The Heartreader's Secret

by Kate McinTyre

  She eyes snapped open and flashed in the blackness. “You needn’t humour me.”

  “I’m not,” he insisted, stepping closer still.

  “Mister Buckley, I know I am no beauty.”

  He remembered how she’d looked to him the day she’d stepped through the front door of the Buckley estate. Far too tall, thin as a rail, dressed in store-bought, ill-fitting clothes, her hair back in a bun so tight that it had stretched her skin back from her face and made her angles seem like knives. Staid, missish, and stuffy, with shoes so scuffed, ugly, and ill-fitting that they’d almost hurt to look at.

  Then he looked at her now.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d observed how she wore her plain clothes and severe hairstyle and mannered nature like a costume. But it was the first time he realized that she didn’t, truly, look so very different after all. Her cheekbones, nose, and chin were still sharp enough to cut glass. Her complexion was still more oatmeal than cream. Her figure was still more yardstick than hourglass.

  It was just that all those things had stopped being parts and become a whole. When he looked at her, he saw her. He saw Rachel.

  “You look beautiful to me,” he said. His voice was very soft, and all the challenge melted from her eyes as he closed the rest of the steps between them and took her into his arms, tipping up her chin with one finger and kissing her deeply.

  She went boneless in his arms, her mouth soft and yielding beneath his, and he stroked her jaw, her neck, her hair. When he’d first kissed William, he’d hadn’t any concept of what he was doing, or how to do it well. But an ill-considered season of kissing later, it came easily. He let his mouth tease hers, traced the lines of her lips with the tip of his tongue, felt her sigh of delight when she parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside. Her arms came up around him, and he buried his fingers in the mass of her dark hair. She made a small sound at the back of her throat. It drove him almost to the brink of madness.

  It was beyond inappropriate to kiss her at all, much less like this, with passion and tongue and standing in a country lady’s foyer in the middle of the night. Anyone could come down the stairs and see them locked in this embrace, see Rachel’s fingers clawing into the layers of fabric on his back. But compared to his usual experience in such matters, it felt so wholesome and suitable and safe that it was impossible not to lean into it, to pull her even closer, to slide one leg between hers. Her kiss set him aflame.

  I am a normal man. There is a woman in my arms, I want her, and I am a normal man.

  Involuntarily, he felt his consciousness open up. He sensed the pulsing, hot awareness of her presence all around him, so wrapped up with his will that they seemed like one identity. Experimentally, one hand going to the small of her back to press her close against his groin, he pulled at threads of himself, trying to disentangle from her. She gasped into his mouth, squirming most pleasantly against his nether regions. The ball of her consciousness burned so brightly, and he burned too, with the desire to feel her, the way that she felt him. Gods, how intense must it be, for her to dive into his feelings as he dove into her body?

  On instinct, he reached out toward her, touching her with his will.

  It was like an axe cleaving his skull in twain.

  He stumbled back, both hands flying to his temples, a cry on his lips. He cursed, not even fully aware of what blasphemy was leaving his mouth. His will snapped forcibly back into his own head, diving down somewhere so far he wasn’t sure he’d be able to heartwrite right now if he tried.

  And then, as quickly as it came, the agony vanished.

  He raised his head, flinching all the while. The ghost of pain made him fear its return. Rachel stared at him in the darkness, eyes practically glowing. She had a hand pressed to her forehead.

  “You too?” he asked.

  “What was that?” she demanded. “I feel as if—ah. Gods! That smarts!”

  He took a step toward her. “Still?”

  “Yes!” She paused and made an effort to straighten herself, to smooth her skirts. She flushed in the darkness, her cheeks turning purple, as she patted down her hair and realized what a state it was in. He flushed, too, turning his face away, but his heart beat fast in his chest, and it took all his control not to reach out to her again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You always feel the need to take responsibility. Even for things like… like this! How can it be your fault?”

  “I…” He cleared his throat and allowed his gaze to flicker away again. “Ah. Just… well, you know me, I… can’t help but feel….”

