Gabriel's Fate

by Craig, Emma

  But Juniper had pointed out to him that his own personal Mount of Apollo had merely slid a little sideways and was there, only smack up against its next-door-neighbor mount. He couldn’t remember which one that was, either.

  This fortune-telling nonsense took a good deal of research and memory. Gabriel didn’t have the interest in it. Or perhaps it was the calling he lacked. He’d never been terribly fascinated by saving people’s souls, either, although he’d learned how to do that from the cradle, so he’d done it well when he was young. It was the glamour he’d been drawn to. The overwhelming emotional impact of the experience. He’d quit doing it when he’d begun to feel like a confidence trickster, much to his father’s remorse.

  Since he didn’t want to think about his father’s remorse, Gabriel wandered over to talk to Dmitri when he got bored.

  The ladies had been at it for an hour or so, and there was still an hour to go before Gabriel’s own appointed time to meet with Sophie.

  “How’s it going, Dmitri?”

  The little Russian looked up and nodded solemnly. “Good. Good. Miss Juniper and Miss Sophie, they do good.”

  Gabriel hauled up a chair and sat beside the small man.”So, what do you think of all this, Dmitri? Do you think spiritualism is bunkum, or do you believe the Madrigal ladies can really tell the future?”

  Dmitri drew slightly away from Gabriel and looked at him as if he’d uttered an iniquitous blasphemy. Gabriel held up a palm in a calming gesture. “Guess that answers my question. I’m sorry, Dmitri. Didn’t mean to cast aspersions on the ladies. I think they’re both swell myself. I just wondered what you thought about their mystical powers.”

  To Gabriel’s astonishment, Dmitri reached inside his shirt and dug out a carved wooden cross hanging from a leather thong, kissed it, and made the sign of the cross with his hand. “They are blessed by God and Saints Anthony and Agnes and—and—Jerome Emiliani.”

  Now who, Gabriel wondered, were those guys? His father never had much truck with the saints, being the sort who believed in going directly to the source and bypassing the middleman. Nobody was going to intercede with George G. Caine when it came to communing with his Savior. Mr. Cain even believed in the laying on of hands to cure a variety of ills. The personal touch was what Mr. Caine excelled in.

  But poor Dmitri fairly vibrated with passion, and Gabriel was sorry to have riled him. He laid a hand on Dmitri’s shoulder, hoping to soothe him. Dmitri jerked away from him as if he was hexed, and Gabriel guessed he’d better do some fence mending quickly. He didn’t want to lose Dmitri as an ally.

  “I’m sorry, Dmitri. I really didn’t mean any disrespect. I think the Madrigals are very special ladies. And they’re obviously good at their work. And—well, if they’re blessed by all of those saints, I reckon they’re in the right profession.”

  Dmitri gave him a hard stare that lasted several seconds and made him uncomfortable. At last, though, the little man relaxed and nodded. A patron walked up and presented a ticket at that moment, and Gabriel wondered if some saint was hovering over his own paltry soul at the moment, to have distracted the Madrigals’ factotum so well in this particular instance.

  But no. From what Gabriel had seen of it, life seemed to be a bundle of chances, in which things happened by accident, and for which there was no rhyme or reason. If God had created it in the first place, He’d evidently abdicated any responsibility for running it afterwards.

  He remained with Dmitri, chatting, hoping to spread more balm on the small fellow’s wounded spirits, and rebuild his own image in Dmitri’s eyes, until midnight rolled around—his appointed time.

  His heart gave a quick kick as he rose, fished his appointment card out of his vest pocket, and showed it to Dmitri. He winked down at the Russian. “Wish me luck.”

  Without a flicker of frivolity, Dmitri nodded. “Good luck to you.”

  And, on that solemn note, Gabriel entered the parlor.

  Chapter Eight

  Sophie pressed a hand over her eyes, and wished it was time for them to quit. She knew she ought to be grateful to Dmitri for drumming up so much business, but she was feeling mighty tired at the moment.

