The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

right. She was clearly distraught, yes, but had been since the beginning. Devoted to the cataloging and painting of pillywiggins, she was not the sort who belonged in tonight’s events.

      So, why had she? Were they that desperate for powerful mediums? (The fact that the guileless woman was one was proof of life’s ironic bent.) Or was there another reason for this odd assembly? The Brigantium had an entire Bureau of Divination, after all. Yet not a single member of it was present tonight.

      “What I do not understand is what Leticia was doing with matters of the Cailleach in the first place,” Eben said, clearly working himself up to a good fit of outrage. “Why was I not made aware of her acquisition plans? As head of Archives, I should be notified of any such—”

      Beatrice cut him off with a weary gesture. “I’m sure she meant no slight to your position, Eben dear. Leticia has always been impetuous.” She shot Arthur a look. “And as one of our oldest members, she was often given certain liberties when it came to travel and procurements.”

      “Not that we didn’t try to rein her in,” Arthur said. “And we most certainly did not know she was involving herself in matters of the Cailleach. Project Monitoring believed she was on a routine buying trip for her shop in the States, coupled with a bit of continued research into localized Celtic-based deities. They gave her the usual budget for the latter and classified it as historical, minimal import. We were as taken aback as you, Eben, to discover that her official reports were less than forthcoming.”

      Quentin did his best to hide his astonishment. What sort of game had the old bird been running? The sort that had gotten her killed, obviously. But why? He’d known the woman all his life—first as a guest in his mother’s home, then through the Society itself. She’d been a frequent lecturer in his classes and a ubiquitous presence in libraries and archives throughout London, even after her semi-retirement.

      She had devoted her life to the Brigantium. And, after his vision, he’d thought she’d given her life to it as well. But if she’d gone out on her own…it might account for the first message the flames had presented. When they’d gone out, they’d affirmed Quentin’s vision of Leticia’s death. The spiraling that had preceded it, however, signified false friends.

      “So it was intentional, then,” Eben declared. “Leticia was using the system to her own advantage. Do we know to what end? Was she working for someone else?”

      “Brigantia’s spear, Eben,” Beatrice snapped in a rare show of temper. “This is Leticia we’re talking about. Leticia. One of our finest.”

      Spots of red mottled Eben’s cheeks. “If she were, she would have followed the rules. The monitoring system was established for good reason. To prevent confusion, improve efficiency and oversight, and cut down on danger to those in the field. She knew that well enough, and yet it appears she went against it—indeed, played it so no one knew what she was really doing, with something as important as a relic of the Cailleach at stake. And look what she got for it. Killed by a—”

      Leslie sobbed, startling them all—Eben to the point of silence. As she buried her face in a delicate kerchief, Quentin felt temper, rather than pity, rise. It was about time the woman got her head out of the flowers and took a look at the rest of their world.

      “I’ve spoken with our people in Edinburgh,” Arthur said, apparently setting aside Eben’s aspersions of treason as easily as he did the top page of his notes. He pushed up his glasses, consulted the second page. “They verified that Leticia did indeed stay there, but left over a week ago. I’ve got calls in to our other Houses, but so far, no one else mentions having seen her.” He fixed Quentin with a look. “Are you certain you can’t pick up on the location?”

      “Night. Clouds filling the sky. Grassy hills, maybe. A few lights in the distance.” He shrugged. “Smell of the ocean. Cold.” Inside and out.

      Leslie made another noise. It was ironic, he decided, that the woman who communed with flower fairies was turning out to be such a watering pot. His loud sigh earned him another one of Beatrice’s looks.

      “You believe, Quentin, that you saw Cormac? At the... moment of death?”

      “It was a very broken sequence,” he told Arthur, a repeat of what he’d said to Beatrice earlier. “Incomplete pictures, most often blurred. No sounds at all. Few sensations.” For which he was grateful, even if they might have provided additional clues. He cleared his throat. “But, yes. At the moment of her death, she was looking at Cormac. His image came through very clearly.”

      Almost too clearly, but he saw no point in mentioning that yet. If at all.

      Arthur took a photograph out of one of his files, slid it across the table. “This is who you saw?”

      Frowning, Quentin pulled it closer with the tip of a gloved finger. It was a bit grainy and out of focus—obviously taken in a hurry. A young man, slight of frame and perhaps average of height, had been captured mid-stride and looking directly at the camera.

      “That’s him.” He pushed the image away.

      “Everyone should have a look,” Arthur advised, and Damian took it up. “This is the only photograph of him on record. Taken nearly fifty years ago. Is it still accurate?”

      Quentin nodded. “The hair is a bit different. And I can’t speak for the color, obviously. Otherwise, he looks the same.”

      “B-but surely,” Leslie sputtered. “It’s been fifty years. Surely he—”

      “He’s half-Sidhe, dear,” Beatrice explained, her singularly patronizing tone setting Quentin’s teeth on edge. “It would seem he ages as they do.”

      Leslie’s eyes were wide. “How different from the pilly—”

      “Yes,” Arthur broke in. “Naturally, of utmost concern, is his connection to Idris Cathmor.”

      Leslie showed no reaction whatsoever, the evil of the man apparently never having extended into her magical garden. Lucky her.

      As the photograph continued its slow circuit, Arthur handed a folio to Damian. “I’d like you to go to Edinburgh. See if you can’t pick up Leticia’s trail and get more details on those documents. It does appear that she didn’t want us knowing what she was doing. Until we know what that was, we won’t know what befell her. Or why.” The last was directed pointedly at Eben.

      Damian, his expression unreadable, bowed his head and tucked the papers into the sleeve of his robe. The man was one of the country’s greatest sorcerers, but no one would think it to look at him. With his flowing gray beard and long, wild hair, he was something straight out of a children’s tale. Especially when he wore his blue cloak embroidered with gold stars and crescent moons. Which he frequently did. Quentin had yet to decide if it was questionable taste or brilliant subterfuge.

      “We all saw the spiraling of the flames.” Arthur gestured toward the candles. “If this was something which specifically targeted her, or what she sought, or our Society in general, we need to know. And we need to know what Leticia knew. What she was attempting, what her motives were, and what went wrong. We need to know what we’re up against.” He paused to cast a meaningful look around the table. “If it could happen to Leticia, it could happen to any one of us.”

      Leslie moaned, her arms wrapped protectively about her chest. Damian—possibly headed into immediate danger—merely smoothed his hands down his beard, his expression thoughtful, then asked “What of the documents Lettie was after? Did she describe them at all?”

      “More to the point,” Eben said, “did she describe the relic? Did she find it?”

      “No, to the first. To the second, we don’t know,” Arthur replied, uncharacteristically sharp. “If she did, we can only hope she put it someplace safe before her death and that we can find it before anyone else. As for the documents, we know only that they were new to the market, pulled out of an estate undergoing renovation, and that at least two maps were involved. One of