‘Grey only provokes my anger.’
‘You can share your elemental power with him.’
Clio shook her head. ‘I can’t even share that I’m a witch with him, let alone my witchflame.’
‘Your abilities extend to him when they shouldn’t. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but…’ Ellie looked hopefully at Clio.
Seeing memories from his past, even when he isn’t dead?
Clio had ended the conversation at that point, blaming her early-morning appointment with Viscount Beachley’s staff. She needed to focus on something real: the investigation.
Uncle Lachlan had told her about the coroner’s report and Grey’s demand for her presence at the unsightly hour of ten in the morning on one of the few precious days Ellie had the morning shift, stealing any chance Clio had of sleeping late. She had a few suspicions as to who the blood belonged to, the viscountess sitting at the top of her list, but couldn’t begin to guess who had poisoned the viscount. Poison was thought of as a woman’s weapon, but ruling out anyone seemed silly at this point.
She clipped down a drizzly street when she could have been snuggled in her bed and muttered curses on Grey’s head. There was no reason they couldn’t have conducted their investigations at a much more reasonable hour on her morning off. If he had deigned to enquire as to her schedule.
The arrogant, insufferable…
Sparks tingled from her palms to her fingertips. Stopping in the damp morning air, she took a deep breath and let the London chill cool her.
Even if one believed the witch lore about spirit matches – which Clio certainly did not – Ellie was stark raving mad if she thought Clio and Grey could ever be one. They were two opposing forces destined to destroy each other. Whatever allowed Clio to see his memory twice –the first time hardly counts– wasn’t because of any spiritual connection. It was a ridiculous suggestion by her soft-hearted sister. Ellie’s belief in ‘true love’ was naïve at best, dangerously delusional at worst.
She shook her head and continued her way to Viscount Beachley’s. She had more important things to think about than fairy-tale spirit matches or rogue visions about a certain lieutenant general.
I just need to focus more intently on my control. Seeing his memories was an inconsequential misfiring of magic. It means nothing, and it won’t happen again.
She froze mid-step. Because the inconsequential misfiring of magic was happening again.
Wind blew down the street, catching her skirts and throwing them around her ankles as the vision swept her into another place. Another time.
7
Thomas sat in a large bedroom. Windows on the far wall looked over pastoral views of an endless manicured lawn bordered in the distance by a dark forest. This was his country estate. Clio wasn’t aware of how she knew, just that it was so. As before, she wasn’t in his head but instead watching the entire scene like a play being performed for her alone.
A woman stood in the doorway; her sumptuous rose gown draped beautifully over an hourglass figure. She moved with the practised grace of someone used to wearing miles of silk. Kneeling next to Thomas, her dress pooling around her feet like a waterfall, she took both of his hands in hers and ducked her head to catch his gaze. ‘I’m begging you, Thomas. You must leave. I do not want to hate you. You promised you would stay away for the remainder of the year. Perhaps absence will convince me there are still reasons for us to be together, but you can’t blame me for how I feel. Even if?—’
He stood abruptly, pulling her up with him. ‘Absence hasn’t encouraged your affections thus far. And being with other women hasn’t changed anything between us, despite your promise that it would. I never should have agreed to this foolish plan. I haven’t seen you in months. If you wish me to leave again, then come with me. We can take a tour ofEurope, get away from all of these people.’ He spat the last word like it burned his tongue. ‘We’ve been apart for far too long already. You are my wife, and I do not desire to live separate lives. I don’t care if our plans must change. I miss you, Lissa.’
The woman’s lips twisted into a grimace. ‘Don’t. Call. Me. That. I hate it when you call me that. You may want us to be together, but what about my desires? My wishes? Do they not matter in the shadow of your selfish needs?’
Clio felt the sharp ache in Thomas’ chest, the desperation to convince Lissa of his plan, the oily guilt of being unfaithful, the hope – more painful than a bullet ripping through his flesh – that she might stay. That she might accept him. That they might reclaim their easy affection. His love for her cut like a sword, and Clio was never more convinced: if this was love, she wanted none of it.
The cold splash of water from a hansom cab’s wheel running through a puddle shocked Clio back to the present.
‘Blast.’ Her skirts were sodden. Looking left, then right, the quiet neighbourhood street was empty. She spread her fingers wide, her hands hovering over the wet satin, and let her magic heat her palms, steaming away the dirty water. Straightening, she brushed out the emerald skirts patterned with bold black and gold paisley. It was only then she realised the familiar wave of nausea accompanying her visions of the dead was absent. She hadn’t felt it after her other visions of Grey either. Stranger and stranger.
Shaking her head, she refused to think about any of it now. If she wanted to make her appointment with the insufferable man, she would need to hurry.
When she arrived at the gate leading to Lord Beachley’s front stairs, Grey was already there. He stood large and tall like a sentinel guarding the entrance of Hades with his silver-tipped cane tapping impatiently against the stone path.
‘You’re late.’ His deep baritone resonated in her bones.
Clio made a show of unbuttoning her wool coat, flicking open the pocket of the double-breasted vest she wore in the same material as her skirt, and pulling free a gold watch attached to her with a sparkling chain. It was a daring ensemble that few women would chance, as it played with masculine and feminine silhouettes. Her crisp white shirt with its high collar and starched creases could just as easily have been from Grey’s closet as her own, though his would need to be larger to accommodate his thick chest and muscled arms.
Forcing her attention away from Grey’s torso and pushing down the heat rising to her cheeks, she studied the face of her clock. ‘It would appear I’m bang on ten o’clock,Grey.’
He clenched his teeth. She knew she’d annoyed him by foregoing his title.
Wonderful. Better to keep him frustrated. A frustrated man has no time to question whether or not I have any magical powers.
