The Importance of Being Emily (3 page)

“Oh my,” I whispered. I knew I should look away—it was the right thing to do—but I needed to get some idea of the man’s identity. Dark hair, the back of a dark vest, white shirt sleeves…

Miss Morgan moaned again and I jumped, but this time she breathed a name.
John.
I took another step back and bumped into the coffee table, and the vision ended. Thank the powers.

“Oh my,” I repeated. My face burned as though it was aflame.

“Are you unwell?” Dr. Bennett asked.

“I am fine. May I speak with you, please?” I stared down at the floor and the hem of my gown, and noticed that the undergarments I had seen in my vision were not there. Her lover—her killer—must have redressed Miss Morgan, perhaps in an attempt to hide their activities. John was a very common name, and there were at least a dozen men with it in attendance, perhaps more. It was a pity the man didn’t have a more unique moniker.

Worry creased my brow as I wondered if Mr. Farrell had left the ball to rendezvous with Miss Morgan instead of joining my father’s card game, but it only lasted a moment. Mr. Farrell might be a bit distant, but he couldn’t possibly be a necromancer, much less a master. I would have noticed the change in his disposition.

The doctor joined me, and I tugged my glove back on. “I believe,” I began, and then lowered my voice to a scandalized whisper. “I believe if you examine Miss Morgan again you will find a second set of bite marks. On her inner thigh.”

Dr. Bennett blinked at me as his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Are you certain? Her family will be upset if I examine her and you are mistaken.”

“Oh, I am not mistaken. I witnessed her in the midst of…a passionate embrace.” I was quite certain that my face was indeed on fire, and I expected to smell smoke, but I continued. “She appeared to know her killer very well.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, but I did not see his face. He was…otherwise occupied.”

“Ah. I understand.” Dr. Bennett nodded and glanced back at Mr. Gryphon, who was speaking in hushed, angry tones with Lord Willowbrook. “I will speak with Mr. Gryphon for his permission to perform a more thorough examination. Did she seem enthralled to you?”

I frowned. “Enthralled?”

“A blood drinker can weave a spell over his prey that clouds the person’s judgment and weakens their will to fight,” the doctor explained.

“A necromancer, you mean,” I corrected.

“Chroniclers can do it as well.”

“Why would one need to?”

Dr. Bennett chuckled. “You must come from a family of librarians.”

“Yes, why?” I asked, feeling insulted for some reason.

“Not everyone holds chroniclers in such high regard, Miss Wright. They do on occasion go rogue.” His expression was grim, and though I could scarcely believe him he seemed sincere.

“I see. I think I will take the air while you continue your investigation.” Flustered, I crossed to where the men stood glaring at each other near the parlor doors.

Lord Willowbrook turned toward me. “Did you find something?”

“I did, yes. Dr. Bennett should be able to confirm it,” I said.

“Did you see the murderer? Was it St. Jerome?” Mr. Gryphon asked.

I winced. “No, Miss Morgan called him John. I did not see his face, but I should be able to recognize him.” I hoped. More accurately I should be able to recognize the aura of a master necromancer, if he was still in attendance. “Have you checked that all the guests are still in attendance? The murderer may have already fled.”

“I believe so.” Lord Willowbrook nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have reinforced the wards around the estate, and I have men patrolling the grounds. We will find the culprit.”

“I am not convinced it wasn’t St. Jerome,” Mr. Gryphon said. “You may have misheard the name.”

“If I can speak with Mr. St. Jerome, I can confirm whether he is telling the truth.”

“I will take you to him.” Lord Willowbrook reached for the door, intending to lead me away, but I held a hand up.

“Wait! I would like to take the air in the garden first. That was very difficult for me.” I blushed, embarrassed to admit any weakness, but I needed a reprieve to clear my head before continuing.

“I will escort Miss Wright.” Mr. Black turned to me and offered his arm. “I can take you to Simon when you are ready.”

I hesitated, for Mr. Black was the very last person I wanted to be alone with at the moment, but I nodded reluctantly.

“Very well.” I kept my hands folded in front of me and swept from the room.

Chapter Three

The night air held a damp chill that was blessedly soothing after my skin had been seared by the bonfire of embarrassment. Though I knew I would regret not stopping for my wrap within a few minutes, I closed my eyes and enjoyed it. For a moment everything was cool, quiet and peaceful, and then Mr. Black interrupted my calm.

“What did you see?” he asked.

Sighing, I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “I would rather not discuss it. I assume it was not your mentor, but I cannot say for certain. I did not see his face.”

Not eager to continue the discussion, I walked deeper into the garden. Some of the braver plants had begun nosing their way from their beds, but for the most part the barren clutches of winter still gripped everything around us. The potential hummed beneath the surface, waiting impatiently for a few warm days to free it. In summer everything would be lush and green again, but for now bed after bed was empty.