  As much as she hated to admit it, reading palms and cards and the crystal ball took a good deal of psychic energy, if only because she tried to read the personalities of the people she met with so as not to make unfortunate mistakes. Once she’d predicted a child for a respectable spinster lady, who’d taken exception. Ever since, Sophie had tried her best to concentrate, but it was exhausting work. Occasionally, too, she wondered if the respectable spinster lady had ended up with a child somehow, but she didn’t dwell on it since there was no way to find out.

  They’d done a good job on the room, she had to grant, even if Gabriel had helped. The cranberry globes on the oil lamps cast a soft pinkish gleam over everything, and she and Juniper always used a lot of crimson and black velvet to create a mood. The mob gobbled up such trash like candy. Sophie sighed and wished the night were over.

  A screen separated her from Juniper, so she didn’t even have the solace of conversation with her sweet aunt in between customers. Not that there was much time to converse. If she’d brought Tybalt’s basket, she’d at least have had him to pet. But, as much as she loved Tybalt, he distracted the customers and was so adorable and ugly that Juniper feared he’d detract from the aura of mystery and intrigue they tried so hard to convey. So Sophie hadn’t brought him, and now she was stuck with nobody but herself for companionship as the gullible flock poured in to hear their futures.

  Sophie gave an internal snort. As if it made any difference. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Nobody in her entire family had foreseen Joshua’s death, and if there was anything to fortune telling it should have been obvious to any of them. All of them. Frauds. They were all frauds. Except Juniper.

  The door opened, she looked up, and there stood Gabriel Caine, hat in hand, grinning at her. She sighed. She might have guessed he’d do something like this. With one of her better scowls, she asked bluntly,

  “What do you want?”

  Gabriel held up his appointment card. “I’m legitimate, Sophie. I’ve paid my way in, and I expect to get the business. You do aim to service me, don’t you?”

  The lecherous rogue. “You’re not being particularly subtle, Gabriel. I hope you know that.” She wished she didn’t experience that silly spurt of gratification every time he made a suggestive remark. He’d probably act exactly the same if she were a two-headed ape. Maybe not.

  “Yup. I sure do.” He strode over as if he owned the world and everything in it, tossed his hat aside, and sat in the chair across from her. A crystal ball was perched on an ebony stand between them on a table spread with a crimson cloth. It was a lovely ball and a lovely cloth, but at the moment, both seemed ludicrous props to Sophie.

  Still scowling, she said, “Do you want the cards read, your palm read, or would you prefer that I consult the crystal ball?” Now there, she thought, was something heavy to heave at him. It would be like playing tenpins. She shook her head, trying to banish the sudden gruesome vision that had sprung up in it.

  Gabriel pretended—at least, it looked like pretending to Sophie—to think for a moment. “Do you know something, Sophie? I’ve had a terrible longing for you to hold my hand for the longest time now. Why don’t you read my palm?”

  “My aunt read your palm the first day we met you, Gabriel. Why don’t I read the crystal ball.”

  “I want you to read my hand. It’ll give me an idea whether or not to believe this stuff, if you both tell me the same thing.”

  “That’s silly. I was there. I might remember what she said.”

  “Not you. You were so damned mad, you were deliberately not listening to anything she said.” He grinned his devil’s grin.

  She cast an exasperated glance at the ceiling and hoped he’d choke on it. “Very well. Hand it over.”

  Gabriel’s grin broadened. “So to speak.” He held hi
s handout to her.

  For the briefest moment, Sophie hesitated. She didn’t want to touch him. For that one tiny moment, she was almost blinded by the knowledge that if she allowed herself to get any closer to Gabriel Caine, she’d never be able to disentangle herself.

  Lord, Lord, this was terrible.

  However, there was no point in hesitating further. If their lives were destined to be snarled up with each other, she supposed there was no stopping it. As little as Sophie believed in foretelling the future, still less did she believe that one could buck the fates. They’d get you if you were in their sights, and there was no escaping them. Psychic bonds decreed by fate had nothing to do with crystal balls or palm reading, blast it.

