The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(77)
“There’s nothing natural about it,” he said.
Elvanfoot begged to differ, but he had more pressing matters to get to. “The police left a few minutes before you arrived. They confiscated everything belonging to Mary. They took the items hidden in the trunk. Her grimoire, and the baubles she’d collected.” He held up a finger. “All but this one, that is.”
“Sir had to keep it safe, so I hid it in the umbrella stand,” Hob said.
For a heartbeat Ian held out hope the memory was his, but he knew Mary had taken that one with her. So who did this one belong to? And why hide it from the police?
“We were fortunate to have finished our little experiment moments before they arrived, were we not, Hob? Or we would have been found out.”
Hob grinned so wide the corners of his mouth forced his pointed ears to poke up through his scruff of hair. “Show Mister,” he said. “Come see, come see, come see!”
Ian watched as Sir Elvanfoot placed the blue orb in his palm.
“It occurred to me that there was little use in taking a person’s memory only to shrink it down to stone. There’s little fascination in holding the orbs. Light doesn’t pass through. And they aren’t of true gemstone quality. However,” the witch said, holding his hand open, “if one could condense a memory, perhaps one could also expand it.”
Sir Elvanfoot had Hob sprinkle water over the orb. The hard shell cracked and swelled, transforming into a shimmering blue light that reflected shadows of people and places.
“Mary did that very thing. I could see images of my thoughts floating inside the orb she’d stolen from me.” A strange sort of melancholia ruffled through Ian at the sight of another’s memories, knowing he would never really know the extent of what he’d lost inside that orb.
“Simple expansion spell.” Elvanfoot shrugged. “Same one I use for turning prunes into plums.”
“Sir tested them all before we found this one.” Hob’s eyes reflected the blue light. “Such strange and wondrous visions they all held.”
Elvanfoot raised his hand and they watched the shadows swirl inside the orb. A woman in a green dress laughing. A carriage ride over the River Clayborn. Ian recognized the columns of the philosopher’s monument above his city and then the image of a viaduct as a train rattled over, blowing its whistle. “Whose memory is this?” he asked as Sir Elvanfoot’s face appeared in the orb’s shadows. The wizard was reading a grimoire beside an enormous fireplace. His hair was not yet white. He offered a toffee to the owner of the memory.
“It belongs to my son.” Elvanfoot let the orb shrink again. The blue light collapsed.
“It’s George’s? But then—”
Before he could finish his thought, a noise like a window sash crashing against the sill rattled upstairs. Ian held up his hand to caution Elvanfoot and Hob to stay put while he checked the stairway. If it was Mary, he would strike first and ask questions later. Instead, he found Edwina at the top of the stairs, soaked to the skin and shivering as her shawl hung limp over her shoulders.
“It’s gone,” she said. “I lost it.” Ian ran up to meet her as she spoke between sobs. “Your memory. The orb fell in the river. I tried to get it back, but I didn’t know where to look.” Her knees folded and she nearly collapsed.
“You’re all right. Calm down.” Ian put his arms around her and held her tight, helping her down the stairs. “Hob! Tea and warm clothes!”
The hearth elf hovered over Edwina as Ian lowered her gently onto the same chair he’d sat in when she’d helped him. Hob removed a fluff of cotton wadding from his inside pocket and set it in Edwina’s hand. He blew out a puff of breath and her sodden clothes dried instantly, restored to their previous condition, though her hand now held a sopping clump of wet cotton.
She sat up a little less bedraggled than before and thanked the elf, who ran off to get her a cup of tea.
When he’d gone, Sir Elvanfoot approached Edwina. “And what news of your sister?” he asked, still holding his son’s memory in his hand.
“I think I’ve lost her for good too,” she said and described her confrontation with Mary. “I told her she would hang for what she’d done, and then she dropped Ian’s memory in the river and escaped.” Though her clothes were now dry, she continued to tremble from the ordeal until Hob handed her a steaming cup of tea, which she drank in small sips between repeated apologies.
It was then Ian truly let it sink in what she’d said. His memories, all the missing pieces his hearth elf couldn’t restore, were gone. Lost in the river. Forever. All his most intimate experiences, his reflections on life and love, the thoughts he’d kept only to himself, were gone. What dreams and secret desires had he lost? What fears and regrets? Grudges? Ambitions? Who was he without the private interstices that once existed between the larger memories? It was almost too vast to consider, and yet he knew he was still himself, still capable of rekindling the better parts of the man he hoped he was.
Thoughts on his nature led him to wonder about George and how their fates had crossed on the path with Mary Blackwood. If the man’s memory was here, then he was out on the streets without his wits. He would know no one and remember nothing, not even his name. Ian saw the same worried thought surface in Sir Elvanfoot’s eyes as he peered at the orb in his hand, as though wondering how he would return a memory to a son who didn’t know who or what he was anymore.