Lady Langley spared no expense in the fittings of her guest rooms. Clio had a small sitting area complete with a couch, two wingback chairs, and a low table in front of a hearth glowing with a crackling fire. To the left was a vanity with an oval mirror and a beautifully upholstered chair upon which a lady could sit and ready herself. A scattering of bottles, pots, powders, and varying brushes, powder puffs, combs, and hairpins littered the tabletop. She took a seat in front of the vanity and gestured for Thomas to shift a footstool closer.
‘Anna certainly had much to say.’ Thomas settled himself and watched with growing interest as Clio began twisting and clipping her hair into an intricate coiffure he couldn’t begin to recreate.
Clio had a hairpin clamped between her teeth. She spoke around it, drawing Thomas’ attention to her lips. ‘What is unclear is whether she reported fact or the fancy of a troubled child.’
‘How could any of it be true? She said she speaks to her parents. Her father is dead, and her mother is missing. How could Anna be talking to either of them?’
Clio set a rather winsome curl next to her crown and secured it in place with the clip from her mouth. She paused in her activity to catch Thomas’ gaze in the mirror. The air grew heavy as the fire popped and flared behind Thomas, warming his back. She was considering something in that clever mind of hers. Determining whether she would trust Thomas. He held his breath, willing her to take the step and knowing anything he said could shatter the fragile spell weaving between them.
‘I can speak to the dead.’ Clio’s amber eyes glowed, and her lips trembled.
Thomas knew his response would either open a new door of connection between them or destroy every chance of knowing Clio better.
He refused to look away even as nerves thrummed through him. He believed Clio. And that was the trouble. Speaking to the dead was akin to the Devil’s work. And yet, he didn’t know why that would be true. Only that it was told to him since he was a child by his elders, his spiritual leaders, the lawmakers. But if he reacted in fear, he would never understand. And he desperately wanted to understand.
‘Is that part of your…’
‘Craft. Yes. My power is tied to fire, as all witches are connected to one of the earth’s elements, but it is also tied to the past. I can see memories and speak to those no longer here. If they wish it.’
Thomas furrowed his brow. ‘You can see memories of dead people?’
Clio pressed her lips together and nodded.
‘What about other people?’
She blinked and looked away. ‘My powers are centred on those who have already passed.’
She was avoiding a direct answer. Which was interesting. And something he would investigate more thoroughly later.
‘Have you spoken with Viscount Beachley?’
Clio returned her focus to dressing her hair, coiling a long strand and twisting it in an intricate swirl. How did women learn to do such creative things? Men spent most of their time shooting guns, riding horses, and hitting each other with padded fists. Women’s endeavours were far more imaginative and resulted in beautiful creations rather than bloody destruction.
‘I have seen the viscount. And some of his memories. He hasn’t spoken with me yet. Well, not really. But ghosts usually won’t unless they trust me first.’
That explained what she had been doing when he found her in Beachley’s house after their interviews with the staff. She must have been poking into the viscount’s past.
‘You’ve seen his memories? Can you not just look at the night he was murdered? See what happened?’ The case could be solved in mere moments. And then his time with Clio would be at an end. He almost bit his tongue for suggesting such a simple and expedient solution.
Clio raised a censorious brow as she secured the last strand of hair into place. ‘Oh, yes. I could have done that ages ago. I just thought it would be so much fun to drag out the investigation.’
Right. Of course. If she could have seen the memory of Viscount Beachley’s death, she would have done so. Imbecile.
‘I can only see the memories shown to me by the departed. I don’t get to choose. I’m not sure they even have a choice. At any rate, Anna claiming to have spoken to her father isn’t necessarily a lie. Aunt Rowan has spoken of other witches through the ages who could speak to the departed.’
‘Do you think she’s a witch?’ How did one know they were a witch? There was so much about Clio that remained a mystery. It could take Thomas his whole life to discover every facet that comprised her. A life that suddenly seemed far more interestingand enjoyable than any solitary future he had imagined for himself. Which was probably due to whatever spell she cast on him. Certainly not because of true feelings he might be developing for her. That was sheer madness.
‘No. At least, it’s unlikely. A witch’s power is passed down from her mother’s line. It isn’t impossible that the viscountess was a descendant of witches, but we don’t come into our power until… well, it begins in our seventh year, gains power in our fourteenth, and is fully manifested by our twenty-first.’
‘Three sets of seven?’
‘Yes. A witch in her forty-second year experiences another wave of magic, sometimes gaining new powers, or enhancing what she already has, and then again at sixty-three and eighty-four.’
‘So presumably, your abilities will only continue to increase as you age?’
Clio’s smile could have frozen him in place. ‘Exactly. It makes sense that men would fear a witch ageing into her fullest potential when all others lose their strength. No wonder so many of us were killed before we reached our forty-second year.’
Thomas felt the punch of her words. The craze of witch hunts in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was not unknown to him, but he’d never thought about what that meant. It was just boring facts in dusty history books. Not actual women being tortured, burned, and killed. All for something they could not control. Yet that is exactly the heritage from whence Clio came. It was no wonder she kept her gifts hidden so carefully.
