“Good evening, Sergeant Kelly. May I inquire why you are following me?”

Ned’s heart skipped a beat when he recognised the handsome face, before he realised he was at a disadvantage. How did this brat know his name and rank?

“That depends on who is asking,” he finally said.  

“James St Clair, at your service,” the young man said, inclining his head politely.

Ned kept his face carefully neutral. This was either the strangest coincidence or a trap. He told himself not to be paranoid.

“Are you a relative of the Earl of Ravenstone?” he asked.

“How harshly will you judge me if I say yes?” St Clair asked back with a rueful smile.

“Just tell me.”

“He is my father.”

That explained the confidence and the expensive boots. It did not explain the golden light or how he knew who Ned was.

“Would you mind reminding me where we met before?”  

“In front of the Savoy on New Year’s Eve,” St Clair replied promptly.

“And before that?”

The young man gave him an angelic smile and gestured at the coffeehouse. “If you are going to interrogate me, can we at least do it inside?”

Ned couldn’t help but smile back. And anyway, the more comfortable St Clair felt, the more questions he was likely to answer.

“Fair enough. After you.”

The warm air inside smelled pleasantly of coffee, chocolate and pastries. It wasn’t too full this late in the day, so the owner hurried to greet them. Then he seemed to recognise both of them, and his smile froze in place. Apparently, he wasn’t too happy to see either of them.

“Good evening, my lord. Sergeant Kelly. If you have business to discuss, may I recommend one of the private parlours upstairs?” he finally managed.

“Yes, please,” St Clair said before Ned could answer and put a shilling into the man’s hand.

A server led them into one of the cosy alcoves on the first floor. It was lit by candles and had a small brazier, as well as comfortable armchairs around a round table.

While the server fussed around with pots of hot chocolate, tea and a basket of pastries, Ned watched St Clair. He had taken off his ugly cap and coat. Underneath, he wore a soft green pullover and perfectly tailored brown trousers that accentuated his lithe, athletic figure. The honey-brown locks were tousled, and Ned had to suppress the sudden urge to smooth them down. Thankfully, St Clair didn’t seem to notice, too occupied with warming his slender hands over the coal brazier. A signet ring sat on the little finger of the left, showing a silver raven.

Something about it triggered Ned’s memory, but he still couldn’t put a finger on it.

Once the server finally closed the door behind him, St Clair asked, “Did you remember?”

Ned shook his head and poured more sugar into his tea. The French never knew how to brew a proper cup. It tasted slightly bitter.

“We first met outside the Tower of London, more than five years ago. You told me I was the most annoying young lad you ever had the displeasure of meeting and that my ‘Da’ should give me a good thrashing,” St Clair explained with a grin.   

The penny finally dropped. “You were that boy who tried to steal Tower Ravens.”  

“Not all of them. Wouldn’t want England to fall, and all that.”

“Uh-huh. You argued with me for ages, then kicked me in the shin and ran away,” Ned remembered. “Quite disgraceful behaviour for an earl’s son.”

“I was a horrible brat back then. Please allow me to apologise,” St Clair said.

Despite the offered apology, he looked rather pleased with himself and not at all embarrassed.

“You don’t look sorry at all.”

St Clair’s high cheekbones turned red. “I am sorry. I am just flattered that you remember me that well.”

An image of St Clair as a boy slowly formed in Ned’s mind. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen back then – half a head shorter, with round cheeks and gangly limbs. Not very remarkable aside from those unusual eyes.

“It was my first week on the job. I guess I am nostalgic for the days when a mouthy brat was my biggest problem,” he finally said.

St Clair’s long, dark lashes fluttered down, hiding his eyes. He took a sip of chocolate, then asked, “And now?”

Ned was not sure what the question meant, but he said, “And now I’m wondering why you have nothing better to do than explore murder sites like some sensation seeker.”

The young man raised his head abruptly. “I could ask you the same. I heard you were suspended.”

“You know a lot about someone whom you haven’t seen for five years.”

The full mouth turned into a smile that would have done a most skilled courtesan proud.

“I followed your career in the newspapers. You left quite an impression on me, you know.”

“You were a child,” Ned said uncomfortably.  

“I was almost sixteen. You looked like a young god with that pitch-black hair and stern blue eyes. I’ve never seen someone fill out a uniform that well. Though you look even better out of it.”

Ned’s tea went the wrong way. The boy had grown into a handsome man, but his common sense and self-preservation were apparently still catching up.

“That is a dangerous thing to say to a policeman, St Clair.”

The brat just smiled innocently, and Ned wondered if he was playing him. Determined to get to the point, he cut back to the topic.

“My suspension was not in the newspapers.”

St Clair wrapped his fingers around his cup and said slowly, “I will tell you everything you want to know. But just indulge me for a moment. Five minutes. Then I’ll be at your disposal.”

Ned frowned at the strange choice of words, but shrugged. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Do you remember what I told you when you caught me with that raven?”

“I guess you said what most young miscreants say – that it was all a misunderstanding and so on. I think you even had the cheek to tell me to forget what I saw.”

“And you didn’t see … anything strange?”

Ned thought about it, but it was too long ago. All he could come up with was, “Well, I guess the strangest thing was that the Tower guards just let you walk out with a raven in the first place. How did you manage that?”

St Clair turned up his palm. There was that light again, only this time it had a purple tint to it.

“Can you see that?” he asked.

“I am not blind. You keep doing that. But it was a different colour before.”

The light expanded towards Ned, who leaned back with a frown. It tickled his temples for a moment, then flickered and disappeared.

“That is how I made them forget they saw me. I tried the same on you. But you are the only one who is immune.”

Ned felt a shiver go down his spine. This brat was either mad or on some serious drugs. But whichever it was, he seemed to really believe what he was saying.

He called himself to order. This had to have some obvious explanation.

“Is it one of those tricks that those spiritualists use during seances to fool the gullible? Phosphorous? Or was it sulphur?” he asked.

“Beats me. Couldn’t pass a chemistry exam to save my life,” St Clair said with a shrug.

“Show me your hands,” Ned demanded.

St Clair rose gracefully and came closer, holding up his palms. The scent of sandalwood and bergamot enveloped Ned, but there was no smell of chemicals or any burns on his hands.

“I may be abysmal at chemistry, but I am pretty good with magic,” the young man said.  

Ned frowned and pushed up the sleeves of the soft green pullover. There was nothing there either.

St Clair chuckled softly and leaned in until his breath brushed Ned’s ear. “If you're looking for evidence, Sergeant, you have to search me more thoroughly.”