EXCUSE ME?” RACHAEL GASPED. The warning flicker about this assignment that had been lurking in the back of her mind flared to life, Celeste’s words like a piece of paper tossed on glowing embers. What, was she getting precognition to go along with the psychometry? What next? Spoon-bending? Reading auras? Astral projection?
“I’m sorry, Rachael, did I startle you?”
“A little,” Rachael admitted. “I just don’t understand—why do you think I could find anything more than the police did?”
Celeste rose and went to gaze out the window, which overlooked the back lawn that Rachael had been contemplating not long ago. The sun had nearly set, the blue of twilight overtaking the scene. A light in the base of the fountain turned the bubbling water to liquid crystal. The deer had gone.
“Let me tell you a little bit about my family,” Celeste said finally. “My mother, Letitia, was twenty years older than her brothers, Jordan and Shane. As a result, I was seven years younger than Jordan and only five years younger than Shane; they were more like brothers to me….
“We had already left Manor MacPherson that night.”
Rachael knew she meant the night of the shooting and fire.
“My husband and I were living in New York City, where he had a business. We had come up for the Halloween Ball, but left on the last train out that night because Arden had an important meeting the next morning. Of course, we came back as soon as we heard the news.”
Rachael remembered reading that Celeste’s husband had died about a year ago. She wondered if that had sparked Celeste’s interest in the family geneology.
Celeste turned and walked back to her desk, sitting and folding her hands before her. Her short, carefully manicured nails shone with a clear polish.
“As the youngest member of the family, and a woman to boot, I wasn’t privy to much of what went on in the higher echelons of the household.” She laughed shortly, derisively. “I was, however, a good listener. I still am. I heard the rumors, and I heard the whisperings of my family, and I put two and two together.” Her eyes, hued the legendary MacPherson green, ensured Rachael’s attention. “You’ve done your homework, so you know what some of the rumors were. I believe my family preferred there not be an intense investigation into the murders. I don’t know if they were protecting anyone—perhaps it was simply the family honor.”
Celeste smiled, a bit sheepishly, and Rachael nodded for her to continue.
“I thought that since you’re already here doing research on the family, you might be able to find some answers,” the older woman said. “Oh, I may be being foolish; sentimental and suspicious in my old age. But I truly would like to know what happened that night. Lay the ghosts to rest.”
“Do you believe there are ghosts?” Rachael asked, remembering the tour book’s offhand comment.
Celeste laughed. “Oh no, my dear, that was a figure of speech. I don’t believe in spooks and spirits. I’d like to know more about my ancestors, but I don’t expect them to come back themselves to tell me.” She sobered. “Rachael, I would appreciate it if you didn’t recount our discussion to Ian,” she said. “As you must know from your research, he was seriously injured in the fire.” At Rachael’s nod, she went on. “Apparently he saw someone—his father or mother, probably—head to the cottage, and he snuck away from his nanny to follow. He was caught in the fire, and seriously burned on half of his body. The scars, both physical and mental, can never be erased.
“Because of his disfigurement, Ian has been tutored at home all his life. He even graduated from college with the highest honors through studying at home. Modern technology has allowed him to run his business activities and transactions from his office here in the manor. If a situation demands his presence, he sends a stand-in. He is well-known and well-respected in the business community, but never seen.”
Celeste toyed with the black Mont Blanc pen in its holder. “Ian is very self-conscious about the way he looks, of course. But you’re a mature woman, Rachael; I don’t think you’ll have any problem seeing beyond Ian’s scars.”
“I’m very impressed by what he’s accomplished,” Rachael said honestly. “It is a true testament to his spirit and drive that he has achieved what he has. I respect hard work and intelligence in anyone.”
“Good for you.” Celeste rose again. “I don’t know how much help Ian will be to you with regard to the fire,” she said as she moved around the desk. “He never speaks of it; says he can’t remember, which is common in trauma cases like that, I understand. I can’t imagine a child going through such an event without experiencing great shock. No matter how long ago it was, it must still bring him great pain.”
