Nick shook his head. “How hard is it to have someone light lamps?”
“Saves on servants,” Simon said. “I haven’t seen nearly as many as a house this size should have. I’m sure there are tremendous labor-saving devices all over the estate.”
They continued down with Nick muttering about pointlessness. He had balked at shaving, which scored him disappointed glances from the butler in the dining room. Both men were surprised to see Imogen present. She wore a fashionable flowered gown of muslin with balloon sleeves. She curtsied, seeming only slightly disconcerted, and stared at Nick with hard eyes, but she said nothing. Then she appraised Simon with an approving smile and clutched the back of the chair where she was to sit next to him, as if someone would move it out of the room.
The dining table was long but set with only four places at one end. Tasteful flowers accented the array of glasses for water and wines and the arsenal of silverware next to each of the fine china plates. Menus rested in each spot. Simon perused his and was much impressed, particularly given they’d only had a few hours.
A side door opened. Simon glanced up from the menu and his eyes widened. Kate entered in a gown of dark velvet that clung to her narrow waist and expressive hips. The pale skin of her strong bare shoulders shone beautifully above the rise of her breasts. Her auburn hair was twisted in a fetchingly wild tangle on top of her head, framing the strong cut of her cheekbones. Her green eyes covered the room, lingering a moment on Simon as he bowed, sweeping past Nick to settle with concern on Imogen. Kate approached the table, and only then did Simon see one of her father’s journals in her hand.
“Please, everyone sit,” she said graciously, her attention focused on Imogen’s pale features. “There’s no formality among us, despite the setting. It’s merely been a long time since we’ve had visitors at Hartley Hall.”
Kate sat at the head of the table, with Imogen settled at Simon’s right and Nick on her left. Legs were barely under the table when oysters where placed before everyone. Simon lifted his small glass of white wine and stood.
“If I may offer a toast to our hostess, Miss Anstruther, and to her lovely sister, Miss Imogen. We thank you for your hospitality. It is a great honor to pass an evening at Hartley Hall.”
Kate nodded and sipped, and before Simon could sit, she had opened the journal, her face alight with the excitement of discovery. “Here. Look.”
Simon made a show of setting down his oyster fork with an indulgent smile. The yellowed pages of the journal were covered in scrawls, some legible, some not. Some words. Numbers and formulas. Symbols he had no familiarity with. He did see several detailed drawings of what appeared to be the very key nestled in his waistcoat. He removed the key to compare. The drawings were clearly the very thing.
“When was this written?” Simon asked.
“The journal is dated seventeen ninety-nine, but there are loose sheets of papers stuffed in there that I believe are from even earlier.”
“Thirty years ago. Curious.” Simon handed the journal to Nick, who was more interested in the oysters. “I suppose it’s possible that your father knew my mother and gave her the key as a gift. She certainly never mentioned having the acquaintance of Sir Roland Anstruther.”
Kate said, “I don’t think that likely.”
“Why?”
“From what I can read of my father’s notes, the key isn’t just a keepsake that he would hand off. Unlike many of his creations, he was quite focused on this one.”
“I don’t see anything particularly extraordinary about this key.”
“Good God,” Nick breathed. He was holding a ragged sheet of parchment he had pulled from between pages. His eyes were wide. He turned the sheet and held it up.
Simon recognized runic scribing on the page. Magical symbols, similar to those he used. In fact, disturbingly similar.
He snatched the sheet from Nick’s hand and stared at it. His breath grew short. More sheets were held out to him. He took them from Nick and laid them on the table, stymieing the servants who sought to remove the oyster course and bring the soup. Simon went from sheet to sheet, running his fingers along the symbols, comparing them. Even in his intense concentration, he noted the faint scent of Kate’s perfume as she came to his shoulder.
“Those are magical runes,” she said.
“They’re more than that.”
“In what way?”
“I am almost certain they were written by my father.”
“Your father?” Kate exhaled in shock. “Your father was a magician?”
“He was a scribe. Like myself. I recognize his style from notes of his that I have.” Simon looked at Nick with a slowly spreading grin. “These are spells written by my father.”
Kate asked, “Why would my father have them?”