Ian had known Tom since Lockland had been a boy lurking around the town where they’d both grown up, seeking vengeance in whatever small way he could. Tom was twenty-five years younger than Ian, but he had a reputation in town by the time he was twelve. It was a bad age, set between being a child and being a man, and people often were lost during that year. Tom had been tossed out of school time and again, known as a fellow who set fires in the thickets in the forest and it was thought he might have a hand in a fire begun in the bins behind the local library, which thankfully was put out before the flames could leap to the building. After prison, Ian was trying to make amends, he’d imagined Tom was a kindred spirit who could use help in steadying himself. Ian’s wild youth had not defined him and he wanted to share that knowledge. He knew the rumors about the Locklands; the family that had gone downhill, from great wealth and near royal standing to ruin. Ian had imagined they had something in common, and had been arrogant to think of himself as a potential mentor, but Tom sneered at the friendship he’d offered, stalking away and telling Ian to piss off.
In the years that followed, he’d heard gossip that Tom often camped out at Lockland Manor, once for an entire year, flinging up a tent inside one of the derelict rooms, living there through a brutal winter, stealing boots and a coat from an old couple who phoned the police when they saw a teenager break into a run in the field, but who, when a detective came to question them, found they couldn’t speak to lay blame on Tom. There was madder root on their hands and feet and dusting their front hallway and they never did press charges. Tom knew about poison even then, Ian realized.
He remembered how Tom had set out glass around the perimeter of his tent, arranged in the shape of a pentagram to reverse any ill will. Tom was headed toward the left even then, happy to use the Crooked Path to get back at anyone and everyone. He didn’t care that the manor house was in shambles, too expensive for the county to keep up, little more than a relic, he thought of the estate as his even then. Magic didn’t come naturally to him, but he had some learned skill. Once when Ian was visiting his mother, taking a walk with her Labrador retriever, Jinx, the dog had rushed over to a barn on the Lockland estate, barking like mad. Because of the dog’s racket Ian had stopped to peer into the house. Tom was naked in front of a bonfire that spat out flame and smoke, fed by the fuel of books he’d found in the manor house. The act of burning a book was such a brutal and meaningless act Ian had shouted out, but Tom turned to him and jeered. “I’ll do whatever I want. You can’t stop me. Nobody can.”
Ian had told his mother what he’d seen, and Margaret Wright had shaken her head, though she hadn’t been surprised. She practiced the Nameless Art and therefore saw through people to their core. “If you knew the whole story, you’d know the reason. The past can take over if you let it. This town is not the reason he’s cursed, yet he blames each and every one of us. It’s what’s inside him that’s the problem. The neglect he suffered, that’s what ruined him. If you think you’re nothing, that’s what you become.”
Ian thought it would be faster if he ran home, considering London traffic at this hour, but Vincent insisted on getting them a taxi. The librarian had given Vincent his phone number, in case more research was necessary, something he’d never offered to Ian despite all the time the historian spent at the library. Vincent noticed he’d been given Ward’s personal number. “You could call to let me know how the girl is,” David said. “If you don’t mind.”
The rain that had previously eased had returned, pelting down upon the streets. The world was dim, and they were fortunate to get a taxi, or maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it was Vincent out there on the pavement beneath a streetlamp that flickered gray and then bright once more.
“Are you ready for this?” Vincent asked Sally as he opened the taxi door for her.
Sally had always avoided her talent, but now, she could feel herself opening to that side of herself. She could already see the inside stories of those around her, a trait of those who have the sight, whether they want it or not. There was the taxi driver’s remorse over an argument with his son, and the librarian’s suffering over the loss of a child, and the man beside her, leaning forward to give the driver his address, who believed he was immune to love. For twenty years he had thought of nothing but his book. Without it, he feared he could become his old self, drawn to the left for his own selfish reasons, forsaking love. His mother had always insisted that no one was immune to love. It was impossible, she vowed. On his last visit home, she’d grabbed his hands to see what his fate might be. As she read him, she breathed out an audible sigh of regret as she scrutinized the lines on his right hand, the fate he had been given, but then she’d stunned him by laughing out loud when she looked at his left hand. “Won’t you be surprised,” she had said.