“Perhaps it would be best if I let him bring up the subject,” Rachael said, gathering up her bag. “He knows why I’m here—he may volunteer some information eventually.”
“He might,” Celeste said as they walked to the door. “We can speak about this some more at a later time. I hope that you’ll have dinner with us tonight, Rachael. Guests dine separately, but as you’ll be working here, I’d like you to get to know us. Karyn will be dining with us as well—we consider her part of our little family.”
“I’d like that,” Rachael said.
“Dinner will be at seven o’clock. We don’t dress too formally, but you’ll want to wear a skirt. We put out a buffet of hors d’œuvres in the parlor at six thirty; you’ll be able to meet some of the other guests then.”
“That sounds lovely,” Rachael said, and they parted ways.
She hadn’t realized how travel-grimy she felt until she’d stripped off her clothes. She found her toiletry kit and hair dryer, and carried both into the adjoining bathroom. That room was dominated by a huge, claw-footed white porcelain bathtub. Rachael noted with delight the basket of bath beads, soaps, and powders on a stool near the tub.
The plumbing at the manor was definitely modern. Water cascaded over her, the pounding spray attaining the high temperature she preferred. Lathering up a loofah, she mentally replayed her meeting with Celeste MacPherson Jenner. She found that now, upon reflection, she felt less surprised by the woman’s request. She was, after all, a historian, trained in research. If the family had suppressed an investigation into the fire, then she wouldn’t have much to go on; then again, with the family pressure turned off, someone might be willing to divulge some long-secret information.
There was another possibility for Celeste’s entreaty, however. Biting her lip, Rachael wondered if somehow, impossibly, Celeste knew about her power. If she did, she would certainly believe Rachael was capable of solving the forty-year-old, hushed mystery.
But there was no way Celeste could know, because Rachael had never told anyone of her gift. Whenever she came close, whenever she was tempted to ease the burden by revealing its existence to another, she closed her eyes and visualized the tabloid headlines. She would not, absolutely would not allow herself to be known as one of those sleazy psychics who solved murders, tracked down missing children, pointed police in the direction of criminals.
After the surprise of discovering her psychometry had worn off, after she’d returned home from France, Rachael had been woken night after night by dreams of people chasing her, clawing at her, begging her to find their children, their wedding rings, the treasure they were sure their ancestors had hidden: “Touch the handkerchief—oh please, this watch—can you see if you hold these strands of hair—?” They wept, they pleaded, they cajoled, they threatened. They wouldn’t stop until she appeased them, and then others would take their places, crying out for the same help; the stories differed, but the desired end was the same. They beat upon her until she acquiesced, and more came and demanded until Rachael dropped of exhaustion. She would wake shivering in her bed, more tired than she had been when she lay down, feeling physically pummeled and sore.
Those nightmares had been interspersed with dreams of cowering as others taunted her as a freak, a crazy, a psycho. Even the gentle faces of her parents would surface, swimming to the forefront, their eyes questioning and fearful.
So Rachael had rented a cabin on Nag’s Head for a weekend, and sometime Saturday night, in the dream-suppressing haze of vodka, she had sworn to herself that she would tell no one. She accepted the power, agreed with herself to use it discreetly in her work and never for personal gain.
The dreams never returned.
Rachael wondered if Ian had had such nightmares, or worse, had experienced the taunting, the pity or the fear. He hadn’t been born with his scars, they had been thrust upon him as her power had been thrust upon her. But unlike her, he had no way to hide them.
A trail of conditioner tickled down her cheek, breaking Rachael from her reverie. No, there was no way Celeste could know of her psychometry; there was no reason for her to panic. She was tired, and feeling vulnerable; that was all.
