“Oh, dear,” Tessa said sadly, laying her fork down. “And I was so hungry too.”
“There’s always the dinner rol s,” said Wil , pointing to a covered basket. “Though I warn you, they’re as hard as stones. You could use them to kil black beetles, if any beetles bother you in the middle of the night.”
Tessa made a face and took a swig of her wine. It was as sour as vinegar.
Wil set his fork down and began cheerful y, in the manner of Edward Lear’s Book of Nonsense: “There once was a lass from New York
Who found herself hungry in York.
But the bread was like rocks,
The parsnips shaped like—”
“You can’t rhyme ‘York’ with ‘York,’” interrupted Tessa. “It’s cheating.”
“She’s right, you know,” said Jem, his delicate fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. “Especial y with ‘fork’ being so obviously the correct choice—”
“Good evening.” The hulking shadow of Aloysius Starkweather loomed up suddenly in the doorway; Tessa wondered with a flush of embarrassment how long he’d been standing there. “Mr. Herondale, Mr. Carstairs, Miss, ah—”
“Gray,” Tessa said. “Theresa Gray.”
“Indeed.” Starkweather made no apologies, just settled himself heavily at the head of the table. He was carrying a square, flat box, the sort bankers used to keep their papers in, which he set down beside his plate. With a flash of excitement Tessa saw that there was a year marked on it —1825—and even better, three sets of initials. JTS, A ES, A HM.
“No doubt your young miss wil be pleased to know I’ve buckled to her demands and searched the archives al day and half last night besides,”
Starkweather began in an aggrieved tone. It took Tessa a moment to realize that in this case, “young miss” meant Charlotte. “It’s lucky, she is, that my father never threw anything out. And the moment I saw the papers, I remembered.” He tapped his temple. “Eighty-nine years, and I never forget a thing. You tel old Wayland that when he talks about replacing me.”
“We surely wil , sir,” said Jem, his eyes dancing.
Starkweather took a hearty gulp of his wine and made a face. “By the Angel, this stuff’s disgusting.” He set the glass down and began pul ing papers from the box. “What we have here is an application for Reparations on behalf of two warlocks. John and Anne Shade. A married couple.
“Now, here’s the odd bit,” the old man went on. “The filing was done by their son, Axel Hol ingworth Mortmain, twenty-two years old. Now, of course warlocks are barren—”
Wil shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes slanting away from Tessa’s.
“This son was adopted,” said Jem.
“Shouldn’t be al owed, that,” said Starkweather, taking another slug of the wine he had pronounced disgusting. His cheeks were beginning to redden. “Like giving a human child to wolves to raise. Before the Accords—”
“If there are any clues to his whereabouts,” said Jem, gently trying to steer the conversation back onto its track. “We have very little time—”
“Very wel , very wel ,” snapped Starkweather. “There’s little information about your precious Mortmain in here. More about the parents. It seems suspicion fel on them when it was discovered that the male warlock, John Shade, was in possession of the Book of the White. Quite a powerful spel book, you understand; disappeared from the London Institute’s library under suspicious circumstances back in 1752. The book specializes in binding and unbinding spel s—tying the soul to the body, or untying it, as the case may be. Turned out the warlock was trying to animate things. He was digging up corpses or buying them off medical students and replacing the more damaged bits with mechanisms. Then trying to bring them to life. Necromancy—very much against the Law. And we didn’t have the Accords in those days. An Enclave group swept in and slaughtered both warlocks.”
“And the child?” said Wil . “Mortmain?”
“No hide nor hair of him,” said Starkweather. “We searched, but nothing. Assumed he was dead, til this turned up, cheeky as you please, demanding reparations. Even his address—”
“His address?” Wil demanded. That information had not been included in the scrol they had seen at the Institute. “In London?”
“Nay. Right here in Yorkshire.” Starkweather tapped the page with a wrinkled finger. “Ravenscar Manor. A massive old pile up north from here.
Been abandoned now, I think, for decades. Now that I think about it, can’t figure how he could’ve afforded it in the first place. It’s not where the Shades lived.”
“Stil ,” said Jem. “An excel ent starting point for us to go looking. If it’s been abandoned since his tenancy, there may be things he left behind. In fact, he may wel stil be using the place.”