by Candace Camp
“I owe him a great deal. He took the word of a country vicar that I was capable of doing the work, that I deserved a chance. But he went far beyond what would be expected of his friendship with the vicar. He helped me get into the university. He tutored me despite my lack of finances. He even recommended me to the optical shop.”
“I know. And you’ve repaid him by turning your interests in spectrometry to the field where Professor Gordon needs help. I’d think astronomy would be a more pragmatic choice than exploring the spiritual realm.”
“Spectrometry is useful in a number of fields. What I discover here can be applied to astronomy or chemistry or physics.”
“Yes, but you aren’t a true believer,” Carson pointed out. “You’re scornful of tales of the supernatural.”
“Aren’t you?” Desmond asked.
“I think there are important kernels of truth that can be found in stories handed down from generation to generation.”
“Monsters and gremlins?”
“No, not those.” Carson grimaced. “But spirits who linger after their time is gone? Are all those stories concocted? Weren’t they based on something? That shiver one gets quite out of the blue, the spot of cold in a hall, a curtain moving without any breeze...”
Desmond thought of that moment when he had awakened with a start and there was his dead sister, Sally, standing by his bed and smiling at him in that familiar way. The involuntary shiver that ran down his spine when Aunt Tildy talked about Desmond’s curse. “I know that one can see things, feel things that seem impossible. I can be convinced. But tales are not enough to do it.” He paused. “What about you? You’re a cynical sort most of the time. Do you believe in such things?”
“I believe in Anne Ballew. I know she lived. I know people feared her and revered her. I know she was ahead of her time. I believe she created the Eye.”
“Do you believe that she saw the dead through it?”
“Ah, well.” The corner of Carson’s mouth twitched up, and his eyes began to twinkle. “That’s what we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”
His words were innocuous, but they seemed to hang in the air, and Desmond could not deny the chill that touched his back like a cold breath.
CHAPTER THREE
THISBE SAILED INTO the house, bursting with the need to talk to someone. As always, there were noises from all over the house, magnified by the huge, marble-floored entry hall. The buzz of her mother and the followers of her latest cause coming from the red drawing room. The pounding of small feet on the floor above, accompanied by shrieks of maniacal laughter from the twins, Con and Alex. A heavy thud from the back of the house, followed by her own twin’s voice letting out a string of heartfelt curses.
Usually it was Theo to whom she turned, but he was not the one she needed for this conversation, especially given his apparent mood. Nor was it her father, hovering over two servants opening a large wooden crate at the end of the long gallery. Papa’s answer, no matter the question, was usually a soothing “Yes, dear, that’s good,” after which he would ask her to admire his newest Minoan pot or statue or whatever else he had just received.
No. This discussion called for her sister. Thisbe started toward the stairs, but at that moment someone struck a chord on the piano in the music room, followed by a rollicking tune and female laughter. Thisbe turned and headed toward the music.
It was Kyria who was at the piano, her fingers flying and her head bobbing in time, the words she was singing unintelligible through her giggling. Her color was high, and a few stray tendrils of her auburn hair, loosened by her forceful pounding of the keys, trailed down from her upswept hair. She looked, of course, quite beautiful. A few feet away from Kyria, Olivia sat sideways in a chair, her legs draped over one arm and her back against the other, a book lying open and unread on her chest, as she waved her arms dramatically in time to the music and bellowed in a German accent, “Nein, nein, Fräulein Moreland. The pace! The pace! Ach, mein Gott!”
“I take it you’ve been harassing your music teacher again,” Thisbe said, raising her voice to be heard over the music.
“Thisbe!” Olivia bounded up from her chair, her brown braids swinging. “It was Herr Schmidt who was harassing me! ‘Fräulein, you must put the feeling into your music. It’s art! It’s passion!’”
“I was showing her how it’s done.” Kyria swung around on the bench to face her sisters.
Thisbe laughed. “It sounded more like the music hall than Mozart.”
