Page 40 of The Devouring Time

It’s true as far as it goes. I try to look meek and say, “Miss Lovejoy, I’m so sorry to have offended you in some way. I don’t remember my actions, but please allow me to apologize for them.”

Her expression goes guarded. “Wait here,” she says, and shuts the door.

We exchange looks. “What did I do?” I wonder unhappily.

“Hopefully nothing worth calling the police over,” Adrian says. He doesn’t add this time but I hear it anyway.

I couldn’t have murdered a man to get my hands on the Key of Mithras. It’s not possible.

Is it?

The door opens, revealing Lovejoy again. She’s exchanged her cigarette for a briarwood pipe with symbols carved into the polished bowl. Before either of us can say anything, she mutters something under her breath, takes a deep pull on the pipe, and blows the smoke in our faces.

It has a pleasant scent—violets, I think?—but I jerk back and cough. Adrian waves the smoke away with a hand, looking irritated.

“Hmm,” she says, eyeing us. “It seems you’re not outright lying, anyway.”

Something clicks in my mind. “Did you just cast a spell on us?”

“A witch living in Salem?” she asks with a wicked grin. “Just a few feet from where her forebears were hanged, their bodies thrown into a crevice? Perish the thought.” She steps back and swings the door wider. “Come inside.”

Her house befits an artist: the floors covered in Persian rugs, the furniture mismatched but clearly chosen with an eye toward shape and color, the walls thick with paintings that might be her own work. Sculptures are scattered all about, from busts on bookshelves to bronze casts acting as bookends.

She leads us to a sitting room, its windows overlooking a stand of trees and a rocky outcropping. Dropping into an overstuffed chair, she snags a bottle off a low table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tops off a glass with champagne. She doesn’t offer us any.

“What do you want?” she asks as we sit in two of the other chairs. Mine is upholstered in stiff brocade and much less comfortable than it looks.

“We need to know more about The Wheel of Aion,” Adrian says. “Sterling remembered you collect rare books on Italian Renaissance art, and we hoped you might have some texts on it, or some insight of your own.”

She puts out the pipe and relights her cigarette. “Interesting.”

“Is that what I came here for before?” I ask.

“Actually, you wanted the Lettere Segrete.”

I cast my mind back and come up with the pertinent information. “Oh—you bought that from us in 1924, yes? It’s a collection of private letters from different artists, printed in Italian in 1595. First edition but with a modern binding. Some foxing, as is to be expected in a book of that age, and annotations from a previous owner.”

“And you looked through it closely before you sold it, I presume?” she asks.

It seems an odd question. “I wouldn’t say either of us looked at it page-by-page.” The memory of James threatens to choke me, so I push it away. “We don’t speak Italian, after all, and certainly don’t have time to read every book that comes through, even those in English. We assessed the condition, nothing more.”

“Are some of the letters from Bianca Giuliani?” Adrian guesses.

Lovejoy tips her chin up slightly, her gaze wary but curious as she fixes it on me. “First, tell me about your amnesia. What’s happened to you since you lost your memories?”

I wish I knew whether to trust her. I hold back the names of anyone but ourselves, just in case, and refer to Cleo and Dr. Werner as “acquaintances,” giving no details about where they live or work. But it seems she knows about magic, so I talk about waking up in Widdershins, the Timekeepers, and the man who turned into a horrible monster in front of our eyes.

When I finish, she rises to her feet and goes to look out the window, smoke trailing lazily after her. Is it twisting more than it should, or is there a draught in that part of the room I can’t feel from my uncomfortable chair?

“Did you know, a man who fled the witch hunts in Salem went on to found the town of Widdershins?” she asks. “Theron Blackbyrne. They say his dark magic still infects the place. I doubt that’s true, but it’s not somewhere to step lightly. I wonder why you went there?”

“I wonder the same.”

She turns back to us. “I haven’t heard of this Timekeeper cult, but that means nothing. There are a hundred little cults up and down the East Coast, from the deep swamps of Florida to the mountains of Appalachia, from the forests of Maine to the streets of New York City. All of them fragmented, worshipping their own little gods.”

“But why?” I ask, bewildered. “What does it get them?”

“What does anyone get from worship? Comfort. The promise of a better life, either here or in the next world. A chance to feel there’s some order in this chaotic universe, and that if they say the right prayers they might be able to control things otherwise out of their hands.” She shrugs. “I’m an artist. Ask one of your acquaintances if you want to understand more.”