Page 33 of Her Majesty's Necromancer
"Gordon did perform rather well." I chuckled, but it ended with a yawn.
"So did you," he said quietly.
I glanced at him, but he was looking directly ahead. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking at the best of times, but the darkness made it impossible. "Does this mean you'll allow me to do more work for the ministry?"
"If and when required."
"I suppose this makes me Her Majesty's Necromancer." I laughed softly. "It sounds rather grand, if one ignores the macabre nature of it. I wonder what official positions receive? A medal? A sash?"
"A warm fire and soup."
"I prefer hot chocolate."
"I'll make you a cup when we get home."
I rested my head against his shoulder. To my surprise, he neither moved away nor tensed. I closed my eyes and stifled another yawn. "I wonder how many spirits my mother—my real mother, that is—raised."
"We may never know."
"If she's still alive, we can ask her."
He was silent, and I suspected he was trying to decide whether to warn me not to hold out hope of her being alive. I wasn't a fool. I knew she was most likely dead, after all this time, but I still wanted to find out for certain.
"We should make a list of all the London orphanages and cross off the ones we've both visited to save time. We can begin with the one in Kentish Town."
"That was next on my list."
I jerked upright. "But you already wrote to the administrator there and asked about my adoption."
"No I didn't."
"But you told me you had."
"You never mentioned which orphanage you'd just returned from. I assumed it was the one in Clerkenwell where I'd last been. I haven't written letters."
"It wasn't Clerkenwell," I whispered. "The administrator of the Kentish Town orphanage said someone had asked the same question as me, and I assumed it had been you. Lincoln, that means someone else is searching for information about my adoption."
CHAPTER 6
The library's fireplace threw out enough heat to keep the entire room warm. I sat on the crimson and gold Aubusson rug and stretched my toes toward the hearth. By the time Lincoln returned with a large cup of hot chocolate, my clothes were steaming and my hair curled at the edges.
"You're not having one?" I asked as I accepted the cup.
"I don't like chocolate."
"Strange man." Stranger still that it was the first time he'd voiced an opinion on something as mundane as chocolate. I realized I had no idea of his likes and dislikes, although some of them I could guess. I imagined he loathed social events like balls, for example.
"Are you warm?" he asked.
I nodded. "Are you going to sit down?"
"My clothes are damp."
"The furniture will dry out. Or the rug."
He hesitated then sat on the armchair. I thought he'd excuse himself and retreat to his rooms, so his presence felt like a small victory.
"If you remove your jacket and boots, you'll dry faster," I said.
