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She let him lead her across the street into a swath of grass covered mostly with fallen leaves. The space was empty but for them, and they claimed one of the white wrought-iron benches to sit on.
Once seated, Electra removed her gloves, then opened the book.
Inside was a dedication in the same hand as the one in Calliope’s book. To Miss Iris Delacourt, a lady named after the messenger goddess should have this book.
Electra gave Gideon a questioning look. “Shall I?”
“If you wish to,” he said, his eyes full of something that looked a bit like concern but felt like care. “Does it tire you?” he whispered.
“No.” It wasn’t entirely true, but if she admitted as much, he’d be worried enough to ask her to stop. If she confessed that her head ached the more she tried, and her heart felt sore whenever she failed, he would offer comfort, and the prospect was too tempting to think about for long.
“I want to try,” she said, her voice suddenly raspy.
She closed her eyes, laid her hand on the book, and reached out with her mind with a sort of clawing desperation she rarely felt, yearning for something, anything, that might lead them to Iris.
Iris. She was sitting in front of a mirror, seemingly at a vanity, brushing her hair. She wore the iris necklace Violet had let Electra hold.
Tears trickled down her cheeks, but she simply kept brushing her own hair as if nothing troubled her at all. Then her gaze flicked to a vase with a few pink roses in it, and she shut her eyes, letting the tears flow. Suddenly, she stood and moved toward a bed. On the bedside table sat the very book Electra held in her hands. Iris picked up the diminutive volume, pulled out the drawer, tossed it inside, and slammed the drawer shut.
Electra sensed a stew of emotions: anger, guilt, fear.
Before she could sense more, see more, the images faded.
Electra clenched her jaw, willing the images to return, but nothing did.
She let go of the vise grip she had on the book and looked over at Gideon.
“Nothing of use,” she said, hearing the misery in her tone. “I saw her brushing her hair. She was crying. She glanced at a vase of pink roses, then tossed this book into a drawer, probably the one where you found it.” Electra offered the book to Gideon. “I’m sorry.”
After taking the book, he wrapped his bare hand around hers. His skin was deliciously warm, and she clasped him back. Perhaps too tightly.
“Stop apologizing,” he said, his face so close that she felt the wisp of his breath on her cheek. “We will continue to investigate.”
“I should be able to find her,” she murmured, staring at their joined hands. “What is the use of having such skills if they cannot save a young woman who is in danger?”
“And you still may.” He stroked his thumb into the hollow of her palm, and it sent a shiver chasing down her back. “We cannot lose hope.”
We. She did like how he used that word with such ease during their investigation so far.
Electra nodded, then squared her shoulders. “Where to next?”
“I think it’s time we visit The Willows pub.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Willows pub had already filled with end-of-workday patrons by the time Gideon and Electra walked through the door. But there were only two barmen behind the oaken bar, and one was too old to be Joseph Barclay. The other, with nut-brown short-cropped hair and arms as thick as some men’s thighs, had to be the part-time pugilist they were seeking.
“Will he speak to us when the bar is so busy?” Electra asked.
“He may not wish to, but I don’t intend to give him a choice.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gideon saw the flicker of surprise on her face.
“If you go over and claim that table”—he indicated one in the corner with the nudge of his chin—“I’ll ask Mr. Barclay to join us.”
Electra left to secure the table, and Gideon swung his gaze around the over-warm, low-ceilinged pub, noting a few looks of curiosity and assessing glances. He was overdressed in a room full of working men and women.
Gideon approached the younger man with enormous forearms, a thick neck, and a square jaw. He looked like someone who had spent time in a boxing ring or two.