“It was.” Kyria grinned. “Reed taught it to me. I told Livvy to play it for Herr Schmidt next time.”
“Please don’t. The poor man would probably have apoplexy,” Thisbe replied.
“Yes, he loves only Beethoven.” Olivia dropped down onto the bench beside Kyria. Only a little more than two years apart, the girls looked as if they were separated by much more. Kyria, making her debut this Season, was dressed in a ruffled white dress in the latest fashion, her hair swept up in an intricate style, pearl earrings in her earlobes. Olivia, at fifteen and still in short skirts with her brown hair done in plain braids, showed no desire to leave the world of the schoolroom.
“Where have you been?” Kyria asked. “No one seemed to know.”
“I told Papa.” When Olivia let out a hoot of derision, Thisbe went on, “Yes, I know. I should have told Smeggars, but he wasn’t there when I left. I went to a lecture at the Covington.”
“Oh.” Kyria wrinkled her nose. “I hoped you were doing something exciting.”
“I found it exciting,” Thisbe said.
“Wait.” Kyria jumped up. “I saw that smile. What happened? You look—”
“All aglow,” Olivia interjected. “Like Kyria when she returns from a ball.”
“Well...” Thisbe’s grin grew. “I met someone.”
“A man!” Kyria drew in a sharp breath and grabbed her older sister’s arm. “That’s why you’re glowing.”
Thisbe’s cheeks colored. “Don’t be silly. I’m not glowing.”
“You are,” Olivia told her. “And your eyes are sparkling.”
“Who is he? Do we know him?” Kyria persisted.
High-pitched laughter suddenly filled the hall outside, and a moment later two toddlers dressed in their nightclothes burst into the room, their nanny in hot pursuit. The boys were mirror images of each other, with hair as dark and eyes as green as Thisbe’s own. Their chubby cheeks were flushed from running and their eyes were bright with mischief. They glanced from one sister to another, then, after apparently deciding Thisbe had the most authority as the oldest sister, they flung themselves at her.
“Thisbe!” They split and ducked behind her, clutching her skirts. “Read to me. Read to me,” they jabbered, first Con, then Alex, as they jumped up and down, seemingly choreographed to create the most noise and movement possible.
“I like that.” Kyria put her hands on her hips in mock indignation. “You think only Thisbe can save you?”
The boys stopped and looked each other. Alex abandoned Thisbe and darted to Kyria, throwing his arms around her legs dramatically. “Kyria!”
Then, with a screech of glee, they began to run dizzyingly around all three sisters, weaving in and out, until finally Thisbe reached out and scooped up one as he darted by. “Con. Enough.”
Con beamed at her and laid his head upon her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her neck. Drawing out his voice, he said pleadingly, “Thisbe. Pwease.” Con was still having a little trouble with his l’s.
“You little dramatist.” Thisbe laughed and kissed the top of his head.
Pleased with the word, Con repeated it. “Dramatist.”
“Will you?” Alex asked from his perch in Kyria’s arms. He liked to have a definitive answer. “Kyria, too.”
“And Wivvy.” Con pointed to Olivia.
“Livvy, too,” Alex agreed.
> “We might as well,” Thisbe told her sisters. “Otherwise we’ll never have any peace.”
More important, it would give the nanny a rest. Thisbe looked over at the twins’ weary keeper. Right now she looked as if she might turn in her notice tomorrow, which would make her the fourth one this year.
Carrying the twins—it was always better to have them in one’s grip—the sisters trooped up the stairs and down the hall to the twins’ rooms. Con regaled them with an account of his and Alex’s day, punctuated now and then by insertions from his brother and an occasional disagreement over who had been the first to swipe the biscuits from under Cook’s nose, or climbed the highest, or jumped over the most steps.
The pair had a suite of rooms: Con and Alex in one bedroom, their nanny in another, with the schoolroom in between. The schoolroom looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane, its usual condition by the end of the day. The nanny headed straight for her room—either to take a much-needed rest or pack her things, Thisbe wasn’t sure which, and the sisters tucked the boys into their beds.
