He found a loose clump the size of a threepenny piece just behind his right ear. When it came free in his hand he stared at it glumly. Careful brushing covered it up, but the implications of the hair loss weren't so easily hidden.
In frustration, he took out Bernard's notebook in the hope that it would have some clues to alleviating his condition – or distract him, at least.
It achieved the latter, because the old magician's writing was anything but straightforward. Even if it hadn't been in Gallian, the task of reading it would have been a challenge.
Aubrey quickly forgot about his bodily discomfort. It didn't take him long to decide that Bernard had been a mercurial character. His writing sped across the page, often becoming blurred as he documented whatever phenomenon he was currently investigating. He also had a penchant for using different inks, often within the same sentence. The rapid changing of colours made the writing jump and dance.
Bernard's observations were eclectic. As well as whatever he was examining, he commented on weather, light levels, ambient sound, phases of the moon, and even developments in politics. Aubrey appreciated the way Bernard noted all factors influencing a magical experiment, but the old magician's notes showed the signs of obsession rather than care. When his jottings began to include counts of dust density, Aubrey sighed and closed the book.
He was sure some useful material lurked in the pages, but finding it was going to take time. He wondered if locating the Soul Stealer and prising some of his secrets from him mightn't be a quicker way to search for a remedy.
He went to the washbasin and splashed some water on his face. After patting it dry with one of Madame Calvert's wonderful towels, and ignoring his pale reflection, he wandered into the small living room of their apartment. George was stretched out on the chaise longue, snoring, with a copy of the Lutetian Sentinel on the floor beside him. A notebook with jottings from his genealogical investigations was under his head. Aubrey admired his friend's peace of mind, but it didn't stop him from waking him.
'Wake up, George. Dangerous deeds to do.'
George opened one eye. 'I wasn't asleep, just resting. Newspaper reading's a tiring task.' He reached behind his head and extracted his notebook. He leafed through it, frowning.
'Interesting?'
George grunted. 'Four churches, a converted monastery and a small graveyard. I've reached two dead ends in the family lines Prince Albert suggested, which will save us work in the long run, and I have a few promising leads to follow.'
Aubrey blinked. 'You did all that before you were arrested? I'm impressed.'
George sat up and brandished his notebook. 'Dashed interesting stuff, all of this. I'll need some help with dates and the like, but this history business is like . . .' He rubbed his nose, then brightened. 'Why, it's like what you do. It's a big puzzle, with pieces and hints and trails all over the place, and the challenge is to make sense of it all.'
Aubrey was cheered to see George so enthusiastic. 'So you actually made some progress?'
'Rather, old man. A long way to go, though.'
'Luckily, we don't have far to go this evening.' Aubrey held a finger in the air. 'Now, disguises.'
George swung his legs and sat up, groaning. 'Not disguises again, old man. I'll be fine as I am.'
'Necessary, I'm afraid. We have to blend in with a Marchmaine crowd this time.'
From his store of useful purchases, he assembled two outfits: dark-blue serge trousers, tough cotton shirts, woollen vests and cloth caps. He eyed them, chewing his lip. 'Boots,' he said. 'I'm not happy about our boots.'
'I am with mine, old man. Very comfy.'
'Too new, George. They don't look like workers' boots at all.'
'Well, surely not all these Marchmainers are hardhanded tillers and workers of the soil. They must have some educated types.'
'You're right. I've been stereotyping them.' He hated doing that. It usually went hand in hand with underestimating an opponent.
Eventually, Aubrey compromised. A second-hand pea jacket over the serge trousers. No cap. If confronted, Aubrey planned to claim they were university students who supported the cause. It would explain their youth and their city appearance.
On the way, they stopped at a café for a light meal before the evening's exertions. George quickly ate a sandwich and had another. Aubrey only ordered his because he thought it would look suspicious if he didn't. Nauseated, he stared sidelong at his ham and cheese sandwich and knew he couldn't stomach a bite. He made sure his sleeves were covering his forearms. He thought the skin was beginning to slough away there too. He tried to remember how many pairs of gloves he'd packed. The fresh air outside the café revived him somewhat.
The evening was lingering, stretching out the day. The light had a flat dullness about it, as if it were staying beyond its time. In the growing shadows, Aubrey had the uncomfortable feeling that the buildings on either side of the street were leaning inwards, glowering at him.
Eventually, they reached the Hepworths' apartment. Aubrey rang and Mrs Hepworth opened the door. 'Aubrey, dear. You look most disreputable. You too, George.'
Aubrey bowed. 'Thank you.'
'Perfect for your escapade, I'd say. I'll get Caroline. Come in, have a seat.'
George eyed Aubrey from the sofa. 'Disreputable, eh?' He wriggled his shoulders. 'I think I like being disreputable. It's probably wildly attractive to the ladies, wouldn't you say?'
'What would I know?' Aubrey muttered. The closer their rendezvous came, the more nervous he felt.
Caroline stepped into the room. Aubrey stood and, an instant later, so did George.
'Shall we go?'
'I like the dress,' Aubrey offered. 'Most appropriate, that shade of purple.'
'Mauve.'
'And the hat. Just perfect.'
'It's a bonnet.' Caroline looked at George. 'And what do you have to say?'
George spread his hands, grinning. 'I know nothing about women's clothes. I usually just say, "You look wonderful", but I don't think it's entirely appropriate here, since you're trying to look dowdy.'
'No.' Caroline bent and seized the hem of her dress. She lifted it to her knee. Aubrey took a sharp breath. 'I have my fighting uniform on underneath, just in case.'
'Be prepared,' Aubrey croaked. 'Very good. Excellent.'
'Oh, don't be so silly,' Caroline said. 'And stop laughing, Mother.'
Mrs Hepworth waved a hand. 'It's what I do when I see something funny, my dear. I can't help it.' Her face grew serious. 'You will be careful, though, won't you?'
'Of course.'
'And Aubrey, don't do anything reckless.' She paused. 'Don't do anything too reckless.'
'This is just information-gathering, Mrs Hepworth, nothing to worry about.'
'Nothing to worry about? It's obvious you've never been a parent.'
