Even then, Vincent’s song had spoken to him in a deep, fierce way; he played it constantly for several years and could recite it word for word even now. And here was the musician himself, a man who was supposed to be dead for nearly sixty years. Instead of unlocking the library door, David crossed the street and entered the park. A message was a message, a sign was a sign, and it appeared that Vincent Owens had returned from the grave. For years, David had sought out a spell that would bring back the dead, even though he knew that what came back from the other side would be dark and unnatural. The sheer permanence of the loss of his daughter undid him in a thousand ways. But now here he was, about to meet a man who had risen. The trees in Hyde Park were leafy and green, but at this hour they appeared black. Funny, he had worn a black suit and a black tie today, as if he would be attending a funeral.
“Have you returned from the dead?” David Ward said. Necromancy was referred to as The Knowledge and human history was littered with those who had chased after a cure for death. “Is it possible?”
“I’m not back from anything. I’ve always been here.” When David shot him a puzzled look, Vincent added, “In hiding.”
“Too bad,” David said. “I thought you had The Knowledge.” It was a joke, a play on taxi drivers’ crash course in knowing the city, only the left-handed version had to do with raising the dead. David tried such a spell once and no good had come of it. Afterward, he’d been sick for weeks, vomiting up strange items: beads, feathers, earrings, cigarette butts. All of it, he’d come to realize, were items that had belonged to his daughter. He ceased fooling around with necromancy then, and was wise to have done so.
“Actually, I thought you might be able to help me.” Vincent handed the librarian his great-granddaughter’s photograph, a lovely girl Vincent had yet to meet, cursed in love, but blessed in all other things, for whose safety, he believed, only he held the key. “She’s gone missing.”
“Kylie,” David Ward said, wondering if he would remember this day as unlucky or if he would be grateful for it forever more. “I know where she is.”
* * *
Ian went running early, out the door before six. He did this every day and he wasn’t about to stop due to the attack that had, frankly, left him a bit weak even after his cure. He certainly wasn’t about to allow the presence of his uninvited guests to interrupt his schedule, even though Sally was among them. Sally, who wouldn’t speak to him, who gazed away if she caught him observing her and had once said, “Stop it right now!” Well, of course, she was right. He had no business getting involved with her, or with anyone else for that matter. As for Sally, she’d be gone before he knew it. All the same, he was affected by her presence and needed a run more than ever to clear his head.
The Americans had taken over Ian’s flat, leaving him to sleep on a blanket on the floor of the front room beside the bookcases, where he couldn’t get any rest. He still ached and his pulse was ragged. Ian hoped exercise would help to restore him. He had first considered that running might be his salvation when he was in jail, and as soon as he got out, he began to run in earnest. Each time he hit the streets, he remembered what it had been like to be locked up, as this morning he remembered being trapped inside a frozen body, spellbound and incapable of moving.
He would have to pay back Sally Owens for saving his life. Last night they’d had a quick supper of soup Franny Owens had made, using all the ingredients in his pantry it seemed. “What are you staring at?” Franny had asked him. He’d been fumbling around in a drawer, searching for spoons, then had suddenly stopped and looked up, riveted.
“Nothing,” he said, as if he were a guilty boy caught stealing.
“You’re staring at my niece,” Franny declared. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
“Actually, no. I think you’re a witch.”
“Then you’re not so stupid after all.”