Thisbe read them a fairy tale, after which they wheedled their favorite story from Olivia, the one about a polar bear, a monkey—geographical limitations did not exist in the twins’ stories—and the boy who saved them both with his cleverness. That was a mistake, as it left them more wide-awake than before, and Kyria had to quiet them with a lullaby before they closed their eyes.
As they left the room, Kyria grabbed Thisbe’s elbow and hustled her off to Kyria’s bedchamber. “Now.” Kyria settled herself on the bed, legs tucked under her. “Tell us everything. This is so exciting.”
Thisbe was surprised to feel a blush spreading across her cheeks. “Well...perhaps you won’t find it all that interesting.”
“You must be joking. You and a man? It’s practically world-shaking.”
“Yes,” Olivia agreed, perching on the other end of the bed. “Who is he? Where did you meet him? Did he sweep you out of the way of a runaway carriage or rescue you from a footpad or—” Olivia was a great reader of novels.
“He sat beside me at a lecture.”
“That’s disappointing.” Olivia looked deflated.
“Don’t be silly.” Kyria rolled her eyes at her younger sister. “Thisbe’s not stupid enough to step in front of a speeding carriage. Nor does she carry anything worth stealing. Go on. Did he come to sit beside you or vice versa?”
“You really do want to know everything.” Thisbe climbed onto the bed as well, taking the center, and the others turned to face her. It was a scene that had been enacted many times—the three of them settling in for a long chat—but tonight it felt different, as if imbued with a certain importance, a...well, yes, a glow. “He took the seat beside me. To be fair, he came late, and there weren’t many available.”
“Even if there were only two, it’s significant that he chose you.”
“I suppose it does mean something—most men seem afraid to sit by me.”
“What’s his name? Do I know him?” Kyria asked.
“I doubt it. He doesn’t move in your circle. He works in a shop.”
“He’s a shopkeeper?” Even Kyria looked discouraged at this news. “Is he old?”
“Papa will be sorry to find he isn’t a scholar,” Olivia said.
Thisbe laughed. “Papa would find him perfectly acceptable... Well, as acceptable as a man can be who doesn’t know an Etruscan vase from a Roman olive jar. Desmond is a scientist and very smart. And he’s not old. He doesn’t own the shop—he merely works there to support himself. Anyway, Papa’s approval is hardly an issue. It’s not as if I’m planning to marry the man.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s the first man I’ve ever heard you talk about, except for some crusty old scientist who is usually dead,” Kyria told her. “Desmond.” She rolled out the word experimentally. “That’s a good name.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“What does he look like? What’s special about him?” Olivia asked, pressing for details.
“He’s quite tall, as tall as Theo—maybe even taller, though he’s more slender. Not as muscular.”
“That’s fine,” Kyria decided. “A scientist hardly needs to be able to paddle up the Amazon.”
“His hair is dark, and it’s rather too long and shaggy, and all mussed, though that might be because he was late and hurrying. It kept falling in his face as he talked, and he’d push it back with his hand, like this, which only made it messier.” Thisbe smiled at the memory. “His face is more oval than square, and his chin is firm. His mouth is perfect, not too wide or too narrow. He has a lovely smile, though most of the time he looks very serious. His eyes are deep brown, like chocolate, and his lashes so thick and dark it’s really unfair that a man has them.” She had been gazing off into space as she talked, remembering the details about Desmond, and when she looked back at her sisters, they were staring at her, mouths ajar.
“I have never heard you describe anyone so thoroughly,” Olivia said.
“Last week you couldn’t even remember whether Mr. Barlow was blond or brown-haired,” Kyria added.
“Who’s Mr. Barlow?”
Kyria leaned her head back and laughed. “That’s what I mean. He was here last week, but you scarcely recall him.”
