And hunting down my absentee father was still a more appealing option than the alternative.

I knew my father belonged to the Sons. Mrs. Vykotsky told me my parents had magic, and my mother confirmed it a few months ago. It was an offhand comment about William walking in his father’s footsteps by working at the Commodore Club. It was easy to put two and two together.

Magic runs in families, though not always. Lena’s grandmother is a witch, but Maxine’s family seems perfectly powerless.

Finding my father was a long shot, but it was better than nothing, and I refused to sit around doing nothing.

But I never dreamed I’d get this lucky. He’s a magical researcher. He might be able to actually help me. I’ll play his game of father-daughter catch-up if it’s what I need to do to get answers from him, but I came for information and information only.

He nods. “Of course, of course. I grew up in Philadelphia. Came to New York when I was eighteen. I’d heard there were others like me there.”

“Like you?” I prod.

“Possessors of magic,” he explains. “Like your mother, too. I’m sure she’s told you all about it.”

It takes effort to continue to look impassive.

“I came to the city, joined the Sons of Saint Druon. Fine fellows. I’m sure you know them, too.”

I nearly choke. “Vaguely acquainted.”

“Good, good.” He continues, “Worked with the Sons for a bit, came to Europe on business. Fell in with a literary sort of crowd, you know how it goes. Hopped aboard a few archeological projects. Traveled to Egypt, Greece, China. Uncovered all sorts of interesting things. When my knees started aching, I settled into teaching. I’ve been a professor of magical history here at Saint Bosco’s for… oh, it can’t be a decade, surely? Perhaps eight years? Time is lost so easily, I fear.”

Not once in his accounting of his life does he mention his wife or the two children he fathered or why he left us. I was prepared to deal with someone cold and unfeeling. I wasn’t prepared for this, the ramblings of a man who seems more criminally careless than evil.

Is it worse that he simply didn’t care that he left us? That he never spared a passing thought to us, cold in our two-room apartment while he was gallivanting in Greece? It must have been nice. I bet it was warm.

He’s no villain. He’s just a man.

It’s so pathetic I almost feel sorry for him.