After her shower, she put on her favorite dress, a comfortable turtleneck that hugged her upper figure and flared out at the waist. She knew the teal blue brought out her eyes and the form-fitting cotton knit accentuated her slim waist. She worked hard at her figure, having inherited her mother’s bountiful bosom and thus the tendency to gain weight, despite slim hips gained from her father’s side of the family. Rachael was unable to resist a twirl before the mirror, flaring the calf-length skirt nearly to her stocking-tops…but in mid-twirl her ankle twisted and she nearly fell, catching the wall just in time.
“Damn heels,” she muttered as she eased into the chair in front of the floral-skirted dressing table. She crossed one leg over the other and glared at the black, spike-heeled pump. She grasped the heel, and it wiggled obligingly. “Damn,” she repeated. She made mental note to take it in to a shoe repair shop in town, and leaned forward to apply her makeup. A silver Victorian-inspired necklace and matching heart-shaped earrings, a jingling cluster of bangle bracelets at her left wrist, and her grandmother’s silver-and-diamond ring on her right hand, and she was ready.
She didn’t hurry downstairs; instead, she lingered, admiring the manor and all its intricacies: the ornate carvings, the surprises of tiny portraits and landscapes tucked in unusual nooks, the occasional well-placed antique chair or table. An object propped on a built-in shelf caught her eye, and she paused to examine it. It was an old cloak pin: a crest badge, and a MacPherson one at that; Rachael could just make out the faint letters of the motto on the curve of the gold circle. After a brief hesitation, she picked it up. She needed to find out whether she was back in control of her power.
Cupping the cloak pin in her palms, Rachael stared at it until she had its curves and clasp memorized. Closing her eyes, she pictured the pin, and hefted its weight in her hands, the metal heavy and cool. Then, carefully, she blanked her mind of all thoughts and opened herself to whatever might come.
The room smelled of tallow and peat, of unwashed bodies—and of death. By the fire it was warm, but the rest of the room felt cold and damp. The fire provided the only illumination, for it was twilight outside the small, unshaded window.
A man lay on a pallet, eyes shut, unmoving. A woman gently unfastened the cloak pin from his woolen wrap and straightened, turning to face a young boy of no more than fifteen, his face pale beneath his shock of red hair. He stood, back straight, as his mother pinned the badge to his cloak with trembling fingers.
“You’re the eldest, now, Ewen,” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Rachael had to struggle to understand her words, garbled by her thick brogue. “You’re the laird of our house. We’ll send word to th’MacPherson in the morn.”
Rachael let out a whoosh of air and opened her eyes, blinking to reorient herself in the brighter-lit hallway, and the present. She gently replaced the pin on the shelf. She longed to retreat to her room, find the art pad and colored pencils as yet unpacked, and dust the fine freckles on the boy’s cheeks. Though she had no real talent for art most times, after she used her power she found she could render the scene in exquisite precision, often revealing details she hadn’t noticed.
Realizing she was now late, Rachael hurried the rest of the way down the hall to the staircase. Halfway down the stairs, she paused on the landing, listening. Subtle music drifted out of the parlor between the open double doors; she identified the faint droning wail of bagpipes. From this angle she couldn’t see inside, but she heard the murmur of voices as well. She quickly started down the last flight of stairs.
And then the heel of her shoe snapped. Rachael felt herself pitching forward and grabbed frantically for the banister, her stomach lurching. Her fingers skidded along the finely polished wood, unable to gain purchase. She cried out.
A firm hand grasped her elbow, stopping her fall, hauling her upright. She clutched at the banister again, and this time, steadied, she managed to grab hold of it. Gasping, she gripped the sturdy wood with both hands, and turned to thank her savior.
No one was there. She could see both flights of stairs after they split, and there was no way someone could have gotten down one of the hallways before she turned. She slowly sat down.
“Rachael, are you all right?”
The voice was Celeste’s. The woman had emerged from the parlor. Several other faces peered from the room in consternation.
