Beaufort, to my surprise, shakes his head. He’s always been a bookworm, always interested in studying in a way I never have been.
“I’ve done some reading,” Tudor says. “When you told us about your last vision, I went and did a little research.”
“Did you now, Prof?” I say, grinning. “And why is that?”
“I thought it might be useful.”
“Did you find anything?” Beaufort asks, a note of eagerness in his voice now.
Fox considers this question for a moment.
“Yes. Your gift is rare. Very few shadow weavers through history seem to have possessed it, although, maybe like you, some kept it quiet. But it seems there were several well-known soothsayers who could see and read the future. They studied their skills together and developed them.”
“And how did they do that?” Beau asks.
“Focus, dedication, determination.” I gather the Prof doesn’t think that the three of us possess any of those qualities.
Beau glances towards the sleeping Briony.
“I’ve often thought if I tried – if I tried really hard – maybe I could make one come.”
“Then why don’t you try it now, Beau?” I say, lifting my head to peer through the darkness at him. “Might be helpful.” I have a feeling it will be more helpful than anything else we can come up with.
Beau focuses his eyes. His gaze mists over and I’m not sure he’s with us in the moment anymore. The rest of us are quiet, watching him, watching our mate. Beau lets out a little puff of frustration, blinks, and looks away.
“No good?” Thorne asks him.
“Actually,” he says, “there’s something – something there – but it’s blurred and out of focus, out of reach. I can’t quite see it.”
“What was it?” I say. “What was it like?”
He scoffs and shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe what he’s just seen.
“The five of us,” he said. “The five of us in the future. Happy, content.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I like that idea.”
But I don’t know if it’s really a vision of Beaufort’s or more wishful thinking.
Chapter Thirty
Briony
I wake in the morning with a pounding head and a very dry mouth. Plus four large men sleeping around me. In fact, I’m buried under an array of arms and legs, and it takes me several minutes to untangle myself and slip from the makeshift bed without waking any of them.
I pull on some clothes, tiptoe to the door, sneak out onto the landing, and make my way downstairs.
Clare and Fly are both still sound asleep in the front room, each of them occupying one of the sofas. Fly’s buried somewhere beneath a stack of blankets and Clare spread out on her back, snoring.
I make my way to the kitchen in search of water and find Mrs. Tudor already there kneading dough, Barney waiting patiently by her feet. He’s taken a shine to her, most probably on account of the bone she gave him yesterday.
“Good morning, dear,” she says. She glances down at Barney. “Such a well-behaved boy.”
“He is,” I say, coming over to scratch behind his ears and let him lick at my face.
“I didn’t think any of you would be up for a long time,” Mrs. Tudor says.
“I’m so thirsty,” I explain.
