Instead of returning me to the library, we collected the untitled book from my room at the lodging house and drove to the Petersons’ paper factory on Bethnal Green Road. By the end of the journey, Gabe’s jaw wasn’t as firmly set as when we started.
He opened the motorcar door for me. “I’m sorry I was angry earlier. I have no right to tell you what to do.”
“It is your investigation, Gabe.” I placed a hand on his arm and smiled to show that it didn’t upset me.
His anger was nothing compared to my mother’s when she discovered I’d disobeyed her order to go directly home after school. On one occasion when she finished work early and didn’t find me in our flat, she’d become worried. I’d stopped at the home of an elderly couple I’d come to know. When they discovered I liked books they’d invited me into their private library to read of an afternoon. I loved those visits, and always went home stuffed full of knowledge, cake and tea. But my mother put a stop to them after that day, even though I begged her to meet the couple so she could see they were harmless. She’d harangued me until her voice was hoarse. Gabe’s anger was mild by comparison.
“You understand that I was simply worried about you, don’t you?” he asked.
I could have reassured him that I was the least likely person to deliberately place myself in a vulnerable situation with a dangerous man. But that would start a discussion that I didn’t want to have. “There were a lot of police about,” I said instead. “Thurlow wouldn’t risk doing something in the open.”
“It’s not that.” He searched the sky for the right words. “It’s more that I didn’t want him meeting you. I don’t want him to use you against me.”
“How would he do that?”
He walked off in the direction of the factory’s office door. “And another thing, why did you agree to help Willie last night?”
“Don’t blame her. I inserted myself into her scheme to steal the book. She needed someone to keep watch while she picked the locks. If I hadn’t helped her, she might have got caught and we wouldn’t be here now.” I patted the cover of the book in my hand.
“She didn’t need to steal it. I was going to offer to take apart Lady Stanhope’s watch or a clock and put it back together in exchange for a book. I’m not a magician, but she would have been satisfied with that. God knows why.”
“Would she?”
He stopped on the bottom step and looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“She would have continued to harass you. She’s convinced you’re a magician, and if she doesn’t leave you alone, she might…” I glanced around to make sure we were alone. “She might find out the truth.”
His gaze searched mine in earnest. “Is that why you volunteered to help Willie steal it back? Because you were worried about me?”
He might not be a magician, but that intense gaze of his put a spell on me. I felt like we were alone, standing in a meadow sprinkled with yellow daisies beneath a blue sky, not on the steps of a factory under a miasma of dirty smoke spewing from its chimneys.
“Sylvia,” he purred. “I can take care of myself when it comes to women like Lady Stanhope.”
The spell shattered. I gazed past him to the PETERSONS PAPER sign painted in large black letters on the cream brick wall of the factory. “Yes. Of course. I’m sure you’re very capable with the Lady Stanhopes of the world.” I continued on up the stairs.
He fell into step alongside me. “I was worried about you, you were worried about me…I think we can call ourselves even.”
“Agreed.”
“So there’s no need for you to come tonight.”
“Thurlow insisted.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “If I don’t go, he might use that as an excuse not to talk to you.” I pushed open the door before he had a chance to disagree.
A woman at the reception desk looked up and smiled. She remembered us from our last visit and asked us to wait while she informed Mr. and Miss Peterson. She returned a few minutes later with their assistant.
He led us through the office area to a rectangular yard where workers pushed trolleys stacked with large parcels up a ramp into the back of a lorry. Another lorry drove by, piled high with wood chips, and parked in front of the building directly opposite. The rapid-fire stamp stamp stamp of heavy machinery pounding pulp came from the building on our right, but we headed to the building on the left. It was quiet and at first I thought it was empty until I saw two men near the back. One stood on a high platform overlooking a vat while the other stood below him, holding a clipboard.
The assistant asked us to wait while he entered an adjoining office. I saw two people inside when he opened the door. A woman sat with her back to us at a desk, a stack of papers to one side. A man stood on her right, his attention on a large ledger.
It was he who joined us, his hand extended. “Walter Peterson, at your service.” He was short and round with ruddy cheeks and a button nose. The fan of wrinkles radiating from each eye deepened with his smile. The smile turned to surprise when Gabe introduced himself. “Glass? Any relation to Mrs. India Glass, Lady Rycroft?”
“She’s my mother.”
“Ho, ho!” He rocked back on his heels. “Should I bow before royalty?”
Gabe laughed lightly. “Please don’t.”
“Wait until I tell my sister.” He indicated the office door, now closed, but made no move to go to her.
“I’m a consultant for Scotland Yard, and Miss Ashe is assisting me. We’re investigating the murder of a bookbinder.”
