“Thank you. And I apologize for my sister and I putting you through such agony. You had every right to be angry with me. With her. But you have to understand, I’m very protective of her. She may be all the family I have left. And she’s been so different all her life. Always the one to draw the worst attention from those who would judge.”
“Of course. She’s lucky to have you,” Ian said. Edwina gave him a genuine smile then, one with the power to buff the edge of cynicism off him.
“She’s upstairs resting,” she said. “She had a fright earlier. A man attacked her on the street. Struck her in the face.” She looked away again, uneasy. “She claimed it was random, but I’m not sure I believe her. I’ve privately wondered if she’s been seeing someone unsuitable. Leastwise, she never mentions him.”
“Attacked? Have you notified the police? A man like that ought to be horsewhipped.”
Edwina shook her head. She appeared to want to share something more, gazing up as she listened for sounds of her sister’s presence on the floor above. Instead she presented a carry-on-with-it smile. “She’ll be all right. I gave her tea and applied a calming spell so she can rest.”
How her eyes did sparkle when she allowed herself to be free of care, he thought. Ian nodded his endorsement of the sister’s treatment, while hoping the discord between he and Edwina had been mended. Hob, too, smiled with approval from where he sat on the counter beside the spell book.
“Here we are.” Elvanfoot straightened and removed his glasses, giving them a wipe with a handkerchief. “I believe, if we follow these instructions on electromagnetic attraction, we may achieve a more accurate result in returning the correct bauble to the correct body.”
The memory of the man’s lifeblood draining out of him, the contraction of light in the pupil as his consciousness faded, and the flash of a beloved child’s face never to be seen again in this life—the risk of experiencing another’s pain, or even bitter joy, at the end of life was an emotional bridge Ian wasn’t ready to cross again so soon.
Elvanfoot slid his glasses back on, peering at Ian through what felt like a more powerful lens than that afforded by curved glass housed in wire frames. The scrutiny was almost unbearable until the wizard relented, lowering his gaze back to the book. “Your resistance is understandable,” he said. “Something went terribly wrong last time. You repelled the implanted memory. But I am not the witch Miss Blackwood is.”
Ian thought to protest, but the truth of it was plain enough.
“You’ve had portions of your memory returned,” Elvanfoot said with a glance at Hob. “And it may feel as though you are whole, apart from those four days, but I would caution you against such thinking. While your guardian here has done his best to give back all he contained of your life, in your heart you know he could not know all. If the witch’s bauble is still intact, we can give those remaining parts back to you. If you’re willing to trust. And then perhaps we might also find my son again.”
Seeing his reluctance, Elvanfoot made a proposal. “A test,” he said. “Describe for me, if you can, the first time we met. Your imp, I can attest, was not there, so how much do you recall in detail?”
Hob shrank inside his coat, a move that did not fill Ian with confidence. As he thought back on the first memory he had of the infamous witch, an image of the white-haired man speaking behind a podium rose up. “Three years ago, you gave a speech on the influence of magic on modern thought in science and medicine,” Ian said, triumphant. “You wore a gray jacket with a waistcoat. And a kilt of red tartan. I went up to you afterward to shake your hand.” He closed his fist as if grabbing another thought, but all he came up with was empty air. What he remembered next was the familiarity that already existed between them. Neither had felt the need to introduce himself. They spoke as if they were well acquainted. “You asked after my parents. But how would you know their names, if we’d just met?”
Elvanfoot was circumspect. “I recall the night you describe. We did shake hands, certainly. But in truth we had met for the first time perhaps two years earlier.” Ian shook his head in doubt. “You were still working for the Constabulary then. A young investigator who’d been called on to handle a domestic dispute.” He leaned toward Edwina to fill her in. “My wife tried to have me dispatched by feeding me a potion made from bark and fungus. Fly agaric, to be precise.”
“How terrible,” she said.