The next day, Simon made his usual rounds to the clubs, but he couldn’t find a reason to go inside. He met a few acquaintances on the street, but their gossipy chatter held little appeal. He stopped for coffee in a shop he never frequented to ensure he didn’t have to meet any of his normally amusing companions. He felt no desire to be amused.

Finally, Simon started toward the place he wanted to avoid. In the Rookery, he discovered through a liberal spread of coins among streetwalkers that Beatrice kept a small room near Dyott Street. He also found that many of the older women disdained her for thinking she was better than the others, having come from the world of a society courtesan as she did. The younger girls, however, found Beatrice to be kind and sharing, often allowing them to stay in her room when they had nowhere to go.

The building on Dyott was in vigorous disrepair. Simon could smell every aspect of human life. The floors were cracked and sticky. Cold air blasted through smashed windows. With suspicious eyes following him, he climbed the creaking stairs. His stylish suit marked him as an outsider, a man in search of a tradeswoman. It was a surprise to no one when he stopped at Beatrice’s door. He couldn’t be sure if the news of her death had reached her home yet. In such a community people commonly moved, disappeared, or died without fanfare.

The door was locked, but it was an easy matter for Simon to force it with a white-gloved hand. He stepped inside the cold cubicle, a tiny flat with a cracked window, a thin mattress, and a single chair.

His hand lifted to cover his dismay. Beatrice had once lived in a suite of rooms near Leicester Square with a maid and a cook. It had been warm and bright, full of art and furniture from Paris. Her bed had been larger than this entire flat.

“Why didn’t you contact me?” he muttered. “My God, why let this happen?”

Simon’s mind cast back to their final weeks together. Their separation had been amiable enough. Simon had imagined he loved her; she had been passionate, comforting, and encouraging in all ways. He remembered the warmth and gentle softness of her body. But he knew now that was the passion of a young man in his first love affair among the avenues of a great city. He had loved her, but had been in love with the places she took him and the people she showed him. And he understood that she had greater opportunities than a young gentleman with money but no family pedigree. She was always courted by lords and officials. He had taken comfort in the confidence she had given him, assuming that he could move forward and thrive, which he had.

Simon gazed over the meager possessions in the room. A makeshift open closet along one wall held several threadbare dresses. There was a small clutch of badly used makeup as if they had been taken from the trash. In another corner were several large stacks of newspapers, some yellowed with age. A pair of scissors sat atop one stack. On the far interior wall was a curtain although there shouldn’t have been a window there.

Simon stepped to the drape and pulled it back. He twisted his head curiously at what was behind it. Newspaper clippings were pinned to the wall. Dozens, if not hundreds of them.

He leaned close to see a society report of a party at Lord Cutshaw’s home. Simon recalled that party and, in fact, saw his name in the item. Next to that was an article describing a spring horse race in Wiltshire. Simon had been there too, and his name appeared among the guests. The opening of the Pyramid Theater in Covent Garden. His name was there. And in the next. And the next.

Every fluttering scrap of newsprint held a mention of some event or gathering where Simon had been present. It was a wall charting his social activities over the last seven years. The time since he and Beatrice had parted.

However, below the phalanx of society notices were three small clippings. One was a story of how Lord Cutshaw had exposed fraudulent mediums preying on unfortunates around his country estate. In fact, Simon had rooted out those cheats who had victimized Lord Cutshaw himself. A second item told of reports of a monstrous glowing panther in Salisbury. Simon had investigated that too, while spending a delightful week at the local derby with Lady Dunston. And there was a final clip about the Pyramid Theater closing for renovations, while rumors persisted that the management had been forced to shut down by a vengeful spirit. The tone of the piece was mocking, but Simon knew the theater had been haunted by bloody ghosts because he had been the one to silence them.

He stood back, stunned. Here was his life in London. Parties. Galas. Derbys. Operas. And a handful of pathetic mystical interventions more suited to a sleight-of-hand huckster than a man who laid claim to being the last scribe on Earth, the only man alive who could own and command the aether through spell and word.

Beatrice had always had a little interest in mysticism. She had been an accomplished enchantress, but one with a clear ceiling on her skills. Still, she had always claimed the only limit to Simon’s occult abilities was Simon himself. And now he saw that she had been watching him from afar and documenting his progress.

Simon took in the vast swathe of society items and few notices relating to the occult. He would have liked to make the excuse that his magical activities were secret and by definition would not be in the press. This was true. His identity as a magician was known to few; only Nick knew the full extent of it because Nick had been a teacher of sorts. However, Simon knew he could have written a detailed account of his true occult exploits using paper not much greater than the few clips under his eyes.

