this affair and she may have further information. Her folk have quick ears; they hear many rumors. Then there’s this man Morgus has enspelled . . .”
“The superbanker,” said Will. “Very rich, very powerful. That’s always suspect. You don’t get to be rich and powerful by being a warm, caring person.”
“Precisely. Also his son, Lucas.”
“Luc,” said Fern. “I told you, he’s Gifted. I’m sure of it. I’ll be in touch with him.” She felt a flicker of pleasure at the idea, a reaction she was determined not to reveal, but the feeling faded on another resolve, equally secret, less a determination than a compulsion. There was someone else she had to find, a friendship neglected, a debt unpaid. Kal. And if anyone knew Morgus’s weak spot, it would be him.
She went to bed later that night thinking not of Luc, but of a half monster, double horned and lion clawed, who had once been her guide in the dark.
VI
On Saturday morning, the light crept belatedly into the shop that never opened. Dawn had done little to illuminate the interior, but as the sun ascended a few adventurous rays found their way into the alley, past bleared glass and barred grille, sending two or three thin slivers of brilliance needling into the gloom. Ragginbone was lying on a couch at the back, well past sleep, thinking the long slow thoughts that came from a long slow life. The couch was hard and too short for his height, but the centuries had toughened him against all discomforts and he was conscious of only one physical lack, the warmth of Lougarry’s body pressed against his side. He had left her in Yorkshire—her kind were ill-at-ease in the city—and he missed her silent companionship, her constancy, her soft unspoken whisper in his mind. Presently, he was distracted by the invasion of a newspaper inserted forcibly through the creaking mail slot. He rose to retrieve it, surprised that Moonspittle should have any such contact with modern life; but it was not one of the national dailies, only a local newsheet distributed free to anyone with an accessible door. Ragginbone sat down to peruse it, but instead found himself watching the darts of stray sunshine that traveled across the floor, until cloud or building cut them off for good. Their tiny glimmer revealed glimpses of mounded bric-a-brac dating back hundreds of years, shapeless hunks of abandoned furniture, many-pronged objects that might be candelabra or the antlers of decayed hunting trophies. Everything was dim with age and dust, save for the occasional chink where a glint of residual color peeped through. Ragginbone wondered idly what secrets might be buried there, under the cobwebs and the dirt. When the sun had moved on, his gaze returned to the paper. It was difficult to read in the poor light—he switched on a nearby table lamp, but there was no bulb in it—however, his sight had sharpened with the development of his Gift, and though his powers were mainly gone now, that was one of many side effects that had remained. He was poring over an article about rescue archaeology on a site in King’s Cross when Fern arrived.
Ragginbone admitted her; she had not yet mastered the knock that would summon Moonspittle. “I’ve brought the smoked salmon,” she said.
Mogwit appeared from the nether regions, drawn by some mysterious feline instinct, and pressed himself against her legs, meowing persistently. His attentions continued even on the stair, where she almost fell over him. In the basement, Moonspittle accepted the salmon without thanks and presented it to the cat on a cracked saucer, whereupon Mogwit proceeded to toy with it like a disappointed gourmet.
“Maybe it isn’t fresh enough,” Moonspittle suggested.
“It isn’t supposed to be fresh,” said Fern. “It’s smoked.”
They left the cat to his mind games and Moonspittle prepared an evil-smelling beverage that he insisted was tea. Ragginbone drank it because he had drunk worse things in the sixteenth century; Fern drank out of politeness. “I’ve been wondering,” she said tentatively, “I’ve got only a limited supply of fire crystals and spellpowder. Where do I go to restock?”
“All the same stuff,” Moonspittle responded. “Spellpowder is made from crystals. Ground down, mixed with . . . something. Only one supplier. If he isn’t dead. Haven’t seen him for a while.”
“You haven’t seen most people for a while,” Ragginbone pointed out. “How long?”
“Saw him—oh, in 1850. Remember very well. He had a calendar. He liked to keep track of time.” Moonspittle’s tone implied this was