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though I for one never dealt with alchemists, because they were an untrustworthy, mercenary lot. “Do you think the lover killed her?”
    “Very likely. In many cases a victim is killed by a person that he or she knew. Murder is often a personal crime.”
    I shuddered at the thought and assumed it was even more personal for a necromancer draining his victim, holding the woman close while he stole the lifeblood from her body. Surely Michael would never do such a terrible thing, but if the danger did not exist, then Simon would not be so concerned about him while he learned to control his bloodlust.
    After a few more minutes of searching that did not yield any further results, I donned my gloves and we returned to the parlor where Dr. Bennett was consoling Mr. Harding. The poor man appeared so distraught that it seemed cruel to ask him if his wife had been unfaithful.
    “Did you find anything?” Mr. Harding looked up at us with reddened eyes. I glanced at Miss Dubois, and she nodded at me to proceed.
    I took a seat near them and folded my hands in my lap. “Perhaps a few things. May I ask, was Mrs. Harding faerie-blooded?”
    “No, she wasn’t,” he replied.
    “And you’re certain of that?” Miss Dubois asked.
    “Well…no. I don’t believe that she has—had—any particular connection to a faerie family. If she did she never spoke of it. Perhaps you could speak with her parents,” he suggested, and Miss Dubois nodded.
    Curious. Perhaps the mirror had a second purpose? Aside from Miss Dubois’s claims that it was a gateway to Faerie, there could be any number of other magical uses for a mirror. Dr. Bennett might know of a witch’s use for mirrors, and we could question him later.
    “Did Mrs. Harding visit any friends or relations on a regular basis?” I asked. “It would aid us if we knew her daily routines.”
    The husband nodded. “Yes, of course. She visited her Aunt Penny for tea on Wednesdays. And she was involved with a small circle who practice spellwork, and they meet during the full moon. Women’s magic, you understand.” Mr. Harding looked to Dr. Bennett, who seemed to know what he referred to. Admittedly I knew very little of the specifics of witch magic, and only encountered them when I needed the aid of a healer.
    “No other hobbies?” I asked. Perhaps she could have been using her aunt as an excuse to meet her lover, but how had she met the man in the first place?
    Mr. Harding frowned as he pondered the question, and then he sighed. “She had been attending these poetry salons. Her friend Miss Thistlegoode insisted that she go with her. I didn’t approve, but Clara had been a bit melancholy about not seeing her friends as much now that she was a married woman, and she seemed to enjoy attending them.”
    Miss Dubois and I exchanged a meaningful look. That was a likely place for her to meet a lover, perhaps a poet. A lonely new bride could be swayed into an affair by such a romantic figure. Fortunately, as a poetess myself I had a plausible reason to attend such a gathering, which would allow us to investigate further.
    We spoke a bit more with poor Mr. Harding before taking our leave and proceeding to Miss Dubois’s home near Hyde Park. I was impressed by the fashionable neighborhood and the stately exterior of the building. She must have quite a fortune to afford such a place, which might explain why Dr. Bennett had not acted upon his feelings for her. Judging by the worn and frayed state of his jacket, he could not claim the same. I wondered where he was living—surely not here, for that would be extremely scandalous—but I refrained from asking.
    Dr. Bennett asked for permission to look something up in her library, and he left to pursue his research. Miss Dubois and I passed our time in the sitting room, waiting for dinner to be served.
    “Your home is lovely. Is that painting American?” I gestured to a cityscape above the fireplace.
    “It is, yes. It depicts the view of New York