“Dad. Gross,” Maren complained.
“What? Yeh care for strangers all the time but yeh won’t help out yer old man?”
“Fine,” Maren said, shaking her head. “My medical kit’s in the living room.”
Monte smoothed over the curled edges of Uncle Jarus’s newspaper as the pair left the kitchen. He scanned through the haphazardly placed articles—the trademark layout for the British Mystic Gazette, the largest Mystic paper in Britain. A snapshot of a man’s face almost covered the entire second page. He looked about Mr. Darrow’s age, his light, feathery hair swooping over a sturdy forehead. Even with the brown undertones of the ink, a hint of whimsy was apparent in the minute lines of the man’s clean-shaven face. A notice, printed in heavy typeface, completed the portrait: “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MYSTIC?”
