I’d been studying the grimoire all afternoon. Unfortunately, I hadn’t made any progress. How does one study the future?
The hour was late, and as usual, I was famished. It was a short jaunt, full of mud-filled quagmires, over to Abramelin Street in the West End. The roadway was clogged with chimney sweeps and other workers headed home for the evening. A brisk wind surged, forcing me to pull my cloak tighter. My destination was just up ahead—a grimy three-story red-brick building that housed Mr. Wigglesby’s office. The plain wooden door opened, and Lance stepped out. My brother appeared haggard. Normally, his hair was perfectly coiffed. At that moment, however, it stood on end as if he’d repeatedly raked his fingers through it. He looked up, and his grimace disappeared when his eyes landed on me.
“Arabella, what are you doing here?”
I smiled sweetly. “Care to have supper with me?”
Lance opened his mouth, then slammed it shut. His face contorted. “If you expect me to eat with them, you’re mistaken.”
“Them?” Confused, I whirled around and saw Trevor and Tamar Bartholomew approaching. “I assure you that I didn’t have either of them in mind.”
Lance stood beside me. “What do you want to do?”
“Discover what they want of course.” I held my chin high and stared down my nose at the couple. “They were gone for a month. Something brought them back.”
“Or someone,” my brother so astutely observed.
Why did he have to point out the obvious?
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