But I wasn’t blood relative to anyone involved in writing the Constitution or the Magna Carta.
So of course this would be more powerful.
“Should we go to the studio now?” Prudence asked hesitantly. “Or do you, maybe, want to lie down again?”
She was worried I’d think she was a crazy cat lady.
Now I was worried she thought I was just crazy.
I shook my head and plastered on a smile. “No. No. Let’s go to the studio. I was just…overwhelmed I was finally where it happened. Maybe, I guess, you know, if it had worked out for them, I might not be here. And maybe that all just…got to me.”
“Maybe,” she agreed.
“It was actually kind of cool,” I lied.
Because it was not.
It was freaky as fuck!
She giggled. “I wouldn’t mind being in the middle of a Regency ball.”
“It was pretty rad,’ I lied again.
So, maybe it was.
It was still freaky as fuck.
She guided me to the side of the terrace where there were some steps down to the gardens, doing this saying, “I bet it was.”
Note to self: avoid the freaking ballroom.
Our feet hit soft turf, and I finally felt the cool air against my face, so I focused on it.
Later, I’d think about passing out the instant I saw Battle and wandering among phantoms waltzing in the ballroom and what those wild things happening might mean.
Now, I had a job to do, and I was finally going to be able to start doing it.
And that was all I was going to think about.
CHAPTER 7
THE DAY TRIP
I swam out of sleep the next morning to what appeared to be an unusual sunny day in England and the understanding my slumbering self was the entertainment of a green-eyed Persian who, last night, brought a friend.
Snowball was lying beside me, concentrating on bathing her ruff with her tongue, and accompanying her was Gingerface, a cat I’d met last night. He was a thick-furred ginger with huge round eyes and an adorable round face, the former now aimed at me curiously.
“You’re both bed hogs,” I accused.
Snowball ignored me.
Gingerface took my speaking as an invitation to cuddle, which he did, easily and with practice, since last night he made clear his cuddling tendencies.
I buried my fingers in his fur at the same time I fell to my back and turned my head to see the smart screen told me it was six fifty-two.
I then looked up at the canopy above me.
Yesterday, I’d discovered that Lady Marie Talyn’s painting studio was a living dream.