Mr. Peterson’s face darkened. “Littleproud. Yes, I heard about it. Terrible business. Poor chap. I hope you catch the brute. But I don’t see how we can help.”
“A collection of books sold by Mr. Littleproud just before his murder is at the center of our investigation. We’ve been led to believe they contain paper magic, and wondered if you could verify if that’s the case.”
I passed him the book.
He opened the cover and stroked the front page with the flat of his hand. “It does.”
“You can tell already?” I asked.
“Of course. A magician immediately senses when a spell has been used on something, especially when that spell is his own discipline, as this is.”
I didn’t hear his next exchange with Gabe. The blood was rushing between my ears, making me a little giddy. A part of me felt like I was about to float away, and I was grateful when Mr. Peterson closed the book and handed it back to me.
I grasped it with both hands and held onto it tightly.
The two men working at the vat finished what they’d been doing and approached. The older one, dressed in a brown suit, accepted the clipboard from the younger fellow wearing overalls. The younger fellow left while the older one hung back and waited to speak to Mr. Peterson.
The door to the office opened and a woman with the same pug nose as Mr. Peterson emerged. That was where the resemblance ended. Where he was plump, she was wiry and tall.
“Evaline!” Mr. Peterson cried. “Come and meet the son of the great India Glass!”
“Hush, Walter, I’m not deaf.” Her smile softened her features. “Forgive my brother. He’s a little hard of hearing.”
Mr. Peterson made the introductions and told his sister the reason for our visit. She, too, had read about the murder but neither of them knew Mr. Littleproud personally.
She indicated the book in my hands. “May I touch it, Miss Ashe?”
I handed it over. She opened the cover and ran her hand down the first page, just as her brother had done. She repeated the motion on the second page then flipped through the others before giving it back.
“Walter’s right, it contains paper magic.”
“Do you know who might have put the spell on the paper?” Gabe asked.
“It’s impossible to tell, I’m afraid. It could even have been one of us.”
“The spells were put in decades ago.”
Mr. Peterson chuckled. “Then it probably wasn’t us.”
“You use traditional methods here to make your paper?” I asked, looking around at the vats. The man in the brown suit had gone and we were the only ones in the building.
“We use all sorts of methods,” Mr. Peterson said. “Most of our paper is produced with wood chips that are soaked in a chemical solution to soften the fibers. That paper is for the masses. It’s good quality, of course, but contains no magic. A smaller quantity is made in the traditional way of soaking rags until it forms a pulp. That’s the stuff that gets the spells, since we’re cotton magicians, not wood magicians.”
I recalled my research into paper magic when we were investigating the disappearance of a painting from the Royal Academy. Paper magicians were actually descendants of cotton magicians. Cotton magic had branched into many forms over the centuries, each one developing a specialty. Some were canvas magicians, as we’d discovered in our earlier investigation into the painting, others were clothiers, and then there were paper magicians like the Petersons.
Like me.
Mr. Peterson rattled on, not noticing that I’d become distracted. “Our spell-infused paper is a very high quality. Indeed, it’s perfection, if I may be allowed to boast.” His ruddy cheeks grew redder. “Our premium line is highly sought after.”
“I was placing a spell into a batch just now.” Miss Peterson indicated the office. The door stood open, revealing the stack of papers on one side of the desk. “Miss Ashe, are you all right? You look a little pale all of a sudden.”
I swallowed but my mouth remained dry. “May I have the book back, please?”
She hesitated, frowning, then handed it over.
I grasped at the threads of my thoughts, floating aimlessly through my mind. “Your paper…those with spells in them…will they be used in books?”
“Mostly invitations, calling cards, and personal stationery.”
Mr. Peterson leaned in and lowered his voice, although it was still loud. “For royalty, no less, and members of the peerage. But we speak our spell into ordinary paper, too, if it’s important paper.” He looked like he wanted us to ask, so I did ask what he meant by important paper. “During the war, the government had a great need for our paper.” He winked then rocked back on his heels, smiling smugly.
Gabe played along. “Did they use your paper for dispatches?”
“Not just dispatches. Secret dispatches.”
His sister shushed him. “I’m not sure we should discuss it.”
“The war is over, Evaline. Besides, these fine folk are from Scotland Yard. Perhaps Mr. Glass can tell his superiors that they should use our paper for their secret dispatches. They can verify our claim with the War Office.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You see, we discovered quite by accident that when our spell-infused paper is combined with a graphite magician’s spell in a pencil, the result is something completely unexpected.” He rocked back on his heels again, grinning from ear to ear. “You’ll never guess.”
“No, they won’t,” his sister said tightly. “So just tell them.”