“I’m fine—my heel broke, and I stumbled,” Rachael said, willing her heart to slow its incessant drumming. She held up the offending shoe; the heel dangled. She took a deep breath. “I’m fine.”
The other faces receded politely. As she approached the doors, Celeste asked, “You’re sure you’re fine?”
Rachael nodded. “I need to go get another pair of shoes.”
“No, you rest for a moment. Maria?”
The black-and-white clad servant paused in the doorway to the parlor, looking up at them.
“Could you run an errand for me, please?” Celeste asked. Maria passed her tray of shrimp cocktail to another maid in the parlor and came up the stairs to where they were. Rachael described the shoes she wanted, and gave Maria her room key and the pumps.
“You’re still pale,” Celeste said. “Would you care for a drink?”
Rachael requested a whisky sour, and when Maria returned, Celeste passed the order on to her. The servant, her reddish-brown hair caught in a neat hairnet, smiled and hurried off.
“How many people do you have working here?” Rachael asked, slipping on the lower-heeled burgundy pumps.
“Nancy Rabideau is in charge of the staff, as well as being our full-time cook,” Celeste answered as they walked down the stairs and across the front hall. “Her husband, George, is the groundskeeper. You’ve already met Karyn, of course. We hire out for daily maids and other servants.”
As they entered the parlor, Maria arrived with her drink. Rachael smiled and thanked her.
“Now, let me introduce you to the other guests,” Celeste said.
Rachael made brief small talk with all the people currently staying at Manor MacPherson. Doug and Ally, the honeymooners, giggled and said hello and went back to their contented murmuring at one another. Businessmen Brian, David, and Kevin each shook her hand gravely and then delved back into their quiet, earnest discussion; and William and Janet, a couple from nearby Plattsburgh who were celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary, welcomed her to upstate New York.
“A couple from Alabama will be arriving Sunday,” Celeste added after they had made the rounds. “Then there’ll be a brief lull before the All Hallows Eve Ball crowd.”
Rachael sipped her drink, feeling the alcohol warm and relax her. “You keep busy,” she commented.
“We try,” the older woman said, surveying the group. “Guests are the lifeblood of a hotelier, of course.”
They chatted for a few minutes, and then dinner was announced. The guests filed into the formal dining room, and Celeste led Rachael to where the family would be having their supper.
If this is the small dining room…. Rachael thought, gazing around the expansive room. The white vaulted ceiling was crossed with dark beams, and a dark, carved wooden screen half-hid a door on the side wall that probably led to the kitchen area. A tapestry on the back wall depicted, appropriately, a medieval feast scene. A long heavy table dominated the room, a drape of milky lace upon it. The table was set with Bird of Paradise china and a delicate crystal that glittered in the light provided by an overhead chandelier, carefully dimmed, and candles on the sideboards and dining table.
Rachael was several steps into the room before she realized there was someone already seated at the rectangular table; at the long end, away from the door. His profile was to the women as they entered, the candles causing his silhouette to flicker. He was studying something on his lap, pausing only to type some figures into the calculator that sat on the table next to him; his plate had been pushed aside to accommodate the small machine.
“Ian,” Celeste said affectionately as they walked toward him, “Can’t you set aside your work long enough for dinner?”
“I was just going over a few figures before everyone else showed up,” he said, his fingers swiftly tapping. He examined the calculator’s display out of the corner of his eye, made a notation on the paper on his lap, then flicked off the machine. He slid something, which seemed to be a book of matches, off the table and into his jacket pocket.
“Ian, this is Rachael de Young, the historian I hired.”
“Ms. de Young.” Ian stood, and, smiling, extended his right hand.
Rachael was glad Celeste had prepared her for Ian’s looks. She could imagine how it must hurt him when people unwittingly flinched at the sight of the shiny, puckered skin on the left side of his face. He had grown his hair longer and combed it down to cover the burned area on the side of his scalp where no hair now grew. No left eyebrow remained, and the scars tugged up at the left corner of his mouth. The burn scars continued down his neck until they disappeared into the starched collar of his shirt. His left hand was shrouded in a black leather glove.
