Uncle Lachlan snorted. ‘Well, he is no’. He is Sir Thomas Grey, and we need him on this case.’
‘Wasn’t there a poet named Sir Thomas Grey?’ She crinkled her brow.
‘I do no’ know and it does no’ matter. Now, will you stop fighting me and get on with the investigation like a good lass?’
Frowning, Clio crossed her arms over her chest.
Sir Robin, who had been dutifully exploring the far corner of the room, stopped his hopping to fluff his feathers in a raven imitation of her posture. ‘Good lass,’ he cooed before going back to his own private investigations.
‘I’ve never been good at being good, Uncle Lachlan. You know this.’
‘Aye, but you’re grand at being a persistent, stubborn, wee little termagant who doesn’t stop until she’s proven to everyone she’s right.’
A smile stretched her lips. ‘You certainly know how to flatter a woman.’ Sobering, she tapped her fingers against her forearm. ‘That still leaves us with the issue of keeping my powers hidden.’
‘Are you sayin’ the challenge is too great? Och. I never thought to hear Clio Blair backing away from a difficult task. Because of a man, of all things. But maybe yer right. Maybe this is too hard for even you to manage.’
He was goading her again. And this time, it was working. Telling Clio she couldn’t do something was the quickest way to ensure she did just that.
Huffing out a breath, she tapped her shoulder to call over Sir Robin. ‘I can manage that man as easily as I do everything else. The only challenge will be enduring his tedious company. I hope he is smart enough to stay out of my way. We already have one dead peer. I’d hate to add another blue blood to your list of unsolved murders.’
Sir Robin flew to her shoulder, gold glinting in his beak as his wings disturbed a lock of Clio’s hair. She twisted her head to see what trinket he had found. Putting out her hand, she gave him a warning tsk. ‘Sir Robin, we don’t take things that aren’t ours. Even if they are shiny and pretty. Drop it.’
The raven shuffled from one foot to the other on her shoulder.
‘Now, Sir Robin.’ She kept her voice firm, though there was no stopping the twitch of her lips. How could she ever be angry with her mischievous friend?
Sir Robin reluctantly dropped his treasure in her bare hand. A gold locket. As she closed her fingers around the cold metal, the vision came fast and furious.
Clio reached out a large hand that was not hers and closed strong fingers around a woman’s arm. Spinning her, Clio saw Viscountess Beachley’s face. She had never met the woman before, but she knew it was Beachley’s wife because she wasn’t Clio any more. She was someone else.
‘You must stop yelling. You are frightening sweet Anna, darling.’ Clio’s voice was the rough register of the viscount. She was part of his memory. He was worried; she could feel the anxious fear thrumming through his veins as if it were happening to her. His heart pounded hard against his chest.
‘Do not speak to me of our daughter.’ Viscountess Beachley was young, not much older than Clio. Her unremarkable features were twisted with rage as she spat the words like poison. A gold locket glinted around her neck, the flash blinding Clio for a moment.
‘She is sick, Violet. She needs our support more than ever.’ Viscount Beachley’s voice came from Clio’s throat.
Ripping her arm free, Violet let her hand fly on the wind to land with a stinging slap against Viscount Beachley’s cheek. Clio’s head swung to the side from the impact. She reached up with the viscount’s hand and pressed it against the stubbled skin.
Violet turned and wrenched the door open.
‘Don’t walk away from me, Violet.’ Desperation, fierce and frightening, filled Clio. ‘Please!’
But Violet ignored his plea, her skirts billowing behind her as she disappeared down the darkened hall.
The vision ended as swiftly as it began. Nausea, familiar and annoying, rolled through Clio’s belly in an oily wave. Sir Robin rubbed his sleek head against her hot cheek, clicking his beak in concern. The hard outline of the locket was still pressed into her clenched fist.
Her uncle’s face slowly replaced her vision of the past like mist solidifying into sculpture. ‘Are you all righ’?’ Uncle Lachlan’s brow creased.
‘I’m fine.’ But she knew her skin was already starting to redden from the slap. That was new. Corporeal ghosts could harm her, but never had she experienced a vision so viscerally. And never had people in memories from the past caused her physical harm. Aunt Rowan would not be pleased if she found out about this new development. She would certainly forbid Clio from helping Uncle Lachlan.
So, I shall keep the secret. For now.
She could apply a healing balm as soon as she reached the apothecary. By the time she returned home that evening, her cheek would have nary a blemish.
‘Did you see something?’
‘I think Viscount Beachley wanted to say hello. This belongs to his wife.’ She opened her fingers, and when Uncle Lachlan held out his hand, she dropped the locket into his palm. ‘One thing is certain: Violet knew how to land a smack.’ Her hand shook as she reached into her bag for an aniseed drop mixed with a little something special from Clio’s store of herbs and spices. The candy helped to dissipate the sickness brought on by her visions.