  She took his hand. Instantly, her head filled with light, and vision upon vision sped through her mind’s eye. She and Gabriel. She and Joshua. She and Juniper and Gabriel. She and Juniper and Gabriel and Joshua. Ivo Hardwick. Herself. Gabriel. Joshua in that tiny little casket they’d crafted for him before they’d lowered him into the cold earth and shoveled dirt on top of him. Sophie crying. And crying. And crying. She shut her eyes because she didn’t want Gabriel to know how much his touch this evening, in her mystical milieu, was affecting her.

  Good heavens, she really did have a connection with this man; this man who had vowed to keep her from achieving her life’s one goal. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, holding Gabriel’s hand and not speaking, when his voice filtered through her tangled thoughts, pushing the brilliant visions aside. They twinkled on the sidelines like multi-colored exclamation points as he spoke.

  “Um, Sophie, I like having you hold my hand, but you can’t read it if you don’t look at it, can you?”

  Ruthlessly suppressing her visions, Sophie opened her eyes. She even managed a frigid smile. “Indeed. I was acclimating myself to your body.”

  His eyebrows rose, making him look almost boyishly eager. Oh, this wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that he should be so absolutely perfect in all aspects of masculine beauty.

  “I can think of better ways to do that, sweetheart. And if you’re interested, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

  “Don’t be disgusting.” She kept her voice as cold as ice, even as her body heated alarmingly.

  He sighed. “It was worth a try.”

  “Be quiet. I have to concentrate.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff.”

  “Hush!” She believed in some of her family’s gifts, all right, even when she didn’t want to. The truth was unavoidable, as she’d discovered long ago.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Drawing Gabriel’s hand closer to the oil lamp burning low on the table beside her, Sophie bent her head to peer more closely into it. She smoothed her finger lightly over the warm skin of his palm, noting with interest that his hand was a combination of the spatulate and the conical, just as Juniper had told him that day on the train.

  Hmmm. Perhaps Juniper was right about him and what she perceived as a spiritual bent to his psyche, although it seemed unlikely to Sophie. She still wouldn’t trust him if her life depended on it. Nevertheless, she supposed it was possible that under his brash and overbearing exterior, there did actually lurk a hint of spirituality.

  Curious, she said, “Didn’t you once say you were involved in the revivalist movement when you were young?”

  “What does that have to do with my palm?”

  Startled by the rough quality that had invaded his voice, Sophie glanced at him. “I only asked because I noticed a certain inward tendency in the shape of your hand that seems at variance both with your professed business and the personality you show to the world.”

  “Yeah? Like how?”

  She shrugged slightly. “Oh, well, the shape is indicative of one who does a good deal of introspection, who is interested in something besides the physicality of life.” She expected him to snicker, but he didn’t, so she went on. “One generally finds hands shaped like yours attached to the arms of scholars or philosophers. Or ministers, I suppose.” Bowing her head over his hand again, she wondered if he’d say anything now.

  He did. “My father was a minister.”

  “I see.” She left it at that, sensing he wasn’t eager to speak about his past. Which, all things considered, made his interest in her own past more than a trifle hypocritical.

  “Maybe I inherited the shape from him.”

  “Mmmm.” She peered more closely and gently manipulated the fingers. Flexible. But not too flexible. Still, they were more flexible than Sophie had anticipated. He was such a pigheaded man, she’d expected to find them crafted of stone. She gently pulled his thumb back and felt resistance.

  So, she was right in part. He was a strong-willed son of a gun. “What about your mother?”

  “What about my mother?” Again, his voice grated harshly.

  “Was she also called to the ministry? Believe me, I understand how conflicts can arise when one person feels called by the Almighty to something and his or her partner doesn’t.” Her own parents had showed her that, to everyone’s unhappiness.

  This time he shrugged. “I think they were both drawn by the same glorious vision of saving the world and its inhabitants from eternal damnation.” His voice had gone from wryly grating to as dry as old bones.

