He brought the book back, held it out through the bars.
Most of the pages had been used. Some of the sheets were bare but for a small, precise pencil sketch. Winston’s view from his cell, the pots of paint, his hands in different poses.
“You have a lovely hand,” Ethan said, looking as I turned the pages.
Winston shrugged. “I find it relaxes me.”
Others were painted abstract shapes filling the page from edge to edge, making them thick and hard to turn, the paint chalky beneath my fingers. Most were in shades of gray with streaks or lines of sharp white or black, and a few featured words in the same strong colors. VOICE on one, HEAR IT on another. There were several pages with white and gray blocks that looked like teeth, others with ears and spirals of tiny words.
“What are these?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The mouths, I think, that are saying all those words. The images just kind of come to me, and I draw them.”
“Winston, could I borrow this? Only for a little while,” I assured him when he looked crestfallen. “I’ll give it back, and I’m sure we can arrange for you to have another notebook while we’re borrowing this one.”
“Why do you want it?” he asked.
I tried to choose my words carefully. “I’d like to look through your pictures again when I have more time. Think about them, I guess. Just in case they give us some clue about what’s happening.”
“Okay,” he said. “But I would appreciate getting a replacement.”
“I’ll take care of it personally,” Ethan said.
I tucked the notebook carefully inside my jacket, to keep it dry in the snow.
“Winston, do you remember the night of the attack at Towerline?” Ethan asked. “When Sorcha used her magic?”
He nodded gravely. “I do. Matter of fact, I wasn’t far from there when it went down. I was laid off earlier this year, been working temp and contracts since then, taking what work I could find. I was working about a block from there—helping unload boxes of materials at the Wellworth Hotel for a convention of some sort—when it happened.” He shook his head. “Quite a night that was. Never seen anything like it.”
Bingo, I thought. Another connection to the magic that had gone down at Towerline. “That might be one of the reasons you’re hearing the voice,” I said. “We’re looking into it.”
His eyes widened. “You think I caught something because of that magic?”
“Not a virus,” Ethan said. “But there may have been some effects. We’ll let you know if we figure out that’s what happened.”
He nodded, ran a hand over his head as he seemed to consider. “That’s why I came to Cadogan House in the first place. Not Towerline,” he added at our surprised expressions. “Employment. It’s been hard—not having permanent work—and not easy to find work as a vampire. I was hoping to speak to you about a job.” He shook his head. “It seems selfish now, to have caused all this trouble.”
“It isn’t selfish at all,” Ethan said. “That’s why we offer the assistance—to help vampires in unusual situations.”
Winston sighed. “I don’t suppose this will help me in the job market.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Ethan said. “You won’t be here forever. And when we figure out what’s causing the delusions, and we put a stop to it, you’ll still need that help.”
Very deliberately, his gaze on Winston’s, Ethan stepped over the yellow line, extended his hand through the bars of Winston’s cell.
Winston took a step closer. The movement was tentative, but the handshake wasn’t.
“Thank you for listening,” he said. “Sometimes you just need someone to listen. Think that you aren’t crazy.”
No argument there. The question was—which someone had needed Winston to listen?
• • •
Before we walked back to the guard, I stopped Ethan with a hand on his arm.
“There’s someone else we could talk to. Someone who might have an idea what’s happening.”
Ethan considered for a moment. “You’re thinking about Tate.”