He would have liked to make the excuse that the previous years had been consumed learning his craft, studying arcane texts, and practicing inscriptions. And this too was true. His skills had become extraordinary, but of late there were far too few evenings that he gave over to study when a night out called. He could claim to have added little value to anyone’s life using his unique skills.

Simon stood shivering in the freezing flat of a woman who he believed had left him behind. She had dedicated herself to him, and he hadn’t even known it. And he certainly hadn’t deserved it. He lowered his head under the petty weight of the voluminous chronicle of his achievements rustling in the wind before him.

“My God, I am exactly the same. Just as you said.” Simon felt warm tears sliding down his cheeks and he hoped they were for Beatrice.

—

It was dusk when Simon entered the front door of his Gaunt Lane town house to hear Nick shout from the drawing room, “Where have you been all day?” Simon tossed his hat carelessly on a small table and draped his coat over an already overcrowded hook.

He entered the sitting room to see Nick lounging on the sofa with shoes kicked off and shirt collar open. The room, as always, was comfortable, in a bachelor sense. It was a veritable disaster of unshelved books and piles of newspapers, as well as old plates, cups, and saucers. But a warm coal fire glowed in the hearth. Simon set his walking stick on a table and poured a glass of whiskey before refilling Nick’s proffered tumbler.

Nick stared at Simon, clearly seeing the emotion on his face but saying nothing.

Simon lifted a newspaper from a table and noted it was several months old. “I had errands to run. Did you become petrified on the sofa and need help turning over?” He then saw a scowling yellow cat sitting in the doorway. “Did you feed the cat?”

Nick craned his neck to stare at the little beast. “Have we ever fed the cat?”

“I thought you did. And he looks hungry. Or angry.” Simon took his pipe from the bookshelf and began to fill it with tobacco.

Nick stretched and crossed his feet. “While you were out buying a new stick, I was working. I went by Lord Oakham’s club.”

Simon spun quickly. “And?”

“He wasn’t there. The servants wouldn’t tell me his whereabouts.”

Simon perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair. “You didn’t go looking like that, did you?”

“Like what?”

“Like you.” The younger magician touched a rune inscribed on the bowl of his pipe and whispered a quiet word. He felt heat and the tobacco began to burn.

Nick scowled. “Give me a bit of credit, will you? I used a glamour spell. They thought I was a proper gent, such as yourself. For all the good it did.”

Simon stared off into the distance with his pipe clenched between his teeth. “Oakham is expected at Viscount Gillingham’s ball tonight. Along with half of London’s better set.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know things. In any case, we’ll attend too. We’ll latch on to his lordship if he shows and follow him. Do you think you can manage a shave and a suit of proper clothes?”

“No. I’ll just use a glamour spell again. I still have a bit of the potion.” Nick sipped whiskey. “That Scotsman seemed as if he knew what he was about. You don’t want to leave the wolf hunting to him?”

“I do not.” Smoke drifted up from Simon’s pipe. His eyes were focused somewhere between the clock on the mantel and the planet Jupiter.

Nick regarded his friend for a moment. “You haven’t said much about last night.”

Simon grunted. “Not much to say.”

“I thought she was—”

“Leave it,” Simon snapped with a quick stare at the older man.

“No.” Nick spun around on the old sofa and sat up. “I don’t think I will leave it. I thought she was a friend of yours.”

Simon glared a silent challenge at Nick to be met with the unblinking eyes of his friend. Finally he said, “You don’t want to hear it.”

“Not without another splash, no.” Nick stood and poured more whiskey. “Now I do.”

Simon sat back and stretched out his legs. “Do you remember what she said to me before she died?”

“That she was glad she saw you.”

“The other bit. That I was still the same.”

Nick regarded him with mock seriousness. “You’re a handsome fellow, no doubt. And you’ve held up well.”

“Thank you, but that’s not what she meant.” Simon stared into the red glow of his pipe. He listened to the coal fire hissing from the hearth. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick pile of clippings from the newspapers. From his other pocket, he drew out more. He tossed them on a nearby desk. “I went by her rooms this morning. She had cut every item from the newspapers where I had been mentioned in the years since we parted.”

Nick raised surprised eyebrows at the tattered stack of newsprint. “She did? I thought she left you.”

“She did.”

“Well, she seemed to have nursed a rather vigorous obsession.”

From his waistcoat, Simon pulled a slim collection of news items and held them up. “That gigantic mound of clippings deal with my various appearances at parties and galas, or rumors of affairs and indiscretions to which I’ve been attached.”

