“I don’t think either of us needs glasses yet,” I say.

Lady Ruth chuckles, patting my hand again. “Give me two shakes…” She gets up and bustles out of the dining room.

“Reading glasses are glasses spelled to help you scan books and documents,” Baz explains, helping himself to a slice of cake. (Every time we call on Lady Salisbury, she seems to have just finished making a cake. Today it’s lemon drizzle. Cracking.)

“Why didn’t we use a pair when we were looking for Nico?”

“I don’t have a pair,” he says. “Imagine the magic that would take.”

Magickal objects are rare among mages. They have to be spelled the regular way. So first you need a specific spell. And then you need to be powerful enough to cast the spell—to actually channel magic into a thing. The Mage could do it, but it always knocked him out. He slept for a full day once, after bewitching a key. I’ve never met anyone who could charm something powerful, like a sword or a wand.

The Mage hoped I’d be able to do it eventually. I had the magic. But I didn’t have the magickal dexterity. I destroyed every object he put in front of me, including some expensive-looking jewellery.

I’m probably lucky it didn’t work. Imagine how many holes I would have blown in the magickal fabric if he’d turned me into a magic-wand factory.

Lady Ruth is back with an olive-green leather case. She sits down and hands the case to me—even though it’ll have to be Baz that uses anything magickal. I flip it open. There are gold wire-framed glasses inside. The arms have springs on the ends that must curl around the back of your ears. Baz is leaning over the table to look.

“Use them with ‘Fine-tooth comb,’ or any finding spell,” she says. “They’ll give you a boost.”

“Were these your husband’s, too?” I ask.

“My mother’s. I’ve never been much of a reader myself. They’re a family heirloom, I suppose.”

“Lovely,” Baz says. “We’ll be careful with them.”

“I know you will.” She squeezes his arm. “Let me pack up some sandwiches for you to take along.”

I end up eating the sandwiches on the way to Watford.

Baz frowns at me the whole time.

“Sorry,” I say, “am I getting crumbs in the car?” It’s his aunt’s ancient sports car—we took it from her parking space—and it was already full of crumbs and cigarette butts.

“I don’t care about the car,” he says. “I care about my shirt.”