“Good evening, Mr. MacPherson,” Rachael said calmly, returning his firm grip, remembering how his hands had painfully gripped her arms and shoved her from his study.
“I’d like to apologize for my actions earlier this evening,” he went on. “I didn’t realize who you were.”
“That’s quite all right,” Rachael replied. “I can imagine how it must have looked to you, finding me fiddling with your printer.”
“I hadn’t realized you two had met,” Celeste said, looking from one to the other.
“We ran into each other earlier, briefly, when I was waiting for you,” Rachael said quickly, not wanting to embarrass Ian by relating the whole story. Before she could continue, however, another voice called out,
“Oh, dearie me, I’m not late, am I?”
Rachael turned to see a petite, elderly woman enter the dining room. She walked with a cane, but seemed to be using the instrument not as crutch, but as a way to propel herself faster toward them.
“No, Felicity, you’re not late,” Celeste said warmly. “Come and meet Rachael.”
“Rachael!” The woman took one of Rachael’s hands between hers. Rachael expected frail hands, but instead felt wiry strength beneath the papery, cool skin. The woman’s green eyes were bright and seemed to regard her—and the rest of the world—with bemused contentment. Paint, bright orange, smudged her cheek. “How good of you to come! I’m Felicity MacPherson. You must call me Felicity—don’t be stuffy just because I’m old; I won’t stand for it.”
“Thank you, Felicity.”
“Felicity is my aunt—she and my mother were twins—and Ian’s half-aunt,” Celeste explained. “She’s an artist.”
“So I gathered,” Rachael said.
“Whoops!” Felicity looked down at the paint-spattered smock she still wore. Leaning her cane against a chair, she reached behind and untied the apron. She looked around thoughtfully, then opened the credenza along the side wall, wadded up the smock and tossed it inside. Shutting the door, she leaned against the credenza with an innocent smile that was negated by the wicked twinkle in her eyes.
Celeste cleared her throat. “Felicity is quite well known in the Adirondack area, as well as central New York and Vermont. She had several shows in New York City that were rather successful.”
“You might want to include some of Felicity’s work in the volume of family history,” Rachael suggested, delighted by the whole interchange.
“That’s a lovely idea,” Celeste agreed. “I had been considering a gorgeous oil she did of the manor.”
Maria slipped into the room through a back door and informed Celeste that the guests had been served.
“Please tell Nancy we’ll wait a few more minutes,” Celeste told her. “Karyn hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Rachael, may I refresh your drink?” Ian asked. At her nod, he took her empty glass to the row of crystal decanters on the far sideboard. She noticed that he walked with a slight limp, as if the left side of his body were stiff. When he returned, she sipped the cold, sour drink and asked him about the business of running a hotel. He was describing their different forms of advertising when Karyn hurried into the room.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “Brett’s sitter cancelled at the last moment, and I had to drive him to a friend’s house in town. Brett’s my son,” she added for Rachael’s benefit. “I’m also a mother,” she said with a grin, continuing her earlier listing of her duties.
“You don’t live in town?” Rachael asked.
“Karyn and Brett, as well as Nancy and George, live in cottages on the grounds,” Celeste supplied. Seeing Maria peering into the room, she nodded at the servant’s unspoken question. “Why don’t we sit down?”
They clustered at one end of the long table, Ian at the head, Celeste on his left and Felicity to his right. Ian poured everyone wine as Maria and a plump, middle-aged woman, who was introduced to Rachael as Nancy Rabideau, brought in the first course, a crisp green salad with bright cherry tomatoes and Roquefort dressing.
The conversation flowed with the wine, enhancing each course of the meal. Karyn asked Rachael about her work, and so Rachael found herself at the center of attention during most of supper. Everyone seemed honestly interested in her career, although she noticed that Ian grew quiet when she discussed the family studies she had done.