“I don’t recall him at all,” Thisbe retorted. “I don’t keep track of your beaux, Kyria. It would take up entirely too much space in my brain.”
“Tell me this, then—what color are Willis the footman’s eyes?” Kyria challenged.
“I, um, brown?”
“They’re blue,” Kyria said triumphantly. “And he has been here for years. You see him every night at the supper table. You don’t pay the slightest attention to anyone’s looks.”
“I’m usually more interested in what they have to say.”
“Yet you remember every last detail of how this man looked. Quickly—what did he wear?”
“An ordinary jacket and trousers—grayish. His shoes were black and rather scuffed.” She grinned. “He forgot his coat and hat, and he’d lost his gloves.”
“Shades of Papa!” Olivia cried, and all three of them broke into laughter.
“No wonder you said Papa would approve of him,” Kyria said. “That’s good because you are seriously smitten.”
“Smitten? Is that what I am?” Thisbe smiled faintly. “I wondered what to call it. It was the strangest thing. I felt this—this zing all through me when he looked at me. And a—a connection, I guess, almost as if I knew him, only I didn’t, of course, but it was as though, just looking at him, I knew him. Does that make any sense?”
“Not a bit, but then I’ve never been in love,” Kyria told her. “I like various men just fine, some more than others. I wish I could dance with Howard Buckley more than two times at a ball, but that’s because he’s an excellent dancer, and Lord Highsmith makes me laugh. But I haven’t the slightest inclination to fall in love with any of them.” Her brow clouded. “Do you suppose there’s something wrong with me?”
“Nothing except an overabundance of suitors,” Thisbe replied. “How could you find anyone special among all that lot? This is your first Season, and it has barely begun. I don’t imagine you have to find love as soon as you come out.”
“True.” Kyria grinned. “In fact, I think it would probably put a damper on the fun.”
“Oh, who cares about your Season?” Olivia said, reaching over to poke Kyria in the leg. “I want to hear more about Thisbe’s beau.”
“I do, too,” Kyria said, though she paused to pinch Olivia’s arm in return before she went on. “What did he say when you met?”
“Nothing. I was the one who started the conversation. I had to grab his arm to get his attention.”
“He didn’t notice you?” Kyria asked, her eyebrows rising.
“Oh, he noticed me.” Thisbe chuckled.
“He kept glancing at me the whole time he was taking notes, like this.” She demonstrated.
“That’s good.” Kyria nodded sagely.
“But he didn’t say a word. I think he’s a bit shy—he even blushed a little.”
“That’s sweet,” Olivia said.
“So I asked him if he’d like to borrow my notes, and he did, and after that it became much easier to talk.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, school and Herr Erlenmeyer’s theory about naphthalene.”
“Naphthalene!” Kyria gaped at her. “Really, Thisbe, you talked about chemistry?”
“And spectrometry and, oh, spirit photography—we disagreed a bit about that.”
“You quarreled with him?”
“Not quarreled, exactly. It was more a spirited discussion. It was actually quite invigorating. He’s working with Professor Gordon, you see, which is too bad because I cannot think it will further his career to be associated with him. But he did have a point about keeping an open mind to scientific discovery.”
“Thisbe...” Kyria groaned. “Do not tell me you talked about science the entire time.”
“Oh, no, we talked about his family and such as he walked me to the omnibus.”
“What omnibus? Didn’t Thompkins take you in the carriage? I’m confused,” Olivia said.
“Yes, Thompkins was right there, but I had to ignore him. You see, I didn’t tell him about...you know—who we are.”
“Oh,” her sisters said in unison, understanding.
“It’s better,” Kyria agreed. “It’s terribly hard to know whether a man flirts with you because he likes you or your money.”
“No, it’s not that. Desmond would make the world’s worst fortune hunter.”
“You didn’t want him to know you were a Moreland because everyone thinks we’re peculiar?” Olivia suggested.
“Did you know that they call us the ‘Mad Morelands’?” Kyria said, anger flaring.