“Yes, of course, but as Mr. Cameron will attest, the results are not always worth the risk.”
In truth, the specter of having received another man’s memories and the ill effects that followed had rendered Ian spell-shy of ever hoping to retrieve his true memories again. The thought of suffering through another man’s final moments left him queasy and unmoored, as though his legs might wobble beneath him. And yet how much of his own life was he missing? Hob had done his best, but there were thoughts, deeds, regrets that could never be fully known by anyone but himself, but even that was not enough to douse his misgivings about having his memories reinstalled by spellwork. “It’s not as straightforward as one might believe when dealing with the mind,” Ian said. “Gets a bit twitchy if you get it wrong.”
The old witch waited for an explanation, but even upon learning from Edwina about the mismatched memory, he would not be put off. “I believe there may yet be a way to ensure all is well.” A can rattled in the back room. “Ah, yes, here he is. Right on time.”
Hob climbed out of the umbrella stand with a clatter. Arriving with him were two books: one black with a silver clasp and the other a dusty tome that was nearly as big as Hob himself, about which he complained bitterly as he hoisted the thing out of the metal bin. “I had to climb three shelves to get this one. Dinna yell at me if the blue vase on your desk is in several more pieces when you get home than when you left.”
Elvanfoot rolled his eyes and took the heavy book from the overwrought imp and placed it on the shop counter. The black book, small enough to sit comfortably inside a breast pocket, he tucked away as if keeping it for later. “Miss Blackwood, do you mind if I take the liberty?”
Before she could ask him what he meant, Elvanfoot narrowed his eyes and swept his arm out as if parting a curtain. The bolt slid in the lock on the shop door, the sign turned itself to CLOSED, and a veil of darkness surrounded the shop’s interior. And all without speaking a word of incantation.
Edwina stared somewhat openmouthed. “How did you do that?”
“My dear, I’ve been studying and practicing magic so long the incantations have worn a rut in my brain so deep I need not utter them aloud any longer.”
“That’s brilliant,” she said. “But if I keep closing my shop during the day, I’ll not see a penny for my rent come the end of the week.” She shrugged in defeat, admitting the moment was greater than the paltry sales she’d have on a quiet morning when talk of murder was the prevailing business on the street.
“Now,” said Elvanfoot, rubbing his hands together. “I may have exaggerated my skill a wee bit a moment ago, for there are a few spells in which I need to confer with my grimoire. The uncommon, often once-in-a-lifetime predicaments that one can never anticipate. Naturally, those spells are not committed to memory. And that, Miss Blackwood, is where we find ourselves.” He opened the heavy tome resting on top of the glass countertop and thumbed through several pages before stopping and stabbing the open book with his finger. “Ah, this section here,” he said. “These writings on crystal scrying may lead us in the right direction.” He bent his head forward to read the tiny cursive inscriptions as he held his glasses steady. “Or not. It’s all a matter of finding the right magic.”
Ian leaned over the witch’s shoulder to get a better look at his grimoire. The handwriting was rendered in an ornate calligraphy style, as though each word was meant as a dedication to the craft. He shrank back knowing his own scribbled Book of Shadows was often hastily written as an afterthought, and only after he’d relied on absolute instinct to guide his sometimes reckless magic. He’d no aptitude for herbal charms or potions. His primary skill lay in the quick reflex that relied not on incantations but on instinct. By comparison, the pages of his Book of Shadows could easily be folded over and stuffed inside his boot, while the great witch of the north couldn’t lift that damn grimoire of his without using two hands. He left him to it.
While Elvanfoot searched through his spells, Ian asked Edwina for the opportunity to speak to her, gently prodding her by the elbow to step a few feet away. “Is your sister here?” he asked.
“You mean my sister the vampire?”
Hob, overhearing, eyed him with curiosity. Ian regretted his choice of words with Edwina and for raising his voice the day before. Of course he did. “I deserve your scorn for that,” he said, bowing his head in contrition. “There’s something unique and rare about your magic and hers. I know you’ve had to keep it hidden from others for most of your lives. But I also dinna believe what happened to me was the first time she’s taken memories from the living.” Edwina was visibly uncomfortable at such talk, but he continued. “Still, it canna be easy being uncommon even among your own kind. Please accept my apology.”