“Impressive.”

“These few here are reports of uncanny little stories that Beatrice correctly presumed I was involved in as a magician.” Simon laid the paltry few occult clippings next to the mountain of society stories. “That is the sum total of my life.”

Nick smiled. “You certainly do attend a lot of parties.”

Simon stared glumly into the distance.

“Simon, you couldn’t know she carried a torch for you,” Nick said with sympathy. “She never tried to contact you until yesterday. How could you—”

“That’s not the point.” Simon’s voice was exasperated.

“Oh. What is the point then?”

“What am I doing?”

Nick shook his head, confused.

Simon continued, “What am I doing with my life? I came to London to become a scribe.”

Nick grew frosty. “You are a scribe, and an excellent one. Better than you realize apparently. Magic isn’t like playing the piano. A few lessons don’t suffice.”

“A few lessons? I’ve been studying since I was a boy from my father’s notes. And we’ve been working together for over three years. And yet, we couldn’t deal with that werewolf last night.”

“That thing was a monster and it was powerful. We weren’t prepared for a lycanthrope. It took us by surprise. Threw us off balance a bit, but we recovered and could’ve taken it eventually.”

“I don’t think so. If that Scotsman hadn’t shown up, we’d be dead.” Simon sighed. “We knew there had been killings around town. We were hunting something. For six months, we’ve been talking about how London seems different, as if something dark is out there. But it was just a game. As with everything we do, we weren’t serious, and we weren’t prepared.”

Nick looked angry. “So you’re saying that you haven’t become an accomplished scribe because I haven’t trained you properly?”

“No.” Simon paused and let the damning silence drag out before conceding, “I had already become a complete wastrel when I met you. All I cared about was women and…well, and nothing. Women. And whatever magic could gain me. Then, for the first year we were together, we worked hard. I learned a great deal. But the last year or so, we’ve lost our momentum.” He glanced at the pile of news clippings.

“It takes time,” Nick repeated.

“That’s not good enough.” Simon sat up. “Why am I even studying to be a scribe? What’s the purpose? Just to live in a cave and accumulate knowledge?”

This time Nick stayed silent, his eyes half-closed with contemplation or annoyance.

Simon asked, “What’s the use of power in this world?”

“No, no. Greater magicians than you have started down that road over the centuries. If you involve yourself in the normal world, it will make you pay. There’s a reason magicians stay in the shadows. We are feared, Simon. I don’t care how powerful you may grow as a scribe, a knife or a musket ball will kill you as easily as it will anyone else. If you want to change the world, learn a trade like blacksmithing.”

“I’m not talking about trying to change the world, Nick. But I couldn’t even save Beatrice.”

“We’ll find Oakham, don’t worry. We’ll make him pay. And we should be able to even up those stacks a bit. Is that what you want?”

“It’s a start.” Simon smiled at his friend’s genuinely solicitous question. He had grown weary of his own gothic brooding, so he rose and took up his new walking stick.

“That’s a handsome new stick,” Nick said, obviously grateful that the tone was shifting. “Is it appreciably better than your two hundred others?”

“Yes, it is. I had Penny Carter make it.” Simon drew out a glittering blade and said with excitement, “Speaking of Lord Oakham, guess what I saw at Miss Carter’s shop today?”

Nick furrowed his brow. “Lord Oakham?”

“No. A four-barreled pistol called a Lancaster.”

“Like the Scotsman carried?”

“Just like it. Its exact twin actually. Miss Carter made the brace for him. I asked her to send for me the next time she expected him in. I’d like to chat with him.”

“He didn’t seem keen on a chat last night.”

“I wasn’t at my best last night, but I’m sure I can charm him. I want to know more about him and his activities, particularly if he’s active in London.” Simon swiped the blade through the air. “Lucky to have this in time for tonight.”

“Doesn’t look like silver.”

“It isn’t. Quite the finest steel I’ve seen though. A Japanese swordmaster couldn’t have done better. That woman is a wonder.” Simon cleared a work surface by shoving books off the desk onto the floor. He produced a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and laid it out. It had precise runic sketches grouped in a narrow column down the center.

Nick joined him with whiskey in hand, watching intensely as Simon set the sword on the desktop and placed the sheet of paper over it so the row of runes were positioned over the blade. “A little inscription, eh?”

Simon reached into a drawer and drew out an empty glass inkwell, which he set within easy reach. He glanced at the crackling fire, then at Nick. “A bit of heat, if you please.”

