The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

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      “I’ve spoken with our people in Edinburgh,” Arthur said, apparently setting aside Eben’s aspersions of treason as easily as he did the top page of his notes. He pushed up his glasses, consulted the second page. “They verified that Leticia did indeed stay there, but left over a week ago. I’ve got calls in to our other Houses, but so far, no one else mentions having seen her.” He fixed Quentin with a look. “Are you certain you can’t pick up on the location?”

      “Night. Clouds filling the sky. Grassy hills, maybe. A few lights in the distance.” He shrugged. “Smell of the ocean. Cold.” Inside and out.

      Leslie made another noise. It was ironic, he decided, that the woman who communed with flower fairies was turning out to be such a watering pot. His loud sigh earned him another one of Beatrice’s looks.

      “You believe, Quentin, that you saw Cormac? At the... moment of death?”

      “It was a very broken sequence,” he told Arthur, a repeat of what he’d said to Beatrice earlier. “Incomplete pictures, most often blurred. No sounds at all. Few sensations.” For which he was grateful, even if they might have provided additional clues. He cleared his throat. “But, yes. At the moment of her death, she was looking at Cormac. His image came through very clearly.”

      Almost too clearly, but he saw no point in mentioning that yet. If at all.

      Arthur took a photograph out of one of his files, slid it across the table. “This is who you saw?”

      Frowning, Quentin pulled it closer with the tip of a gloved finger. It was a bit grainy and out of focus—obviously taken in a hurry. A young man, slight of frame and perhaps average of height, had been captured mid-stride and looking directly at the camera.

      “That’s him.” He pushed the image away.

      “Everyone should have a look,” Arthur advised, and Damian took it up. “This is the only photograph of him on record. Taken nearly fifty years ago. Is it still accurate?”

      Quentin nodded. “The hair is a bit different. And I can’t speak for the color, obviously. Otherwise, he looks the same.”

      “B-but surely,” Leslie sputtered. “It’s been fifty years. Surely he—”

      “He’s half-Sidhe, dear,” Beatrice explained, her singularly patronizing tone setting Quentin’s teeth on edge. “It would seem he ages as they do.”

      Leslie’s eyes were wide. “How different from the pilly—”

      “Yes,” Arthur broke in. “Naturally, of utmost concern, is his connection to Idris Cathmor.”

      Leslie showed no reaction whatsoever, the evil of the man apparently never having extended into her magical garden. Lucky her.

      As the photograph continued its slow circuit, Arthur handed a folio to Damian. “I’d like you to go to Edinburgh. See if you can’t pick up Leticia’s trail and get more details on those documents. It does appear that she didn’t want us knowing what she was doing. Until we know what that was, we won’t know what befell her. Or why.” The last was directed pointedly at Eben.

      Damian, his expression unreadable, bowed his head and tucked the papers into the sleeve of his robe. The man was one of the country’s greatest sorcerers, but no one would think it to look at him. With his flowing gray beard and long, wild hair, he was something straight out of a children’s tale. Especially when he wore his blue cloak embroidered with gold stars and crescent moons. Which he frequently did. Quentin had yet to decide if it was questionable taste or brilliant subterfuge.

      “We all saw the spiraling of the flames.” Arthur gestured toward the candles. “If this was something which specifically targeted her, or what she sought, or our Society in general, we need to know. And we need to know what Leticia knew. What she was attempting, what her motives were, and what went wrong. We need to know what we’re up against.” He paused to cast a meaningful look around the table. “If it could happen to Leticia, it could happen to any one of us.”

      Leslie moaned, her arms wrapped protectively about her chest. Damian—possibly headed into immediate danger—merely smoothed his hands down his beard, his expression thoughtful, then asked “What of the documents Lettie was after? Did she describe them at all?”

      “More to the point,” Eben said, “did she describe the relic? Did she find it?”

      “No, to the first. To the second, we don’t know,” Arthur replied, uncharacteristically sharp. “If she did, we can only hope she put it someplace safe before her death and that we can find it before anyone else. As for the documents, we know only that they were new to the market, pulled out of an estate undergoing renovation, and that at least two maps were involved. One of those may or may not have involved a cathedral. Somewhere.” He said the word like a curse and glared at Eben. “Keep going through her effects. Look for anything that could shed light on this. Put people on her family if you have to, as well as the people at her damned shop. She may have mentioned something to them.”

      “Or been working with them outright,” Eben put in. “We need to send people there, Arthur.”

      “Yes, of course.” He directed a look at Beatrice, who nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

      Unless they wanted to risk an international incident of untold proportions, they couldn’t operate within another country without first performing an intricate, bureaucratic dance.

      Arthur closed his notes. “In the morning, I’ll be sending out an official notice of Lettie’s passing and advise caution. Security here and at the safe houses has already been alerted. We’ll put Diviners on it, but they’ll need guidance.” He frowned at Quentin. “The more specifics you can get them, the better.”

      Reluctantly, he nodded. No getting around it, he’d have to reexamine the vision. “Are we certain Idris is behind this?”

      “We’ve got Cormac. That’s certain enough.”

      Again, Quentin was tempted to voice his concerns regarding that one image. But, as he well knew, moments of stress—especially the moments before death—could bring on extreme clarity such as he’d perceived.

      “What of her family, Arthur?” Leslie asked, apropos of nothing. For a moment, Quentin thought she was accusing Leticia’s relatives of murder. Others must have thought that, too, given the stunned silence which followed.

      Looking bewildered, she clarified, “They should be told of her passing.”

      Arthur shook his head. “The regulations are clear. There can be no exceptions.”

      “Couldn’t we contact them anonymously? It isn’t right, leaving them to find out on their own.”

      “No, my dear,” Damian broke in before Arthur could respond. “Even if it weren’t against the rules, in the case of a suspicious death—especially when there isn’t even a body—it would only bring trouble. If her family were to contact local authorities and demand justice, perhaps speak to the press....” He let his voice trail off, then, gently, “You see why we can’t risk it?”

      “We must allow this to take its course.” Arthur, having removed СКАЧАТЬ