  “I very much doubt you’re in any way to blame for the both of us feeling as if we’ve been slapped upside the head at once,” she snapped, reaching up and trying to straighten her hair again. She didn’t meet his eyes. He very much wanted her to.

  It can hardly be just a coincidence, he wanted to say. He stopped himself. The absolute last thing he needed was to draw attention to what had happened. Not until he’d read Doctor Cartwright’s notes.

  Assuming Will would let him see them.

  Gods, he couldn’t think about Will right now!

  Rachel shook her head and gave him a rueful little smile. “Well,” she said softly. Something in her tone drew him immediately back into the moment, pushing William aside. “I suppose that certainly drained all the romance from the moment.”

  The way her voice dipped into quiet, shy pleasure on the word romance made his heart beat faster. He ran a hand through his hair, unable to quite find a place to put his eyes. “Not my intention, I assure you.”

  She shook her head. And then, shyly, she reached out a hand to him. “Come on,” she said. “I… find I don’t want to just go to bed, and… and there’s a bit of romance I would… ah, really rather like to…” She buried her chin in her chest, unable to finish the bold words. Chris didn’t need any more encouragement, however. He certainly caught all the meaning he needed. He linked his hand with hers, and she pulled him towards the doors at the back of the estate.

  Rain fell so hard against the glass he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a horde of furious undines assaulting the house. But Rachel, seemingly unperturbed, pushed the door open and hurried out. He let himself be pulled through puddles as water poured down on them as if they ran through a waterfall.

  “I only just got dry!” he howled above the roar of the rain.

  “You can do it again!” she called back, looking over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were bright.

  The Festival grounds were still all set up—stalls, attractions, canopies, and games. Even the white bulbs still glowed, fed by their impossible wondrous alp-power. Rachel led him beneath the grand canopy that sheltered the dance floor, and then she whirled about and smiled so widely at him that his heart swelled.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said.

  She coloured and ducked her gaze. Her hands found his. She placed one on her back, and the other, she clasped tightly.

  He recognized the pose immediately.

  “Everything that happened at the Piffleman’s Gala House was awful,” Rachel said quietly. “I don’t… I’d hate for you to think that I’m downplaying any part of the terrible things we went through that night. The murders, the dryad, the suicides, you being attacked…” She stepped closer to him, placing her free hand on his shoulder. “But I’ve lain awake cursing it all. Because… because it took away the opportunity for me to dance with you.”

  His mouth was dry.

  Crashing through him in a rush of emotion, he felt a whole parcel of feelings he didn’t want. Will had taught him to waltz. They’d swirled about the ballroom at the Buckley estate. Will’s voice had been so low it had buzzed in the air between them. And Chris had felt so much, so strongly….

  It felt wrong to dance the waltz with someone other than Will.

  It felt like a betrayal.

  “Will you kiss her mouth while you still taste like me?” Will had asked, the day everything with them had
fallen apart. Apparently, the answer was yes.

  All at once, it seemed… tawdry.

  Chris pulled away.

  Rachel’s lips parted, and her eyes shone with pain for the moment he could see them before she ducked her head. “I see,” she said stiffly.

  “No,” Chris hurried to say. “No, you don’t! You couldn’t! It’s not what you think, Rachel, it’s all just so… hells, it’s just so bloody complicated.”

  “You don’t need to feel guilty!” she said, stepping forward and raising her hands to cup his cheeks. “Christopher, believe me! This isn’t… you needn’t worry about, about my reputation, or about ruining me, or….”

  Gods. Sodding heartreaders! He could keep none of what was happening inside of him away from her, could he? He bit down on his roiling emotions as much as he could. “It’s not—” He drew in a deep breath. “It’s complicated, Rachel….”

  “Yes!” she agreed. “I’m perfectly aware, Chris! Didn’t I just say as much? It isn’t a jaunt in the park for me, either, but I want—” She met his eyes and snapped her jaw shut.