The older magician smirked and snapped his fingers. Flame engulfed his entire hand. Simon indicated he should apply the fire to the paper. Nick waved his glowing hand near the sheet. Immediately the thin paper smoldered and crinkled, then vanished in a puff of white smoke. Both men stared at the sword. The runes were now transferred onto the blade in ashy black.

Simon settled himself in a chair before the desk. He produced a carved ivory case that contained a beautiful pen that, in place of the nib, held a thin needle. He took up the inkwell and ran his finger over the glass, feeling the etched rune on it. He said a strange word rarely spoken aloud. Green wisps suddenly appeared inside the bottle like smoky snakes. Simon could feel the power as its proximity resonated; all his senses awakened to its seductive call.

He dipped the needle-tipped pen into the green aether. He hunched over the blade and carefully began to apply the glowing instrument to the blackened runes. If he got even one slight inscription wrong, it would be a waste of time and the ruin of a perfectly good stick sword.

After only a few strokes onto the steel, he went back to the inkwell and it was clear again. Once more, he spoke aether into the bottle, dipped the pen, and returned to his scribing. He continued this procedure as he worked his way down the thin blade. He must have been perspiring for suddenly a cloth patted his forehead and he paused to smile gratefully at Nick. He flexed his hand to ease the cramping. He took in his art and he smiled. The sword was incised beautifully, making the new blade appear eons old. Then he bent to complete the final strokes, and the moment he did, the blade flared a brilliant hue of emerald. Simon touched the blade and whispered, and the glow altered to a watery blue.

“Well done, old boy.” Nick stepped back with an exclamation but quickly came forward again when the glow faded and the blade lay dormant upon the table. “What does it do other than glow?”

Simon announced with a smile, “Think of it as thaumaturgical galvanism. When active, it will be like holding the heat of a bolt of lightning.”

“That seems safe enough.”

Simon accepted the cloth and wiped his face. He stretched out his tight shoulders and laughed. “And it didn’t take nearly as long as I suspected.”

Nick pointed to the mantel clock. “Three hours.”

Simon thought his friend was playing a joke, so he checked it against his pocket watch. In fact, it had been more than three hours since he sat down before the sword to inscribe it. “Well. I suppose I should get dressed for the party. Wouldn’t want a nasty comment in the papers tomorrow.” He jumped up but had to put out a hand to steady himself as the room tilted.

“Easy.” Nick took his elbow in a firm grip. “You’ve a touch of aether euphoria.”

“Nonsense, I’m as fresh as a baby,” Simon exclaimed before taking a few staggering steps with knees that felt far too unsteady. “I’ll just have a seat.”

“Wise.” Nick guided him back to the chair. “You used a lot of aether for that sword. I’m surprised you’re even coherent.”

Simon shook his head to clear it. “When will I stop being impacted by aether this way?”

The older magician said, “I’ve seen a few who always have it. It’s just the way it is for them. Others, like me, never have even a touch of aether drunkenness. We burn out of aether temporarily if we use too much, but we don’t get falling-down stupid and start laughing like an imbecile. You’re too eager. You burn through aether too fast. You’ll probably get past it.”

Simon sat back and closed his eyes. He had to admit, he actually enjoyed the sensation of aether euphoria, but he knew it had a price. It limited the length of time he could practice magic, and it could be a risk if he was overcome by it during a dangerous struggle, as with the werewolf in the Rookery.

Nick pulled his overcoat off the arm of a chair and plunged a hand into the pocket. He came out with a small crystal vial. He shook it to determine if there was still clear liquid inside. He thumbed off the cork and drank. Nick scowled at the taste but then made a few peculiar motions with his hands. The unshaven, slovenly man shimmered and was replaced by a finely dressed young aristocrat. He was a handsome, almost pretty, young man with wavy blond hair and shapely lips that might have been rouged in the old style. Nick turned to survey himself in a wall mirror that was largely covered by coats.

“I’m ready for the party.” Nick’s gravelly voice issued from the lovely young man’s mouth. “Sir Thomas Wolfolk won’t mind if I’m him tonight.”

“You go on ahead.” Simon replaced the blade in its wooden sheath. “You’ll forgive me if I shave and put on actual dinner clothes.” He began to unbutton his waistcoat.

“Do you have time?”

Simon gave the man a cold stare. “You’re not suggesting I arrive early at a party, are you?”

“God forbid even a lycanthrope deny Simon Archer a fashionable entrance.”

Simon eased himself back to his feet, grateful the euphoria was waning. He saluted with the walking stick and kicked off his shoes into the hallway. He hurried upstairs to dress, beginning to enjoy the anticipation over the coming evening.