As for my sleepwalking and everything I had apparently said about lightning? They were clear references to things I never let myself think about. Babbo and my dream from the previous evening floated through my memory.
Were these dreams just dreams? Or were they something more?
DidI have a GUT?
“Chiara, I truly believe you have a GUT, too.” Jack’s earnest eyes met mine.
I sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. I needed to tackle one thing at a time.
“No, I don’t.” I gave him my bestduhlook. “I wouldknowif I had a GUT.”
“But how can you be so sure that you don’t?”
“Uhmm. Remember the whole family curse thing? Gypsies and the first born son?” I asked him. “It’s absurdly medieval and, quite honestly, sexist but the D’Angelo curse has never been attached to us women.”
“Perhaps—”
“Besides, the curse causes madness and suicide. There have been times when certain situations or people—present company included—have driven me to feelhomicidal. But suicidal? Nope. Nada.”
Jack wasn’t giving up, his brow drawing down over his pale eyes. “But the events with Branwell last year call that into question. We’ve discussed this. Your family’s curse may just be a genetic legacy that has played out in different ways over the millenia.”
“Your point?”
“If your family’s abilities of Second Sight are genetic, then it stands to reason that they would show up in more than just the first born son. Orsons, in the case of your brothers.”
I scrunched up my mouth, pondering.
No. Not buying. No matter how hard Jack tried to sell.
“Jack, my brothers’ GUTs are super clear and obvious. I assume that,wereI to have one too, it would be the same.”
“Have you ever tested to see if you have a GUT?”
Well . . . “No.”
Jack spread his arms wide. As ifthatmade his point for him.
Stupid man.
As if I was too unobservant toknowthat I had a gift of Second Sight. Sheesh.
“Fine,” I huffed. “Let’s test it. I would hate for you to get your proper English nobleman knickers in a knot.”
I glanced about the room, trying to find something.
“Hah! This will do.” I plucked an obviously well-loved plush Pooh bear from a basket. “Using something that has emotion attached to it should help.”
I had watched my brothers read things many times over the years.
Dante would stare an object down, brows drawn in concentration. Sometimes he would lift his head and track things I couldn’t see.
When Branwell touched something, he would close his eyes and tilt his head, listening to sounds I couldn’t hear.
Tennyson’s visions took many forms. Sometimes he merely rubbed his chest, as if trying to wipe away the feelings of others. Other times he tracked unseen scenes with his eyes or stared sightlessly ahead, murmuring.
I pressed the bear between my bare hands and concentrated on Pooh Bear’s manically smiling face. I got . . . nothing.
For the record, I felt like an idiot.