  He desperately wanted to hear the end of that phrase. ‘I want this?’ Or even ‘I want you?’ Just imagining the words coming from her mouth made him wild. The space between them seemed both infinitesimally small and unspeakably wide. He wanted this, too. He wanted her. And Gods, hadn’t he ruined everything with Will?

  But Chris couldn’t stop thinking about him. About what he’d say. About how hurt he’d be.

  If he took Rachel into his arms, if he danced with her if he let that happen… it would be closing his door with Will forever. He knew that with stark, undeniable clarity.

  And he didn’t think he could handle that door being closed.

  “There’s more going on here than you think,” he said quietly.

  “You can tell me.”

  He laughed at that, high and wild. “No,” he said. “No, I certainly can’t.”

  “Believe me… I would understand.”

  “I don’t think you would, Rachel.”

  She searched his face. He stood stock still, his spine aching from holding it so straight. He was afraid that if he so much as breathed, it would somehow forfeit his hand. Kiss her, he told himself. If Will threw him off for good, it would only solve all of his problems. He’d have a woman he admired and adored at his side. There would be no temptations to engage in unnatural behaviours with someone who wasn’t even there. He could be normal.

  He wanted to be normal.

  But he wanted Will more.

  He stepped back, tucking his hands into his armpits. He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Her hands closed into fists. “So… what?” she demanded. “You… you call me beautiful? You kiss me? You make me think that… that perhaps someone like me could have the opportunity to belong— with someone like you, no less—and then before the clock even marks the hour, you’ve already shot it all dead?”

  No. Yes. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “It’s all such a mess,” he said.

  “You flirted with me!” she stepped forward, making a point with her index finger and then thrusting it into his sternum. He coughed and stepped back. “You invited me to that awful ball and made it clear it was romantic in nature!” She advanced on him, poking him again. “And if that wasn’t enough, I gave you an out not half an hour ago, and not only did you not take it, you kissed me in the most untoward manner I can imagine!”

  “I shouldn’t have.”

  “Are you toying with me, Mister Buckley? Are you cruel? Are you only just dangling me from a damned string so that I’m… I don’t know! A… a more devoted caretaker for your sister?”

  “Gods, not at all! But can’t you give me some time to decide what I—focus on that!” he pleaded. “On Rosie! Gods only know Rosie needs your guidance now, with how she’s been!”

  Rachel stepped back, hurt crossing her face. “I’m doing the best I can,” she said. “You have no idea how I’ve—the things I’ve given up to care for Rosie instead of—are you criticizing me?”

  “No! Or—” He threw up his hands. “Gods, I don’t know! Do you even know where she is right now? She needs a close eye, and here we are, cavorting about… she could be convening with Dayton Spencer as we speak! Or reporting to the traditionalists, or mucking about in the guest house cellar or, or hell, who’s to say she didn’t even have something to do with the attack on Doctor Livingstone, at this point? I wouldn’t be—”

  Rachel’s face fell. Her hands, balled into angry fists, fell at her side. Her lips parted, and she sucked in a breath of air. “Francis was attacked? Is he hurt?”

  Chris stopped all at once, cursing himself. “I… not so badly?” he offered. “It’s all rather…he’s quite all right. Resting in bed, and….”

  “Ah, no!” Rachel stepped back and wrapped her arms around her middle. “What happened to him?”

  “… someone thought he was involved in the Floating Castle,” Chris said. “They… it’s all right. It’s fine. He’s fine.”

  “I thought that was all over!”

  “It is! It just…” This had all gotten entirely out of control. Gods, could he stop putting his foot in it for one bloody second? He only wanted to… he hadn’t meant… “Rachel, I’m sorry,” he said, stepping toward her and reaching out a hand. “I adore you, you need to know that. I’ve never felt this way for any woman.” The overly specific truth of the phrase pressed down on him like a weight. “I need to make sense of some things. I shouldn’t have said any of that, I—”

  Rachel spun away. “I don’t care,” she said. Her voice shook on the last syllable, but she thrust her head high as she hurried away in a flounce of lilac skirts. “I—I need to clear my head, Christopher! I’m going to see Francis. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me he was hurt.” And she turned as she walked, fixing him with a stony expression. “Don’t come after me.”

