“We have to go through the journal. It’s in my bag.”
He glanced at the clock over the bed. She was surprised to see that it was only twelve twenty. Still, they had less than twelve hours together, if her calculations were correct. Ifhiscalculations were correct. “I have a question.”
Alistar blew out a breath. “What?” His earlier question sounded puzzled; this one was terse.
She narrowed her eyes on him. “You’re giving up. You’ve already given up, haven’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He went over to her bag and dug out the diary.
That pissed her off. “Then why the hell am I here?”
He straightened, turning around to face her. Irritation followed by disbelief skittered across his features. Defiant, she held his gaze, her insides shaking with the fierceness of an earthquake, registering seven-point-six on the Richter scale. Did no oneeverstand up to this man?
He lifted one haughty brow. “Your question?”
“How do you do that?” She shook her head. “Never mind. You’re just assuming you’ll go insane at the stroke of midnight, right?”
He didn’t answer.
“Your thirty-third year won’t start until the actual time of your birth, in my estimation.”
“Your estimation.” He grabbed the journal and strolled back to the bed. “So you believe I’m allotted another few hours.”
“Well, it’s something, isn’t it?” She felt her bottom lip tremble. “Am I the only one who cares, then?”
Alistar pierced her with that soul-searching stare of his. After a long moment, his jaw relaxed, and his gaze softened. He leaned in, kissed her, then tossed the journal on her sheet-covered lap. “No. You are not the only one who cares. I’m just not accustomed to it being anyone other than me.”
“Okay.” She dropped her eyes and pulled the sheet up to discreetly dry her tears. “Let’s get started.”
She opened the binder to the last entry she’d read that morning. “We’ll just skim through these looking for anything that gives us a clue. For all we know, you could have been born at 12:01 in the morning.”
“What shall I do without you?” he whispered, kissing her again.
She swallowed more tears she was afraid he’d taste, and opened the book.
29 August 1851
Mother expired over a year ago. I hadn’t been able to make myself read her words until this summer. Great Grandmother has asked several times if I knew what had happened to the book Mother was always writing in. I fear Mother was right—Great Grandmother would likely destroy it if she got her greedy little hands on it. I don’t care much for my father’s grandmother. I pray Mother is now at peace. She and Papa had a love rare for those of their station. I suspect I won’t live long enough to experience such a love. Mother writes of a curse on Papa. It sounds so outlandish, yet… I experience many of the things Mother spoke of. The headaches, the visions, the talking trees. She also talked of Papa’s fierce desire—no, obsession—for music. That is not a symptom of mine. I do like to write poetry. But it is not an obsession.
A bark of high-pitched laughter escaped Peyton.
“That didn’t sound especially entertaining to me,” Alistar groused.
She didn’t bother responding. Instead, she leaned against his shoulder, where he could see the book, and fanned the pages. Page after page of metered texts. “I’m not laughing at him, Alistar. I’m laughing at how normal he sounds. I’m encouraged by it, if you must know. People with obsessions or compulsions often don’t see them in themselves.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Which brings to mind the question, do you—”
“Read on,” he commanded softly. “Time is of the essence.”
His lips never failed to mesmerize her. “Right. Time.”
9 September 1851
I’ve just returned from London for a visit with Mother’s parents, Lord and Lady Brockway. My grandfather is a wise man and much revered, as Mother mentioned many times over. I know he is concerned for me. They’ve asked if I would like to spend the time in town for the small season. I am only ten and three. I suspect Great Grandmother will not allow me to escape such a fate in the future. I declined.
12 September 1851
