364: Ian the Thief

The Thief, Ian

Morning light filtered through a curtain of colored ceramic beads, casting mottled shadows across the stone table. Ian watched the runes faintly visible beneath the woman's veil. The magical patterns rose and fell slightly with her breathing, writhing like living things.

The clamor of the restaurant had been blurred into a distant hum by a Silencing Charm, and even the sound of the owner polishing brass pots seemed unreal.

Some sort of magic that prevented others from eavesdropping—or accidentally overhearing their conversation—had clearly been cast without a sound.

"You saw it last night, didn't you? The state of the temple." The woman spoke with absolute certainty.

Ian did not look up, keeping his gaze on the bowl of soup in his hands. "You seem to know a great deal."

"I only want to ask you this." The black-robed woman leaned forward slightly, her eyes beneath the veil as sharp as blades. "Do you know about 'that thing'?"

Ian showed no sign of panic. He remained perfectly composed, unwilling to let the conversation proceed at her pace.

After all, once he fell into the other person's rhythm, he would be placed at a severe disadvantage. Ian was not someone who liked being passive.

He understood the tricks of social interaction, as well as things like man-eating trees. Even back when he had been a Muggle, he had already been a master of psychology.

"So, it seems you knew I had been to the temple?" Ian stirred his date porridge with a silver spoon, and the sweet fragrance of honey drifted between them.

The woman's eyes curved behind her veil. She was smiling. Reaching up, she removed a colored bead from beside her ear and gently pushed it across the table.

When the bead rolled to Ian's hand, a