Aaron and Tamara were talking in low voices, and Jasper had gotten hold of the map and was staring at it. Call put aside his half-eaten can of ravioli and got to his feet, heading over to Alastair’s desk. He jerked the main drawer open.
As he’d expected, it was full of car keys. Single keys mostly, attached to leather fobs that showed the make of the car: Volkswagens, Peugeots, Citroëns, MINI Coopers, even an Aston Martin. Most were covered in dust, but not the key to the Martin. Call lifted it out of the desk — the Martin was one of his dad’s favorites, even though he hadn’t gotten it to run yet. Surely he wouldn’t have been working on it while he was here, on the run for his life, though?
Maybe Alastair had been planning on driving the Martin? It was a kicky car to escape in, capable of handling sharp turns and maybe even outrunning mages. If so, Call thought it was possible that he’d gotten it to work. Sure, it would be illegal for one of them to drive it, but that was the least of his worries.
He went to the ladder with a sigh, and started the arduous process of going down it. At least, with the others still in the loft, he was free to take it slow and wince as much as he wanted.
“Call, where are you going?” Tamara called to him.
“Can you send some light down?” Call asked.
She sighed. “Why do I have to do it? You can make fire hover just as well as I can.”
“You do it better,” Call said in a way he hoped was persuasive. She looked annoyed but sent down a sphere of fire anyway, which hovered in the air like a chandelier, dropping embers occasionally.
Call pulled the tarp off of the Aston Martin. The car was blue-green in color and trimmed out in gleaming chrome, with ivory leather seats that were only a little bit ripped. The floor pan looked in good shape, too; his dad said that was usually the first thing to succumb to rust.
Call clambered into place in the driver’s seat and slid the key into the ignition. He frowned — he’d really have to stretch to reach the gas or brake. Aaron could probably do it; he was taller. Call turned the key, but nothing happened. The old motor refused to rumble to life.
“What are you doing?”
Call jumped and almost banged his head on the roof of the car. He leaned out the open door and saw Aaron standing by the driver’s side, looking curious.
“Looking around,” Call said. “I’m not sure for what exactly. But my dad was definitely poking around this car before he left.”
Aaron leaned in and whistled. “This is a nice car. Does it start?”
Call shook his head.
“Check the glove compartment,” Aaron said. “My foster dad always used to keep everything in his.”
Call reached over and flipped the compartment open. To his surprise, it was full of papers. Not just any papers, he realized, lifting them out. Letters. Alastair was one of the only adults Call knew who carried on most of his correspondence via handwritten letters instead of e-mail, so the letters didn’t surprise him.
What did surprise him was who they were from. He opened one and scanned to the bottom, to the signature there, a signature that made his stomach turn over.
Master Joseph A. Walther
“What? What is it?” Aaron said, and Call looked up at him. He must have had a shocked expression on his face, because Aaron stepped away from the car and yelled upstairs to the others: “He found something! Call found something!”
“No, I didn’t.” Call stumbled out of the car, the letters jammed under his arm. “I didn’t find anything.”
Aaron’s green eyes were troubled. “Then what are those?”
“Just personal stuff. My dad’s notes.”