“Invisible writing. The marks made by the magic pencil can’t be seen on the magic paper.”
“That is extraordinary,” Gabe said. “I can see why the War Office found it useful.”
“As will Scotland Yard, I’m sure.” Mr. Peterson tapped the side of his nose again.
Gabe thanked them and started to make his way to the exit, but stopped. He glanced at me. I hadn’t moved. “Sylvia? Do you have any questions for the Petersons?”
I studied the book in my hands then clasped it to my chest again. “How does it feel when you’re near paper that contains spells, like this book?”
“It’s difficult to describe,” Miss Peterson said matter-of-factly. “There is a warming sensation, but it’s not the sort of warmth one feels standing in front of a fire. It’s different.” She looked to her brother for help.
“What Evaline is trying to say is that it’s not so much a physical sensation but an emotional one. There’s a bond between a paper magician and paper with a spell put on it, much like there’s a bond between siblings. The magician will want to keep the paper close, to know it’s there.”
“My brother calls it love.” Miss Peterson rolled her eyes. “He’s a sentimentalist.”
“It is a kind of love. Not the way I love my children, of course, but there are all sorts of love, and the bond between a paper magician and spell-infused paper is strong, natural, and something that is felt inside.” He tapped his chest over his heart and nodded at the book in my arms. “I feel all of those things when I touch the paper in that book.”
I tightened my grip. If I was in any doubt before, I wasn’t now. The book was my anchor as I was tossed about by tumultuous emotions. I was very aware of it, and of my connection to it. I now understood why magicians described it as a warmth, yet not a physical one. I realized I’d been feeling it too when close to the books, but not on my skin. It was inside me. It was in my blood and bones, the very essence of me.
I wasn’t ready to admit to two strangers that I was a paper magician, however. Not yet. I needed time to take it all in. The name Ashe hadn’t raised an eyebrow when Gabe introduced me, but there were other paper magician families in England, so it didn’t necessarily mean I must be related to the Petersons.
Even so, I still asked about my mother. “Are you related to a woman named Alice?”
Both shook their heads. “Not that we know of,” Miss Peterson said.
“Is she a paper magician?” her brother asked. “If so, do give her our details. We’re always happy to meet others. You never know; perhaps we are distantly related to this Alice of yours.”
I looked down at the book in my hands.
Gabe moved up alongside me. His solid presence was reassuring, another anchor to hold on to. “What spells do paper magicians know?”
“There’s just the one,” Mr. Peterson said. “It strengthens the paper fibers, making it more durable. Our paper doesn’t tear or discolor. Well, not until the magic runs out, which is several months after it’s put in.” He rocked back on his heels, looking pleased with himself.
Miss Peterson was more thoughtful. “Apparently there was another, but it disappeared along with the only magician who knew how to wield it. It was a spell to make paper fly.”
Willie had mentioned flying paper giving her paper cuts. The Petersons must be referring to the same spell, wielded by the same magician whose name was recorded on Lord and Lady Rycroft’s list of magicians.
We thanked them and left the building. As we crossed the courtyard, I felt as though we were being watched, but when I turned back, it was only Miss Peterson, standing in the doorway. She lifted a hand in farewell, and I responded.
“You didn’t say anything to them,” Gabe said.
“About what?”
“About yourself.” He nodded at the book.
“I…I’m not ready.”
He gave me a gentle smile. “I understand completely.”
If anyone did, it would be him.
I told Daisy all about our outing to the races as she helped me dress for Thurlow’s party, but nothing about our visit to Petersons Paper factory. I had an investigation that required me to focus, especially tonight. I needed all my wits about me in the company of the money lender.
Gabe’s attention had switched quickly from the revelations at the factory to the task at hand. When he and Alex drove me home after leaving the Petersons’ factory, he’d continued to tell me I shouldn’t go, that my presence wasn’t necessary. When Alex told him the same thing I did, that Thurlow might not speak to them if I wasn’t there, Gabe turned silent and broody.
Right up until they collected me in the Hudson, I wasn’t sure if he’d come. He was still broody, however, as he opened the door for me. The motorcar was full. Alex sat in the driver’s seat. I slipped into the back alongside Willie and Francis Stray. The quiet academic’s presence surprised me.
He reached across Willie to shake my hand. “Good evening, Miss Ashe. You look very nice. I like your dress and your hair.” The words were spoken without emotion or a flicker of desire. I suspected he was merely repeating sentiments he’d practiced for such occasions.
“Thank you. And please call me Sylvia, if I may call you Francis.”
“You may.”
“I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“Nor did I until an hour ago. The captain telephoned and asked if I could count cards for him.”
