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The first couple file folders held magazine clippings of dresses and make-up—nothing that made a whole lot of sense to me. It was hard to imagine my stepmother lowering herself to even looking through unsparked fashion magazines, let alone drawing ideas from them. But then, it wasn’t as if there were any regular publications on witching fashion. Maybe she’d been driven by desperation.
The corner of my mouth twitched with amusement—and stiffened when I opened the next folder. A photograph of Derek stared back at me. My pulse hitched.
She had a file on my theoretical fiancé. I probably shouldn’t be surprised. She must have done plenty of research to determine he was the best candidate. There might be some interesting material in there for my own use. Was it just this folder, or had she filed away more than one with information on him…?
My fingers stilled with the next folder half-open. Another young man smiled up at me from another photo—not Derek. I didn’t even know this guy. Who the hell was he?
Another potential candidate?
“What have you got there, Rose?” Dad asked. Damn, I’d been staring long enough that he’d noticed my hesitation.
My instincts pulled me in two directions at once. I forced out an answer.
“Nothing. Just some magazine clippings. I’ll keep looking, though.”
I made myself move on to the next folder—another witching man, one I recognized from a trip we’d taken a few years ago to Edinburgh—how many of them were there? I dug deeper.
Five. Five likely candidates my stepmother had gathered. The folders under those were more clippings, these ones of various foreign locals. Travel planning? I didn’t know why she’d kept that in here, but I didn’t really care about my stepmother’s eccentric habits right now.
I needed the chance to go through these files undisturbed. To know which other witching men looking to consort I might need to inform the Assembly about. Had sheapproachedany of the others? Had any of them done something to make her think they’d be willing to commit a lifelong crime on this scale?
Matilda’s footsteps tapped toward us down the hall. Moldy cinders. I gritted my teeth, focused on the spark inside me, and made a hasty gesture with my hand as if swiping a bug off the top of the stack.
The five folders vanished—and hopefully had reappeared under my pillow in my bedroom.
“Dad,” I said, raising my head and fishing out one of the travel folders. “Some of these clippings are of different places around the world. Maybe they’d give you some idea of where she might have gone?”
“Thank you,” Dad said. “Let me take a look.”
Matilda reappeared at the doorway. She was holding a small record book and a handful of receipts. “I’ve gathered everything relating to magical purchases,” she said. “But it doesn’t look as if any of the ones your former estate manager had date from after your arrival here.”
“I guess they probably won’t be that useful then,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “But thank you for looking.” I glanced up at Dad. “I think I’ve covered the bottom shelves. Are there any boxes or bags up there you haven’t gone through yet?”
Dad shook his head, still flipping through the file of travel clippings I’d shown him. “They’re mostly standard supplies, exactly what you’d expect. I appreciate your help, lamb. And maybe something we’ve found here will help me find some answers. But I think we’re done here.”
He set down the box of files on top of the box of books and hefted them both. I followed him out into the hall. Derek was just heading from his room to the stairs. He paused at the sight of us. His gaze seemed to stick on the boxes in Dad’s hands as Dad strode into his office. Derek’s jaw tightened.
Oh, he didn’t like the thought of what Dad might have found in Celestine’s things at all, did he? That ought to be a good sign. A sign that he didn’t believe Dad would approve of her scheme.
Please, Spark above, let it be a good sign.
Chapter Twelve
Kyler
When I’d told Rose I could blend into the Seattle scene no problem, even I hadn’t realized it’d be this ridiculously easy. I was perched at a bar-height table beside the broad front windows of a downtown coffee shop, my laptop open in front of me and the big gray building that housed her “Witching Assembly” across the street. The room around me was filled with the clatter of fingers tapping frenetically on keyboards and tablet screens.
I swear anyone whowasn’thard at work on a computer of some sort would have stuck out like a sore thumb.
I took a drink of my coffee—bitter black and still so hot it almost burned my tongue, just the way I liked it—and got down to work. I’d picked the table in the back corner, so no one could wander over and happen to look over my shoulder as I pried into the security around the Assembly’s local network.
Hacking was a lot like carving a sculpture out of a hunk of marble. At least, what I imagined that would be like, from that time I’d spent a few nights reading about ancient Greek artistic techniques. Jin probably would have had a better idea.
But anyway, you started with what looked like a big, blank, impenetrable block, and you felt along it with your chisel until you found the right point to chip away so that it cracked along just the right lines. And then you kept chipping and cracking it open until you discovered the form waiting underneath.
Thankfully, I was a lot happier working with carefully placed bits of code than a literal chisel. And no doubt a lot faster too. In a matter of minutes I’d stripped away the outer layers of security and was diving into the standard interface of the Assembly’s private databases.
This was only the outer layer, though. I skimmed past daily agendas and contact lists and meeting minutes, all stuff any employee would have had access to. Just to be thorough, I did a quick search for “consort,” which led me to the Consorting Advisership department behind a security wall I could already tell was pretty flimsy. Otherwise in the main network there were just a few mentions in general records of the Advisership’s activities and schedule, announcements of recently joined consorts…
