The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(58)
“Ah, yes.” Elvanfoot exchanged a glance with Edwina. “I understand you’ve suffered a gap in your memory.” He produced the telegram from Ian to explain his appearance in the city. “As you can see, my presence was requested.”
“I summoned you here?” Ian shook his head before removing the telegram receipt in his pocket. “I admit I haven’t any recollection of this. Or why I thought to alert you to the Blackwoods’ shop.”
“You claimed you’d found George,” Elvanfoot said. “But now I’m to understand he is missing once again.”
“Aye, and I’m sorry I dinna have better news.” Ian explained about the boardinghouse and George’s growing agitation while there. “What I canna explain is why I went out that night, leaving George behind. Or why he pushed a man down to escape a place where he was perfectly safe. I’m sorry to say no one has seen him since.”
“And this was the same night you were struck and your memories taken from you?”
“It dragged on until morning but, yes, the very same.”
Both men went quiet. The feeling of helplessness Ian experienced could only be a fraction of what his esteemed friend suffered. To have a loved one missing without a word or hint of why or where while the call of fresh murder rang out on the streets must have been turmoil.
“So,” said Elvanfoot. “The solution to the dilemma seems simple enough. If you were to have your missing memories returned, you could no doubt tell us what compelled you to go out that night. And what transpired with my son and where I might find the lad now. Therefore, I submit we find this bauble, as Miss Blackwood calls them, and have the memories replaced in your head, where they may do some good.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Edwina said. “There is a spell for such a thing, but—”
“My dear, there is a spell for everything.”
“Yes, of course, but as Mr. Cameron will attest, the results are not always worth the risk.”
In truth, the specter of having received another man’s memories and the ill effects that followed had rendered Ian spell-shy of ever hoping to retrieve his true memories again. The thought of suffering through another man’s final moments left him queasy and unmoored, as though his legs might wobble beneath him. And yet how much of his own life was he missing? Hob had done his best, but there were thoughts, deeds, regrets that could never be fully known by anyone but himself, but even that was not enough to douse his misgivings about having his memories reinstalled by spellwork. “It’s not as straightforward as one might believe when dealing with the mind,” Ian said. “Gets a bit twitchy if you get it wrong.”
The old witch waited for an explanation, but even upon learning from Edwina about the mismatched memory, he would not be put off. “I believe there may yet be a way to ensure all is well.” A can rattled in the back room. “Ah, yes, here he is. Right on time.”
Hob climbed out of the umbrella stand with a clatter. Arriving with him were two books: one black with a silver clasp and the other a dusty tome that was nearly as big as Hob himself, about which he complained bitterly as he hoisted the thing out of the metal bin. “I had to climb three shelves to get this one. Dinna yell at me if the blue vase on your desk is in several more pieces when you get home than when you left.”
Elvanfoot rolled his eyes and took the heavy book from the overwrought imp and placed it on the shop counter. The black book, small enough to sit comfortably inside a breast pocket, he tucked away as if keeping it for later. “Miss Blackwood, do you mind if I take the liberty?”
Before she could ask him what he meant, Elvanfoot narrowed his eyes and swept his arm out as if parting a curtain. The bolt slid in the lock on the shop door, the sign turned itself to CLOSED, and a veil of darkness surrounded the shop’s interior. And all without speaking a word of incantation.
Edwina stared somewhat openmouthed. “How did you do that?”
“My dear, I’ve been studying and practicing magic so long the incantations have worn a rut in my brain so deep I need not utter them aloud any longer.”
“That’s brilliant,” she said. “But if I keep closing my shop during the day, I’ll not see a penny for my rent come the end of the week.” She shrugged in defeat, admitting the moment was greater than the paltry sales she’d have on a quiet morning when talk of murder was the prevailing business on the street.
“Now,” said Elvanfoot, rubbing his hands together. “I may have exaggerated my skill a wee bit a moment ago, for there are a few spells in which I need to confer with my grimoire. The uncommon, often once-in-a-lifetime predicaments that one can never anticipate. Naturally, those spells are not committed to memory. And that, Miss Blackwood, is where we find ourselves.” He opened the heavy tome resting on top of the glass countertop and thumbed through several pages before stopping and stabbing the open book with his finger. “Ah, this section here,” he said. “These writings on crystal scrying may lead us in the right direction.” He bent his head forward to read the tiny cursive inscriptions as he held his glasses steady. “Or not. It’s all a matter of finding the right magic.”
Ian leaned over the witch’s shoulder to get a better look at his grimoire. The handwriting was rendered in an ornate calligraphy style, as though each word was meant as a dedication to the craft. He shrank back knowing his own scribbled Book of Shadows was often hastily written as an afterthought, and only after he’d relied on absolute instinct to guide his sometimes reckless magic. He’d no aptitude for herbal charms or potions. His primary skill lay in the quick reflex that relied not on incantations but on instinct. By comparison, the pages of his Book of Shadows could easily be folded over and stuffed inside his boot, while the great witch of the north couldn’t lift that damn grimoire of his without using two hands. He left him to it.