Willie swore under her breath. In the front, Alex sighed while Gabe turned to Francis. “Best not to say that at the party. Counting cards is frowned upon.”
“I know. But Sylvia is part of our group so I thought it harmless to inform her.”
“Don’t mention it to anyone else tonight,” Willie said sternly. “Now, I ain’t going to be in there to keep an eye on things, so do as Gabe and Alex say.”
“Of course. You will find I follow instructions to the letter, Lady Farnsworth.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But it is your correct form of address. I can call you my lady, if you prefer, or simply madam. Willie is too informal given my station is well below yours.”
She sighed. “Don’t talk to me and we’ll get along fine.”
“Why aren’t you coming in?” I asked her.
“Thurlow wants to play cards and I don’t feel like gambling tonight.”
It wasn’t until we stopped and exited the motorcar that Alex elaborated. “She lost a lot of money at Epsom today and she has no self-control when it comes to gambling. It’s best if she stays away from temptation.”
“That’s commendable of her.”
“Don’t let on that I told you.”
I watched as Willie slipped into the driver’s seat and drove the motorcar away from the curb to find somewhere nearby to park it.
I fell into step alongside Alex, just behind Gabe and Francis. Gabe’s quiet words drifted back to me. “Remember what I said. Don’t make the signals obvious. If he suspects, get up and leave. If I lose, then so be it.”
Francis drew in a fortifying breath. “Yes, sir.”
“Why do we need Francis to count cards?” I asked. “If it’s frowned upon, then shouldn’t we simply not do it?”
“Thurlow cheats, according to several sources,” Gabe said. “If he wants to cheat, I need to level the playing field. I want to earn his respect, and I doubt he respects a loser. Don’t worry, I won’t win all the time. I know how to handle men like him.”
We’d arrived in the foyer of the Degraves Hotel on Piccadilly, one of London’s most luxurious hotels. Tall palm trees added a lush tropical feel, perfect for the warm evening. One of the hovering staff escorted us beneath the glittering lights of the triple layer crystal chandelier into an anteroom. A sign welcomed Mr. Thurlow’s guests to his post-Epsom party and ragtime music promised a lively evening of dancing in the ballroom.
I unwrapped my shawl from around my upper body and let it drape loosely at my lower back. Gabe’s sudden intake of breath was soft but, given how near he stood behind me, I heard it. I turned to see him staring, mouth ajar.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
He shut his mouth, blinked innocently, and shook his head. He offered me his arm.
“Excuse me, Sylvia,” Francis said. “Are you aware that the back of your dress is missing?”
I tried to suppress my smile, but it escaped, nevertheless. “Only to the middle of my back. Daisy told me it’s the latest fashion in Paris.”
“Daisy would know,” Alex said. “She has a lot of fashion magazines in her flat.” It would have sounded like a criticism coming from most, but not from the man who secretly admired her. “She has a good eye,” he added.
Her silver and sequin dress was a little long for me but fitted everywhere else. The air on my back felt strange, and the stares of the people we passed even stranger. I wasn’t used to having so many eyes on me. Usually Daisy attracted all the attention. In a way, she still did. It was her dress and makeup, after all. I raised my shawl to cover my bare skin, suddenly regretting letting her talk me into wearing the outfit.
Gabe’s thumb lightly caressed the knuckles of my hand, resting on his arm. “They’re only staring because you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.” His whisper sent a thrill through me. It didn’t matter that he was exaggerating to give my confidence a boost.
I lowered the shawl again and straightened my shoulders. “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s not a kindness. It’s a fact. It’s also a fact that my concern has increased."
I followed his gaze to Thurlow, standing with a group of men. His two thick-necked companions from the races flanked him. They looked equally surly and menacing here as they had at Epsom.
“Whatever you do, don’t flirt with him,” Gabe said.
“But isn’t that what we want? Him flirting with me to distract him and lull him into a false sense of security?” I spotted Thurlow’s woman, seated at a nearby table with other women.
“I can do that while we play cards. You should dance and enjoy yourself.”
“Away from the gambling and Thurlow?”
“Precisely.”
“So you’ll put Francis in danger, but not me?” I indicated the mathematician standing beside Alex. He looked small and vulnerable beside the towering figure and not at all equipped for the sort of subtle espionage required this evening.
“That’s different,” Gabe growled.
“Because he’s a man?”
“Because he’s not being targeted by Thurlow to get back at me for catching his girl’s eye.”
He was overreacting but saying so would achieve nothing.
He plucked two coupe Champagne glasses off a waiter’s tray and handed one to me. Before he let go, he offered me a flat smile. “I don’t want to fight with you. Truce?”
I nodded. “Truce.”
He let go of the glass. “I have a bad feeling about this evening.”