The rhythmic clatter of the train was strangely soothing. Ned had never been in a first-class carriage before and felt like an imposter as he leaned against the thick velvet upholstery of the seat.

Harrington was along for the ride, too, but had gone to the second class with the suitcases. Why anyone needed a butler and luggage for such a short ride was beyond Ned. He was glad that they had at least left Molly behind, even though she had tried to follow them and promptly got stuck in the snow.

St Clair sat next to him, dozing off under his tall top hat. Ned envied him. He felt exhausted, too, but even a nap was out of the question. His head was still threatening to explode from all the information.

He glanced at Visconti, sitting opposite him in a burgundy fur-lined cloak and a midnight blue felt hat. It looked more like a flashy theatre costume than an English gentleman’s outfit, but it suited him well.

Seeming lost in thought, the old man pulled out the notebook from his inside pocket and leafed through it with a frown.

“A penny for your thoughts, sir,” Ned said. 

The old man looked up and smiled. “That always struck me as too low a price for someone’s secrets.”

“St Clair mentioned that something about the handwriting was familiar to you. Is that a secret?” Ned asked.

Visconti shook his head and glanced down at the writing on the open page. “It’s not a secret, just uncertainty. I think this handwriting may belong to a man called Charles Hargrave, but it has been more than a decade since we stopped corresponding, so I am not sure.”

Ned leaned forward, excited that he finally had something to go on that had nothing to do with abstract explanations of magic.

“Who is he? Did he die, or did you have a falling out, so he stopped writing?”

A shadow crossed Visconti’s face, and it took him a few moments to answer.

“Falling out does not quite describe it. He committed a grievous crime, and I destroyed his witch core.”

“Which means he cannot use magic anymore?” Ned asked, remembering what St Clair had told him.

“Yes. But even if he could, he could not be the one we are looking for. He is … was a Healer witch.”

“That’s someone who can transfer life energy from one living being to another? Like St Clair did with the plant to mend his injuries?”

Visconti nodded. Ned could easily see where this was going. 

“And he used his power to heal someone? Except he didn’t kill plants in the process, but people?”

“Did Jamie tell you about that case?” the old man asked curiously.

“He didn’t. But it seems very obvious what kind of crime such a power would lead to.”

“Yes, I guess it does,” Visconti replied with a sad smile. “But in any case, Hargrave cannot be the Shadow.  Supernatural abilities of any kind are not something you can acquire or learn. It’s in your blood and flesh and bone. You are born with it.”

“That’s as may be, sir, but there are such things as accomplices. If he wrote that list, we must speak to him.”

Visconti took one last glance at the page and then handed the notebook to Ned.

“You can try. But as far as I know, he has spent the last eleven years locked up in a sanatorium.”

“Is that a fancy word for a lunatic asylum, sir?” Ned asked dryly.

“I’m afraid so. I’ll make some inquiries tomorrow...”

Visconti stopped speaking when the compartment door opened, and the ticket inspector stepped in.

“May I see your tickets, gentlemen?”

Ned elbowed St Clair in the ribs. The brat sat up abruptly and pushed his hat up.

“Are we there yet?” he asked drowsily.

The ticket inspector gave him an indulgent smile. “Good evening, sir. We still have half an hour to go.”

“Oh. Hello, Mr Jenkins,” St Clair said, answering the smile and giving him the tickets.

Jenkins punched them with ceremony, then glanced critically at Ned.

“I am glad to see you’ve recovered from yesterday, sir. Have a nice evening, gentlemen.”

Once the door closed behind him again, Ned turned to St Clair.

“Did you mess up his brain so he wouldn’t ask why you were dragging an unconscious man onto a train?”

St Clair blinked at him, then rubbed his reddened eyes. “Of course not. I didn’t even have to say anything. Everyone I encountered seemed to assume that I was bringing a drunk friend home. I must have looked quite pitiful, since so many people offered to help me move you.”

Ned could just about imagine that. Few people would suspect a well-spoken young man with such an angelic face of kidnapping anyone, let alone a grown man. Still, the very thought of being dragged around like a piece of luggage was humiliating.

“Then practice looking pitiful again. We need a way to get into a lunatic asylum. Preferably without you scrambling someone’s brain,” he said grudgingly.

St Clair hid a yawn behind his hand, then leaned back. “That’s easy. I’ll just tell them I need you committed because you’ve started believing in witches.”