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“Yes. I think I can find where they live if necessary.”
He was right, of course. We shouldn’t waste time in amorous activities when we could look for our friend. Admonishing myself, I tried to remember who else had been at the Seattle Council meeting. “Mrs. Morrison, the psychic. She and Stevenson were the only ones with any level of power. Maybe we should pay her a visit.” I gave him a critical once-over. To say he looked shabby was an understatement. “We’ll get in through the back door, and you let me do most of the talking.”
He swallowed another mouthful of soup. “Of course, Vincent. She’s far more likely to talk to you than she is to me.”
I risked a grin. “But she’s far more likely to do what you tell her, if it comes to that. I’ll be the silk glove and you can be the steel hand.”
Nodding, he returned to his stew. I went back to sopping up the dregs of mine with a slice of bread, wondering again why I found him so appealing. He wasn’t charming, and though he didn’t currently have bits of leaf in his hair, it was only a matter of time.
In general, I liked powerful men, and Rafe had power to spare. He might have a shell that could protect us both, but it was his softer side, the man who carved delicate hummingbirds from wood and who was so cagey with his smile, that truly intrigued me. I could spend a good long while getting to know that side of him, though whether he’d let me was an open question.
We were going to have to interview the psychic first.
Swallowing the last of my beer, I set my mug down firmly. “What we need,” I said, “is a city directory.”
Rafe’s expression didn’t change. Likely he had no idea what I meant.
“You finish,” I said, “and I’ll go ask the proprietor if he has one.”
I left Rafe with a nearly empty bowl and half a beer and went off to ask the barkeep if he had a directory. He did, and I brought it to the table. “Let’s see.” I flipped through the first few pages of advertisements, until reaching the combined list of businesses and citizens. I skimmed the first few pages before reaching the letter M. I ran a nail down the list, stopping at Morrison. “There’s a Meredith Morrison, clairvoyant, keeping rooms at 119 W. Virginia Street.”
“That’s her.”
“She’s not very far from advertising her services as a witch.”
“Do you blame her?”
In anyone but Rafe, I’d have said he was using sarcasm. As it was, I chuckled. “That makes a certain amount of sense. I wonder if there’s a streetcar heading in her direction.”
Returning the directory, I learned that there was, in fact, a streetcar. Rafe was still chewing his final bite when I dropped a few bills on the table and headed for the door.
While waiting for the streetcar, Rafe asked a pertinent question. “Do we just knock on the door and ask for Margaret?”
“That’s the sticky part.” I rubbed my hands together to try to hold onto some of the restaurant’s warmth. “What we need is a spell to make one of us invisible, so we can get inside and look for her. I mean, I’d rather not speak to Mrs. Morrison at all if we can help it.”
“Makes sense.”
The streetcar rattled up and we climbed aboard, Rafe tapping each step with his cane before moving. There weren’t many passengers on the long bench running down the center of the car. There were no exterior walls, and if there was a source of heat, I couldn’t find it. We were traveling in the direction of Ballast Island, at least, so we’d be able to make a quick escape if necessary.
“Let’s take a look around the boardinghouse from the outside and see if anything presents itself.” I tucked my hands under my armpits, ready to trade this raw damp cold for the San Francisco fog.At least the fog doesn’t make me ache so.
Rafe nodded, apparently lost in thought. The driver called out, “Virginia.”
The coach stopped, we climbed out, and Rafe stopped me with a hand on my arm. “You can change objects into whatever you want, but have you ever tried to change a person? Could you change me into something small that could search the boardinghouse without being noticed?”
“I…I…have never tried something like that.” The very idea made me sick to my stomach. “I mean, I turned a man into a weasel once”—and maybe a dog, too—"but with the intention of turning him right back. What if you got stuck? Or I don’t know, stepped on or something.”
His snort was more of a chuckle. “Let’s see if there’s a way for a mouse to get in.”
“No.” I stood still, my hands clenched in fists. “What if we upset the balance of power in China or something.”
“What are you talking about?”
I waved his question away. “I am not going to change you into a mouse so you can see if Margaret is in the house.”
His expression turned flat. “So what are we going to do?”
I thought quickly. “I’m going to change my own appearance, and I’m going to knock on the front door and keep the proprietress entertained while you sneak in through the back door in your normal man-sized form.”