  “They didn’t quarrel over your father’s ministry?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with my palm?”

  She looked up quickly. “My, my, aren’t we touchy this evening?”

  “My parents don’t have squat to do with my palm, Sophie, and you know it. You’re only trying to avoid reading it.”

  “I am not, and I do not know it. You inherited everything you are from your parents, including your palm. And your attitudes, one presumes.”

  “That’s a load of horse poop. My father would roll over in his grave if he saw me now.”

  Gazing into his deep, dark eyes, she sensed he wished he hadn’t said that. She let it go without a word and leaned over to gaze at his palm some more. “The lines are deeply etched and clearly defined. You’re not a vacillating type of man, Gabriel Caine, and you’re definitely a worldly one, whatever meager spiritual tendencies you might possess.”

  “Hmph. I could have told you that without your having to look at my palm.”

  “Ah, but you paid me to do this.” She smiled. All at once, she felt not half bad about having to read this particular palm. If they really and truly did have some sort of preordained connection with each other, the more she knew about him, the better. Besides, this was giving her a sense of power over him that she’d never experienced before. She liked it.

  He had calluses on his palms. “You do whatever it takes to get a job done, don’t you?” This was an aspect of her own personality, as well, and Sophie considered it small wonder that she and Gabriel should clash, since they wanted wholly different things from the same source.

  “I expect I do.” He sounded noncommittal.

  She didn’t press the issue. “The temperature of your palms is warm.”

  “Getting warmer every second.”

  She glanced up at him, her lips pinching. She decided to ignore his implication. “Your health appears to be good.” That’s what a fine, warm palm meant, blast him.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  She spent a good deal of time on his thumbs. Thumbs were good indicators of a person’s overall personality—if, of course, one believed in this sort of thing. Unfortunately, this evening Sophie discovered she was fascinated by it. “You have a definite stubborn streak,” she said easily, not surprised.

  “Hmph.”

  “But you’re fairly generous.”

  “Only fairly?”

  She heard a laugh in his voice and decided to ignore it. She wiggled his thumb, then drew it down and away from his forefinger. “Hmmm,” she murmured. “Compassion. How strange.”

  “You’re only irked to find any good qualities in me, Sophie. Admit it.”
<
br />   In spite of herself, she smiled. “Perhaps.” She spread his hand on the table in front of her. Their heads almost touched as they both bent over to study his fingers. “I should say your fingers are predominantly spatulate,” she said musingly.

  “That sounds bad.”

  “It’s not bad, really. It merely indicates generosity, practicality, and maybe a touch of inventiveness.”

  “That sounds good.”

  She glanced up, and found herself staring into his magnificent eyes.

  “Yes, I should say those were good qualities for a person to possess.” She had to lick her lips to get them to move far enough apart for the words to come out. She glanced down again quickly. Mercy, but he was a handsome man. “Um, and now let’s take a look at the mounts.”

  “Let’s.”

  His voice had gone soft and husky. Sophie had to close her eyes for a moment to gather her wits. She had a mad urge to fling his hand aside, grab him, kiss him, and beg him to make mad, passionate love to her. This was awful. She hadn’t found it so difficult to suppress her carnal urges for years. Decades.

  “I notice that your Mount of Apollo—”

  “I think that’s the one I couldn’t find when Miss Juniper tried to teach me this stuff.” Grateful for a reprieve in humor, Sophie chuckled.

  “Yes, I can understand why you might have believed it to be missing. But you see here? It’s only a little closer to the pinkie finger than some are. That means you’re more interested in the practical side of artistic pursuits than in pure art.” Taking a chance, she glanced up again, and was wildly relieved to see that he was frowning down at his palm.

  “Oh, is that what that means?”

  “Indeed. Personally, I’m not surprised.” She wondered if he’d make anything of that, and realized she was once again enjoying herself. Hugely. This was probably a very bad thing, but she couldn’t seem to care much at the moment.