“Thehouselet you inside?” he scoffed in disbelief, swinging his arm upward as if reprimanding the wainscoting for some grave misdeed.
When his hand cut through the air, Anne caught the faint fragrance of cypress and myrrh and knew that his magic waspulsing just beneath the surface, waiting to be called upon if needed.
Her own power sparked then, infusing the hallway with notes of black tea and peppermint that should have overpowered the subtle aroma that already lingered there but ended up complementing it somehow.
“My name is Anne Quigley,” she said, her tone firm and unwavering as she took back the step that she’d relinquished earlier. “Who, may I ask, areyou?”
Anne expected the man’s eyes to widen in surprise when he learned who she was, but instead, those white brows settled into an even deeper scowl as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Vincent Crowley,” he answered. “The owner of this traitorous house. Excuse my manners, Miss Quigley, but I didn’t expect the city’s Diviner of all people to wander into my home without so much as knocking on the front door.”
The accusation in his voice told Anne that he wasn’t apologetic in the least, and it set her teeth on edge.
“As a member of the Council, I don’t need permission to step through someone’s threshold, as you well know, Mr. Crowley,” Anne replied. “Which is entirely beside the point, as your house invited me in. And encouraged me to open this door here, I might add.”
“The house should know better,” Vincent grumbled, glowering at the walls once more.
“What’s the purpose of this room?” Anne asked, her curiosity getting the best of her.
Vincent looked like he wanted to tell Anne that wasn’t any of her concern, but he bit his lip, obviously trying to hold back the harsh words that threatened to slip from his tongue, and drew in a breath before answering.
“It’s one of the rooms where we help our clients commune with the spirits,” Vincent explained reluctantly. “The ticking ofthe clocks helps us focus our magic and steadies the dead, who have trouble centering themselves long enough to break through the veil.”
“I heard voices,” Anne said before she could help herself.
“I’m not surprised,” Vincent replied, his tone losing its rough edge for a moment as his gaze turned toward the door. “There are many waiting for their chance to be heard, after all.”
He sounded so sincere then that Anne nearly forgot he’d looked as if he wanted to shove her out onto the street a moment earlier. In that instant, Vincent’s sharp features softened a fraction, and Anne realized with a start that he was rather handsome, if one cared about such a thing.
But before she could linger on that thought for long, the hard angles had settled back into his face, causing her spine to snap back so that she was as straight as a sewing needle.
“I assume that you’re a relation of Mr. Capricious Crowley, who passed away some months ago?” Anne asked, though she already knew what the answer would be. The Council kept track of the various networks that knit the magical community together, and as soon as Vincent told her his name, she knew what kind of ties linked him to her old friend.
“He was my uncle,” Vincent said, his tone lacking any flicker of warmth. Instead, the word seemed weighed down by a sense of unease, as if just saying it aloud promised trouble.
“And you keep the house?” Anne asked.
“I use it, just like everyone else in the family,” Vincent replied. “But ever since my uncle’s death, it’s not . . .”
Vincent grew silent then, the end of his sentence cut as abruptly as the tail of a satin ribbon.
“You were saying, Mr. Crowley?” Anne asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing at all,” he replied defiantly.
A fresh wave of annoyance swept over Anne, making her more determined to get to the heart of the matter.
“Mr. Crowley,” Anne began, “I’m here because your uncle chose not to complete his Task, as I expect you well know.”
The way Vincent’s lips tightened confirmed that he was quite familiar with this fact.
“What you might not have realized, however, is that your uncle was more powerful than he led us to believe,” Anne continued. “And that in deciding not to complete his Task, Mr. Crowley has caused a rip in the fabric of destiny.”
Anne watched as Vincent’s eyes narrowed, but the movement seemed too deliberate to be natural. When she whirled around to face him only a moment ago, she’d seen the way his features twisted in shock at finding a stranger lurking in the hallway, with one brow cocked just the barest touch higher than the other and his eyes so hard that they could have been cut from the marble facade of the house. That flash of surprise was gone now, though, replaced by a sense of resolve. His reaction wasn’t what Anne had expected in the least, and she had to stop herself from taking the barest step closer, where she could better decipher the firm lines of his face.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of a few odd happenings by now,” Anne continued, wanting to get a sense of just how many other secrets Vincent might already have tucked away. “They will only worsen unless the Council finds a way to complete Mr. Crowley’s Task for him.”
At that, she slipped her hand free of her woolen glove, shifting it back and forth so that the grains of the hourglass drifted from one side to the other.
