shook his head as if to imply Ian was some kind of nutter.

“Do you make it your business to keep track of who comes and goes in this shop?” Ian asked, still paying the boy little noticeable attention.

“It’s my street then, innit?”

“So it appears,” Ian said somewhat more amiably, finally glancing down at the boy. “All right, Mr. Clever Clogs, how many times do you reckon you’ve seen me enter this shop?”

Before the boy could answer, a cry of “Murder!” was shouted in the street. The call came from the paperboy on the corner as he cut the twine on a bundle of newly delivered papers. “Murder on Dorset Street!” he shouted again to drum up business. “Brick Lane Slasher strikes again. Read about it in the Daily Gazette. Renegade rats run rampant in the public square. Read about it in the Daily here!”

“There’s been another?” Ian’s breakfast churned in his stomach at the news.

The boy’s smile dropped, too, replaced by a scowl. The expression was too old and pained for a child of his age. It was the sort of look shaped from rough years spent living on the pavement day and night, wary of strangers, yet seeing them as a necessary means to an end—a meal, a smoke, a tossed coin. At least that’s how Ian imagined his young life had gone. The boy’s attention shifted to shadows across the street. “My mistake, mister. I ain’t never seen you around here afore.” He folded his arms over his fragile bird-bone chest. “And sure enough you ain’t seen me afore either.”

The change was remarkable. His pity was likely misplaced, but Ian fished in his pocket and set his last few small coins on the window ledge. The impish smile returned as the boy eyed the coins. But instead of scooping them up and running off to the nearest costermonger for a bowl of jellied eel, the boy crossed his arms and sang through his gap-toothed grin. “Three blind mice. See how they run. They all went after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife. Have you ever seen such a sight in your life as three blind mice?”

The words of the nursery rhyme followed Ian inside the shop, leaving him to wonder if the boy had somehow been affected. The thought quickly dissipated once he caught sight of Edwina standing in the rear of the store, backlit by golden lamplight. How had he ever deemed the blush of her cheek merely interesting? Her brand of beauty had an ethereal, immeasurable quality, arresting the observer in his tracks.

“Ah, arrived at last.” Sir Elvanfoot somberly stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “I knew the elf wouldn’t let me down.”

Behind Sir Elvanfoot, Edwina dipped her head in brief acknowledgment, not looking him in the eye or even bending a lip in a polite smile. The rebuff stung more than he cared to admit. He was accustomed to people being angry with him. It came with the job. But he’d not anticipated, upon seeing her again, how her withdrawal of friendship would unsettle him so.

“Sir,” Ian said, shaking the elderly witch’s hand. To Edwina he returned her nod, daring to hold his gaze on her until she chanced to lift her eyes. “Miss Blackwood.” He then gestured to the street and the ongoing clamor of murder. “More dreadful news this morning.”

“Grisly business,” Elvanfoot said. “But come. We have much to talk about. I want to hear about your investigation.”

“I admit my surprise at seeing you here. I thought we agreed you would remain in the north until I had something to report.”