“It seems to me,” he said finally, “that the past is the past. What do we really gain by spending so much time and energy studying it? Isn’t it better to look to the future, work toward it?”
He didn’t speak antagonistically, and Rachael wasn’t offended by his questions. He brought up a debate in which even historians took sides.
“Some say we can learn about the future from studying history,” she said, dabbing cream sauce from the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “You know the old idea: that we must learn from our mistakes or forever repeat them.”
He set his fork gently onto the china dinner plate. “But isn’t it better to learn from our own mistakes, instead of trying to interpret someone else’s?”
“You’ve got a point,” Rachael said, warming to the debate. “The farther we go back in history, the harder it is to learn exactly what happened. The outcomes are easy to see, but it’s harder to determine what caused them.”
“Let the past be the past—let it rest,” he said.
“Ian,” Celeste said.
“‘The circumstances are in a great measure new. We have hardly any landmarks from the wisdom of our ancestors to guide us’,” Felicity quoted. “Edmund Burke,” she added as they all looked at her, and popped an asparagus tip into her mouth.
“Felicity,” Celeste said in the same tone of voice she had directed at Ian.
“Oh no, that’s okay,” Rachael said quickly. “I’ve had this sort of discussion many times before. Many people feel the way Ian does. Unfortunately, sometimes those are the people holding the grant money.”
Karyn and Felicity chuckled, and even Celeste had to smile.
“Well, what Rachael does is different,” she said. “Researching a family’s genealogy is a way to make the past relevant.”
“I don’t agree,” Ian said. “In fact, I see less of a point in finding out that, oh, one’s ancestor owned twenty head of cattle or fought in the Battle of Hastings.”
Rachael chewed a piece of chicken, savoring the creamy wine sauce. “Some people simply find it interesting,” she said. “For others, it’s a matter of pride to be able to say their great-great-great-whoever came over on the Mayflower.”
“I’ve always felt our ancestors helped shape who we are today,” Karyn spoke up.
“What a lovely way of phrasing it!” Celeste said. “That’s exactly what I was thinking—I’ve just never been able to put it into words.”
“I like to believe I’ve shaped myself.” Ian looked up. He rolled his knife between his fingers; candlelight glinted off the blade. The scars on the left side of his face seemed to pulse a deeper red. “I am who I am because I’ve worked, and struggled, and learned—and yes, failed, and learned from my own mistakes. My great-great-great-whoever had very little to do with it.”
“‘People will not look forward to posterity, who never look backward to their ancestors’,” Felicity said complacently. “Also Burke.”
“Then you’re not in accordance with Celeste on this project?” Rachael asked Ian.
He set down the knife carefully, the end of the blade resting on his plate. “Celeste and I discussed the matter at length before you were hired,” he said finally. “While I may not be in total agreement on the necessity or value of this research, I will give you my full cooperation.” He smiled slightly. “I was overruled, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a graceful loser. Please don’t hesitate to come to me with questions, Rachael. I do want to help you.”
“Thank you,” she said. The strained atmosphere escaped out the door as Nancy and Marie brought in the dessert, a fresh fruit sorbet and slices of spongy, light pound cake.
After supper they retired to one of the sitting rooms Rachael had found on her quest for the bathroom. Large mirrors on the walls, gilt-framed, made the room seem larger without reducing its intimacy. The fireplace held a careful placement of birch logs, a fire unnecessary this early in the season.
Finally feeling the effects of her day of traveling, Rachael declined an after-dinner crème de menthe and chose another cup of coffee instead. The French vanilla aroma was rich and comforting.
Celeste asked Rachael where she would be starting her research.
“I’d like to interview each one of you,” she answered. “You’ll all have different memories, have heard different stories about the past. I’d also like to go through whatever family papers are available. After that, I’ll see about getting whatever certificates—birth, marriage, death—and other official documents. My first goal is to put together as complete a family tree as I can, and then work on details from there.”
