It was dusk when Simon entered the front door of his Gaunt Lane town house to hear Nick shout from the drawing room, “Where have you been all day?” Simon tossed his hat carelessly on a small table and draped his coat over an already overcrowded hook.
He entered the drawing room to see Nick lounging on the sofa with shoes kicked off and shirt collar open. The room, as always, was comfortable, in a bachelor sense. It was a veritable disaster of unshelved books and piles of newspapers, as well as old plates, cups, and saucers. But a warm coal fire glowed in the hearth. Simon set his walking stick on a table and poured a glass of whiskey before refilling Nick’s proffered tumbler.
Nick stared at Simon, clearly seeing the emotion on his face but saying nothing.
Simon lifted a newspaper from a table and noted it was several months old. “I had errands to run. Did you become petrified on the sofa and need help turning over?” He then saw a scowling yellow cat sitting in the doorway. “Did you feed the cat?”
Nick craned his neck to stare at the little beast. “Have we ever fed the cat?”
“I thought you did. And he looks hungry. Or angry.” Simon took his pipe from the bookshelf and began to fill it with tobacco.
Nick stretched and crossed his feet. “While you were out buying a new stick, I was working. I went by Lord Oakham’s club.”
Simon spun quickly. “And?”
“He wasn’t there. The servants wouldn’t tell me his whereabouts.”
Simon perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair. “You didn’t go looking like that, did you?”
“Like what?”
“Like you.” The younger magician touched a rune inscribed on the bowl of his pipe and whispered a quiet word. He felt heat and the tobacco began to burn.
Nick scowled. “Give me a bit of credit, will you? I used a glamour spell. They thought I was a proper gent, such as yourself. For all the good it did.”
Simon stared off into the distance with his pipe clenched between his teeth. “Oakham is expected at Viscount Gillingham’s ball tonight. Along with half of London’s better set.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know things. In any case, we’ll attend too. We’ll latch onto his lordship if he shows and follow him. Do you think you can manage a shave and a suit of proper clothes?”
“No. I’ll just use a glamour spell again. I still have a bit of the potion.” Nick sipped whiskey. “That Scotsman seemed as if he knew what he was about. You don’t want to leave the wolf hunting to him?”
“I do not.” Smoke drifted up from Simon’s pipe. His eyes were focused somewhere between the clock on the mantel and the planet Jupiter.
Nick regarded his friend for a moment. “You haven’t said much about last night.”
Simon grunted. “Not much to say.”
“I thought she was—”
“Leave it,” Simon snapped with a quick stare at the older man.
“No.” Nick spun around on the old sofa and sat up. “I don’t think I will leave it. I thought she was a friend of yours.”
Simon glared a silent challenge at Nick to be met with the unblinking eyes of his friend. Finally he said, “You don’t want to hear it.”
“Not without another splash, no.” Nick stood and poured more whiskey. “Now I do.”
Simon sat back and stretched out his legs. “Do you remember what she said to me before she died?”
“That she was glad she saw you.”
“The other bit. That I was still the same.”
Nick regarded him with mock seriousness. “You’re a handsome fellow, no doubt. And you’ve held up well.”
“Thank you, but that’s not what she meant.” Simon stared into the red glow of his pipe. He listened to the coal fire hissing from the hearth. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick pile of clippings from the newspaper. From his other pocket, he drew out more. He tossed them on a nearby desk. “I went by her rooms this morning. She had cut every item from the newspapers where I had been mentioned in the years since we parted.”
Nick raised surprised eyebrows at the tattered stack of newsprint. “She did? I thought she left you.”
“She did.”
“Well, she seemed to have nursed a rather vigorous obsession.”
From his waistcoat, Simon pulled a slim collection of news items and held them up. “That gigantic mound of clippings deal with my various appearances at parties and galas, or rumors of affairs and indiscretions to which I’ve been attached.”
“Impressive.”
“These few here are reports of uncanny little stories which Beatrice correctly presumed I was involved in as a magician.” Simon laid the paltry few occult clippings next to the mountain of society stories. “That is the sum total of my life.”
Nick smiled. “You certainly do attend a lot of parties.”
Simon stared glumly into the distance.
“Simon, you couldn’t know she carried a torch for you,” Nick said with sympathy. “She never tried to contact you until yesterday. How could you—”
“That’s not the point.” Simon’s voice was exasperated.
“Oh. What is the point then?”
“What am I doing?”
Nick shook his head, confused.