  He wanted more than anything to disobey. To hurry after her, wrap her up in his arms, and somehow magically make this all right. To just forget Will, how he’d hurt him. But stood still and watched her go, watched the strange, alp-powered bulbs Emilia Banks had strung pick up golden highlights in her hair as she walked away, into the downpour and the darkness.

  is bed didn’t even tempt him.

  Chris sat at the window and watched the rain lash the glass. He pressed his temple against the cool surface. Occasionally, he closed his eyes, trying to doze, but always his thoughts and anxieties and fears crowded in. Miss Banks was out there, somewhere, in danger. Rosemary was sneaking about the guest house. He had an amazing gift that flew in the face of Lowry gospel that only caused heartbreak when he used it. Will and Rachel now both had reason enough to be done with him. Maris Dawson was in pain. Doctor Livingstone would never truly be safe. Fernand’s family had loathed him. Someone had watched Roger Greene kill himself, and done nothing to stop it.

  It all mixed together, spiralling deeper. His parents were dead, Fernand was dead, everyone who he’d ever cared for was gone from his life, he was responsible for all of it. For Father and Mother, for Fernand, for Will, for Rachel, for Rosie. He’d smothered a friendship with Maris in the crib, he might never get a chance to find one with Miss Banks….

  There was only Olivia.

  And surely he’d end up like all her other assistants, eventually. Now that he knew all her secrets, about her mother, about her heritage, about Ollie… surely she had no use for him, now.

  Opening his eyes chased the demons away… at least for a little while.

  So he kept them open, barely daring to blink, and looked out over the orchard.

  As the night wore on, the rain began to let up. Its splashing on the window became less deluge and more shower. He could see the illumination of the moon through the clouds, one spot glowing faintly. He could pick out more of the orchard, the silhouettes of the apple trees, of the fairgrounds, of the towering pines and oaks in the forest beyond. He traced patterns in the white bu
lbs, finding constellations in Emilia’s masterwork.

  And then they all went out.

  Chris sat up straighter.

  Moments later, a new light appeared. It bobbed a perfect round ball of glowing orange, like an ember from the fireplace being borne along. The light threaded through the fairgrounds, disappearing under canopies and then emerging again, growing steadier in its direction as it moved.

  Chris stood up from the window. He may not have been a truthsniffer, but he could draw conclusions of his own when there was enough data.

  He grabbed his heaviest greatcoat, threw it on, and headed out into the hallway.

  Olivia’s door was locked.

  He knocked. “Olivia,” he hissed through the solid oak surface. “Olivia, are you there? Someone is in the orchard. I think they’re headed back toward the guest house.”

  No response. He knocked again, louder. Still nothing.

  Every room in this hallway was full. He was aware of every sleeping body, all the guests from the surrounding estates and farms and the town of Summergrove. He could hardly make a grand scene; they would all be turned out of their beds in minutes, swarming, wondering what had him so upset.

  He ground his teeth.

  There was no help for it. He closed his eyes, found his awareness of himself, and then, like a row of streetlights coming alive at dusk, slumbering presences flickered to light around him. Olivia was easy to find, straight ahead and burning as brightly as she did. He nudged against her, threaded himself through her, and tapped into his own sense of alarm.

  Wake up, he pushed onto her.

  The consciousness flickered. But only barely.

  He growled and knocked again. WAKE. UP, he tried with all his might, but this time, he felt nothing at all. Olivia slept on.

  He had half a second to make a decision. The light would be too far away to follow before long, and he had no guarantee that Olivia would respond to any further attempts to draw her up from bed. He clenched his jaw, threw himself back from her door, and flew down the stairs and out into the cold, wet night.