He frowned. “Yes,” he answered after a slight hesitation as if he wasn’t certain. “Thank you for asking.”
“I fear that my friend may be suffering from a bit of overindulgence,” Lord Amcaster announced as he entered the breakfast room. “By this afternoon, he will be back to himself.”
While Chedworth’s aura may shift because he was suffering from a headache and possibly upset stomach, he’d only have the grey, the indication of low energy. It did not explain the dark yellow or murky white. And the fact that he still had three colors instead of one or two suggested that he was still undergoing a change or possibly entering a new phase.
The fortune teller had told him the same a few days ago.
“Any more changes in your hand?” Mr. Jourdain asked with a laugh.
“Changes?” Maia asked.
“Chedworth tried to convince us that his hand changed last night when we were riding back from Bocka Morrow. He claimed that it had hair, the nails grew, and it was painful. It looked normal to us.” He shrugged.
Chedworth’s face took on a deep hue of red that had nothing to do with his aura.
“Too much ale, or the barkeep served him something that caused him to see what was not there,” Amcaster surmised.
Antonia frowned. What would cause a hand to change? Or what could he have eaten or drunk that would make him imagine such?
Very odd indeed.
At least it explained his auras, and they would likely right themselves once Chedworth had recovered from overindulgence.
Chapter Seven
His friends may have found humor in Philip’s predicament, but he had not been suffering from too much ale or anything else. He did not wake with a headache or upset stomach. Further, he recalled every moment of the night before. That would not have happened had he been deep in his cups.
Which meant that his hand had cramped and changed, except, he did not know why.
For those reasons, Philip avoided everyone for most of the day. He had thought about going to Madam Boswell, but what did he say? “My hand cramped and got hairy and then it was better. Do you know why?”
Madness! They would commit him to Bedlam.
There had to be an explanation.
It could have been something slipped into his ale that left no unpleasant lasting effects.
The Hourglass, which was an apothecary run by a witch, was not so far from the Crown and Anchor. Could the witch have given the owners the wrong herbs to mix with their ale or food?
Except, Philip had been the only person afflicted.
Even his horse sensed something was wrong. Philip had thought to ride today, but his horse pulled away from him, and put himself at the back of the stall when Philip had approached. That had never happened before either. No amount of coaxing, or carrots, could draw him forward.
Philip had also spent a good part of the day looking at his hand, waiting for it to change, and wondering if he had imagined it.
What if he was losing his mind?
That was a disturbing thought.
“Lord Chedworth, is all well?”
He turned to find Lady Antonia walking toward him. She was emerging from the magical garden and into the orchard where Philip had retreated to avoid everyone.
“Yes,” he answered. He certainly couldn’t let Lady Antonia know his concerns. She would distance herself before he ever had a chance to court her.
That is what he should be thinking about—courting Lady Antonia, but he was too preoccupied with his hand and what had happened.
Except, even courting her hadn’t been decided upon because he hadn’t asked the questions that had plagued him since London.
