“They’re fine,” Diana said sharply.
“Oh, aye. Finer than frog’s hair.” Gallowglass extended his hand farther and hoped that the tea’s aroma would persuade her to indulge. “It’s Scottish Breakfast tea. One of your favorites.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Diana grumbled, taking the mug. “And your mam couldn’t have been drinking whiskey while she carried you. There’s no evidence of whiskey distillation in Scotland or Ireland before the fifteenth century. You’re older than that.”
Gallowglass smothered a sigh of relief at her historical nitpicking.
Diana drew out a phone.
“Who are you calling, Auntie?” Gallowglass asked warily.
“Hamish.”
When Matthew’s best friend picked up the call, his words were exactly what Gallowglass expected them to be.
“Diana? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“I can’t remember where my house is,” she said in lieu of explanation.
“Your house?” Hamish sounded confused.
“My house,” Diana repeated patiently. “The one Matthew gave me in London. You made me sign off on the maintenance bills when we were at Sept-Tours.”
London? Being a vampire was no help at all in his present situation, Gallowglass realized. It would be far better to have been born a witch. Perhaps then he could have divined how this woman’s mind worked.
“It’s in Mayfair, on a little street near the Connaught. Why?”
“I need the key. And the address.” Diana paused for a moment, mulling something over before she spoke. “I’ll need a driver, too, to get around the city. Daemons like the Underground, and vampires own all the major cab companies.”
Of course they owned the cab companies. Who else had the time to memorize the three hundred twenty routes, twenty-five thousand streets, and twenty thousand landmarks within six miles of Charing Cross, that were required in order to get a license?
“A driver?” Hamish sputtered.
“Yes. And does that fancy Coutts account I have come with a bank card—one with a high spending limit?”
Gallowglass swore. She looked at him frostily.
“Yes.” Hamish’s wariness increased.
“Good. I need to buy some books. Everything Athanasius Kircher ever wrote. First or second editions. Do you think you could send out a few inquiries before the weekend?” Diana studiously avoided Gallowglass’s piercing gaze.
“Athanasius who?” Hamish asked. Gallowglass could hear a pen scratching on paper.
“Kircher.” She spelled it out for him, letter by letter. “You’ll have to go to the rare-book dealers.
There must be copies floating around London. I don’t care how much they cost.”
“You sound like Granny,” Gallowglass muttered. That alone was reason for concern.
“If you can’t get me copies by the end of next week, I suppose I’ll have to go to the British Library.
But fall term has started, and the rare-book room is bound to be full of witches. I’m sure it would be better if I stayed at home.”
“Could I talk to Matthew?” Hamish said a trifle breathlessly.
“He’s not here.”
“You’re alone?” He sounded shocked.
“Of course not. Gallowglass is with me,” Diana replied.
“And Gallowglass knows about your plan to sit in the public reading rooms of the British Library and read these books by—what’s his name? Athanasius Kircher? Have you gone completely mad? The whole Congregation is looking for you!” Hamish’s voice rose steadily with each sentence.