Patrick caught a train at Charing Cross, and Ned told St Clair, “Get a cab home and don’t get into any trouble on the way.”

The amber eyes lit up dangerously.  “And where are you going? Can’t let Miss Mary wait, can you?”

Ned blinked at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll get some clothes from my place and check for messages.”

“I’ll come with you,” St Clair said and hailed a cab.

Ned smiled agreeably. He opened the cab door for the brat, then slammed it in his face and told the coachman to take his passenger to Ravenstone House in Mayfair.

With a satisfied smile, he watched the cab pull away, then made his way home, enjoying the quiet.

His lodgings looked shabby after the splendour of the earl’s house, but the peace more than made up for it. He settled on his narrow bed to read the few messages that had arrived in his absence.

The one from his mother was loving as ever, but it made clear that she was losing patience with her wayward son. Ned resigned himself to going to that dinner, lest she track him down personally. Ma Kelly had her methods of finding her offspring that rivalled any Scotland Yard detective.

Entertaining himself with the idea of her storming the Ravenstone house, he packed up a few necessities and left a note for the landlady that he would be out for a few days.

As soon as he left the building, all amusement vanished, and he stopped in his tracks. A familiar tall figure was leaning against a hansom cab with crossed arms and a reproachful expression.

Ned entered the cab wordlessly and waited until it was moving before he grabbed the St Clair by the collar.

“It is one thing that you know where I live. But you knew who my brother was before either of us told you. What the hell is wrong with you?” he growled.

St Clair gave him the hurt wolf cub look again and didn’t even try to free himself.

“You don’t understand how rare immunity to magic is. I had to find out if it runs in your family.”   

Ned’s grip tightened. “Leave my family alone. If I find you or your witches anywhere near them, you will regret the day you set eyes on me.”

St Clair’s face flushed from lack of air, but he still managed to smile.

“I will never regret setting eyes on you. But I take your point,” he said breathlessly.

Ned pushed him away. St Clair inhaled deeply before he straightened his collar and added, “And just to be clear – your family was never in any danger from me.”

Ned barely dared to ask, but he had to know. “Is any of them…like me?”

“No. They are all regular humans, as far as I can tell.”

“What do you mean as far as you can tell?” Ned insisted.

 “Your nieces and nephews are still too young to say for sure.”

Ned gritted his teeth at the very thought that St Clair had checked them as well, but forced himself to concentrate on the immediate matter.

“Visconti said you are either born a witch or you aren’t,” he objected.  

St Clair shrugged. “That is true, but the powers of a witch usually don’t manifest until puberty. It’s pretty bad for those who don’t have anyone to tell them what is going on. If they survive, they often end up drugged out of their mind like poor Miss Baker.”

Ned thought back to the girl at the asylum.

“So that pale light around her was magic?”

“Yes. She is a Psychometrist,” St Clair said, as if that explained anything.

“Uh … was that on that endless list you explained to me yesterday?”

“Yes. Though your eyes had glazed over by the time I got to them.”

“Just tell me she is not one of those who can make people explode,” Ned said resignedly.

“No. She drew a much worse lot.”

“Worse than the ability for mass murder?”

“Well, worse for her, I mean. Psychometrists can read memories attached to objects. She can’t touch anything without being assaulted by visions and emotions of strangers. It’s bad enough if you are trained to do it, but it must be absolutely unbearable for someone who can’t control it.”

Ned felt sympathy for the girl, but his copper’s instinct kicked in. “Can you do it?”

“If I have to,” St Clair replied unenthusiastically.

“Then see what you get from this,” Ned said, fishing the card from his pocket.

St Clair looked at the grubby piece of cardboard with distaste, but pulled off his gloves. The usual bright gold turned to a pale yellow as he took the card. He remained still for a moment, then said, “A skinny boy of maybe ten. Dark eyes. Pinkie finger missing on his left hand. Terrified. Praying in some Slavic language.”

He shuddered for a moment and dropped the card. “It feels terrible. And anyway, I could have concluded all that from the clothes we found. Just another poor street child squatting in an abandoned building. It can’t have anything to do with our case.”

Ned’s pulse quickened in excitement. He picked the card up and put it back into St Clair’s hand.

“A boy with black eyes followed you in Soho. A boy watched your house yesterday when we arrived. Now that I think of it, he even watched you at the Savoy. I never caught a good enough glimpse of his face because he was so bundled up, but it can’t be a coincidence. Try again.”  

“If you haven’t seen his face, you can’t even say if it’s the same one. You are grasping for straws because you don’t want us to go to the theatre and question whoever gave you that notebook,” St Clair objected heatedly.

“Will you do it or should I ask Visconti?” Ned retorted.

St Clair pressed his lips together, but did as asked.  It took longer this time, and his face contorted in pain. His whole body started shaking, but then went still again. Ned watched him with worry, not sure if it was safe to shake him out of the trance he was in.

Just as he was about to try anyway, St Clair opened his eyes and withdrew the pale light.

“I can’t make much sense of it. There are only two images I could make out clearly. The first was a travelling wagon with a red door. It was summer. A dark-haired man was beating him.  The second was in that room in Seven Dials. An older man with grey hair gave him new clothes and boiled candy,” he said hoarsely.

“For what?” Ned asked, his heart sinking.

“I don’t know. But he was less afraid of him than of the younger man. Which doesn’t mean much. I’ve never felt such helplessness from anyone,” St Clair muttered and threw the card back at him.

He turned away. Ned almost called him childish, but then halted as he realised that it wasn’t anger that had sent St Clair into such a fit.

“When you say you felt it – did you mean that literally?” he asked.

St Clair nodded but kept staring through the fogged window as if he could see anything through it. Ned reached out to touch his tense shoulder. St Clair flinched, and Ned quickly removed his hand.

“I’m sorry. I should not have asked that of you,” he said helplessly.

St Clair straightened and tried to put his gloves back on. “You were right to do so. I cannot let it get to me,” he said quietly. “I just need more practice.”

Ned pretended not to notice that his hands were still shaking. The last thing any self-respecting young man wanted was pity. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what price St Clair kept paying for his power.

He took the notebook from the inner pocket of his coat to put the card into it, then froze mid-motion as an idea struck him. St Clair’s amber gaze met his. Ned didn’t even have to ask.

“I did try it on the notebook. All it showed me was vague impressions of Lilly. And handsome Michael with his broken heart.”