“I know there’s a family Bible in the library,” Celeste mused. “I’ll see what else I can find.”
“Why don’t I give you the full tour of the manor on Sunday?” Karyn suggested. “I should have the afternoon free after the Alabama couple check in. They’re due at one, I think.”
“Didn’t Grandfather have a file of papers in his office that were related to the family?” Ian spoke up.
“I think you’re right,” Celeste said. “Can you find that?”
“I’ll try. You know how Grandfather’s study is.”
Celeste turned to Rachael. “The man had a truly unique filing system,” she said.
“If you don’t mind, I’d love to look through his files myself,” Rachael said. “There’s no telling what may crop up. No offence, but you might not know if something was important or not,” she said to Ian. “I’ve learned the hard way that anything can be useful: a receipt, a scribbled note, a ticket stub….”
“No offence taken,” Ian said. “I’ll look for that particular file, and you can go through the study later, at your leisure.”
Rachael felt a yawn coming on, and her coffee cup clinked in the saucer as she hastily set it down and covered her mouth. “Well,” she said with a laugh, “if I’m going to get any work done tomorrow, I’d best get myself to bed.”
“I’ll walk you to your room,” Ian offered, and she accepted. She said goodnight to the others, and they left.
“I want to apologize for my actions this afternoon,” he said. “I had no idea who you were.”
“It was my fault as well,” Rachael said. “I shouldn’t have gone into your office uninvited.”
“I overreacted,” he said. “We should just agree to forget it happened.”
“Good plan.”
They lapsed into silence, Ian so silent that Rachael thought he was brooding. She noticed that he made a point of walking at her left, so his unscarred side was presented to her.
“I hope I didn’t offend you with my remarks at dinner,” he said suddenly. “I was in no way trying to demean your work.”
“I wasn’t offended,” she assured him. “You presented some valid points. I’d rather debate with you than to argue with some pig-headed fool who doesn’t even listen to what I’m saying.”
He smiled. “I meant what I said—I’ll help you in any way I can. Though I don’t think I’ll be much of a source for you.”
“You might be surprised,” Rachael said. “If you spent any time with your grandparents, you might remember some of the stories they told you.”
They began the ascent of the stairs, Rachael discreetly slowing down so Ian wouldn’t overextend himself.
“I won’t be much help to you with regard to the night of the fire,” he said suddenly. “I remember nothing.”
“Celeste told me,” Rachael admitted.
“I know that you will have to include that night in your research, because it is a part of our history,” he said. She could hear the tension in his voice, saw the way his shoulders tightened beneath his suit jacket. “But I ask you not to dwell upon it.” They were nearly to her room, and Rachael was already reaching into her small handbag for her key when he swung to face her, placing his hands lightly on her arms. “That part of the past is very painful for me—for the whole family. There is no need for you to do more than mention it in the book. That night did not shape me: I shaped myself from what remained of me after the incident. And there is nothing to be learned from the past.”
“I understand,” Rachael said. It was best not to argue with him, nor to agree and have him challenge her work later. “My job here is research. While I intend to produce as complete a history of your family as I can, I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
His shoulders dropped slightly, and he let her go. “Thank you. Good night, Rachael.”
She put her shoulder to the door and bumped it open. “Good night, Ian.”
The room was dark; but then, neither man needed light to know the other was there. One could sense the other’s presence, and the other needed no light to see.
“She has power,” one said. “Strong power.”
“I know,” the other said. He stared out the window. Soft fingers of clouds lovingly caressed the cold half-circle of the moon.
“You will not harm her,” the first man said evenly. His words nonetheless conveyed a subtle threat.
“I will not let her learn the truth,” the second man said. There was the barest hint of desperation in his voice. His fist clenched. “I cannot.”
“But you will not harm her,” the first man repeated, his words a cold presence. “I will not allow that.”
END OF PREVIEW
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