“Why didn’t you contact me?” he muttered. “My God, why let this happen?”
Simon’s mind cast back to their final weeks together. Their separation had been amiable enough. Simon had imagined he loved her; she had been passionate, comforting, and encouraging in all ways. He remembered the warmth and gentle softness of her body. But he knew now that was the passion of a young man in his first love affair among the avenues of a great city. He had loved her, but had been in love with the places she took him and the people she showed him. And he understood that she had greater opportunities than a young gentleman with money but no family pedigree. She was always courted by lords and officials. He had taken comfort in the confidence she had given him, assuming that he could move forward and thrive, which he had.
Simon gazed over the meager possessions in the room. A makeshift open closet along one wall held several threadbare dresses. There was a small clutch of badly used makeup as if they had been taken from the trash. In another corner were several large stacks of newspapers, some yellowed with age. A pair of scissors sat atop one stack. On the far interior wall was a curtain although there shouldn’t have been a window there.
Simon stepped to the drape and pulled it back. He twisted his head curiously at what was behind it. Newspaper clippings were pinned to the wall. Dozens, if not hundreds of them.
He leaned close to see a society report of a party at Lord Cutshaw’s home. Simon recalled that party and, in fact, saw his name in the item. Next to that was another article describing a spring horse race in Wiltshire. Simon had been there too, and his name appeared among the guests. The opening of the Pyramid Theater in Covent Garden. His name was there. And in the next. And the next.
Every fluttering scrap of newsprint held a mention of some event or gathering where Simon had been present. It was a wall charting his social activities over the last seven years. The time since he and Beatrice had parted.
However, below the phalanx of society notices were three small clippings. One was a story of how Lord Cutshaw had exposed fraudulent mediums preying on unfortunates around his country estate. In fact, Simon had rooted out those cheats who had victimized Lord Cutshaw himself. A second item told of reports of a monstrous glowing panther in Salisbury. Simon had investigated that too, while spending a delightful week at the local derby with Lady Dunston. And there was a final clip about the Pyramid Theater closing for renovations, while rumors persisted that the management had been forced to shut down by a vengeful spirit. The tone of the piece was mocking, but Simon knew the theater had been haunted by bloody ghosts because he had been the one to silence them.
He stood back, stunned. Here was his life in London. Parties. Galas. Derbys. Operas. And a handful of pathetic mystical interventions more suited to a sleight-of-hand huckster than a man who laid claim to being the last scribe on Earth, the only man alive who could own and command the aether through spell and word.
Beatrice had always had a little interest in mysticism. She had been an accomplished enchantress, but one with a clear ceiling on her skills. Still, she had always claimed the only limit to Simon’s occult abilities was Simon himself. And now he saw that she had been watching him from afar and documenting his progress.
Simon took in the vast swathe of society items and few notices relating to the occult. He would have liked to make the excuse that his magical activities were secret and by definition would not be in the press. This was true. His identity as a magician was known to few; only Nick knew the full extent of it because Nick had been a teacher of sorts. However, Simon knew he could have written a detailed account of his true occult exploits using paper not much greater than the few clips under his eyes.
He would have liked to make the excuse that the previous years had been consumed learning his craft, studying arcane texts, and practicing inscriptions. And this too was true. His skills had become extraordinary, but of late there were far too few evenings that he gave over to study when a night out called. He could claim to have added little value to anyone’s life using his unique skills.
Simon stood shivering in the freezing flat of a woman who he believed had left him behind. She had dedicated herself to him, and he hadn’t even known it. And he certainly hadn’t deserved it. He lowered his head under the petty weight of the voluminous chronicle of his achievements rustling in the wind before him.
“My God, I am exactly the same. Just as you said.” Simon felt warm tears sliding down his cheeks and he hoped they were for Beatrice.