"Incense is part of the business," Elton says, opening the outer door. "I'm a theurge. Crescent moon. You know what an auspice is, right?"
The stairs from the street to Elton's apartment are narrow and steep—the urge to walk hand-over-foot is almost overwhelming—and though it's only late afternoon, there's no light except from a crooked witch window at your back. The stairs bow in the middle, as if a thousand years of monks have climbed these steps, though the building can't be more than two centuries old. In the darkness, Elton inserts the key again without hesitation, turns it easily, and then puts his shoulder into the warped wood of the ancient door until it pops open.
You step into a living room full of books and immediately bang your knee on a coffee table covered in heaps of printouts. Books are everywhere, at every level—noticeably at wolf level in several places. The smell is books and dust and old rugs and brass and pewter, old cigarette smoke burned into the walls, and black coffee—you see the cups left everywhere, balanced in the oddest places—and heavy dinners not always cleaned up right away. You pick your way past iron candleholders covered in melted wax, plates decorated with blue pastoral scenes stained red and black, fat leather-bound notebooks full of handwritten scrawl, and nearly bang your head on a low candelabra strung with electric lights.
"Sit wherever," Elton says, sweeping his hand across a dozen surfaces, none suitable for sitting.
"You're awfully open about what you are. You barely know me."
"So, I've never actually been to a high tea. Where do I put my doily?"
"I hate to sound all business, but I'm here because a Bane attacked my pack."
Never interrupt an enemy when he's making a mistake or a potential ally when he's making tea. I'm hungry, so I wait for crumpets.
"I think I found the remains of someone named Harmonie." I hand Elton the library card.
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