Like the cradle.
An empty cradle for my empty life.

Shivering, I rubbed my arms above the tops of my gloves. Without a word Mr. Black removed his coat and draped it over my shoulders. It was warm, but it also carried a strong impression of him—his thirst for knowledge, his dedication to his studies and his loyalty to his mentor. The corners of my mouth twitched as I pictured him as a very tall Labrador dog. If only Mr. Farrell shared a few of Mr. Black’s honorable qualities.

“Thank you,” I said. He stood close to me, and I hesitated, torn between moving away and staying still to see what he intended.

“Simon would never do this,” he assured me.

“I believe you. Once I am able to prove that, we can focus on finding the true killer. With your tight schedule I’m sure you are anxious to return to your studies.” I winced, feeling guilty for my unkind words. It wasn’t his fault that his dreams for the future were so very different from mine. What could the higher powers be thinking by connecting us?

“I apologize for involving you in this.”

“Well it has certainly been revealing, but don’t be silly. I wanted to help you. Your mentor was not…acquainted with Miss Morgan, was he?”

“No, I don’t believe they ever met. Why?”

“That will be in his favor then. It appeared that she knew her…” I trailed off, searching for the right word, “…
companion
well.”

“Oh.” Mr. Black’s eyes widened at the implication.

“I shouldn’t have been so blithe earlier about being unconcerned about the subject matter of visions. But it was necessary to help vindicate your mentor.” I shrugged, and the hem of his coat rustled against the skirts of my gown. If I rejected Mr. Farrell, it was likely that the vision was the closest I would get to experiencing that sort of passion. Unbidden, my mind whispered that when Mr. Black became a chronicler, he could bite me, and I could feel the same lustful pleasure for myself…

I shook the thought away and hastily removed his coat. “We should go back inside,” I said as I returned it to him.

Michael shrugged the coat back on. “Wait. I want to discuss what you mentioned earlier.”

“There is nothing to discuss. In a few months you will be a chronicler, and I will still be a matchmaker. Our paths are star-crossed.” This time I held tight to my control, afraid of falling apart again, and I turned to walk back to the manor. He caught my hand and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. I gasped and shook my head.

“Please, don’t do this,” I whispered.

His lips hovered above mine. “Don’t you want to know?”

Yes.
Every fiber of my seer’s body wanted to know more. Why were we meant for each other? How could we possibly make this work? What would it be like to share his life? To finally know the happiness that I found so often for others? “But you are spoken for,” I blurted.

He frowned. “By whom?”

“The Order.”

Michael laughed. “The Order is not a jealous wife. There are no rules prohibiting relationships, or even marriage.”

“No? What sort of marriage could we have? Should I offer you a vein instead of bringing you tea, until I fade away while you remain unaging? Immortal?”

“But we would be together.”

I sighed, thinking of my family’s definition of togetherness—in general it involved them poring over an old, moldering text while I looked on in irritation. It was not what I wanted in a marriage, though I supposed at my age I could not afford to be particular. In December I would be twenty-seven years old, an age my sister Sarah assured me was positively ancient. “But I am spoken for.”

Mr. Black frowned. “You’ve accepted Farrell’s proposal?”

“No. Not yet, but I should.” Shaking my head once more, I began to pull away, but he stopped me with a kiss. At first it was little more than a stalling tactic, a light brush of the lips meant to distract me from escaping, but then he drew me tight against him. Michael’s hand slid up my back and cradled my head, his thumb caressing the line of my jaw. He kissed me again, and my hands clutched the lapels of his coat for balance.

I must confess, I had been kissed before, though that was many years ago. Most of the appeal of that kiss had been in sneaking away from the Yule celebration and doing something forbidden, but this…was amazing. Everything that I expected a kiss should be—warm, soft and completely intoxicating. Closing my eyes, I abandoned myself to the experience, and he seemed happy to lead as I slid my arms around his neck. In the back of my thoughts a voice of reason lectured the need for caution. Being close to him had already triggered a flurry of visions, and I should be wary of more of them. A strong vision could incapacitate me for hours, possibly even days if it was very traumatic.

Like a fool, I ignored it, even when I began hearing his thoughts. My senses brushed against his as easily as our lips did. I caught a flash of a memory of the two of us sharing a quiet moment together at a previous gathering, and the impression of how much he enjoyed speaking with me. Mr. Black thought I was beautiful, and he had wanted to kiss me for a very long time.

“Why didn’t you?” I murmured.

He quirked a brow. “Why didn’t I what?”

“Kiss me before now, if you wanted to,” I explained. He seemed confused, but then he blushed.

“I see you have recovered,” he said dryly.

“I apologize. My control is suffering this evening,” I explained in a rush. “It isn’t true, what they say about me. I can’t really read the thoughts of everyone around me. Reading thoughts is quite difficult, and in all truth I try to avoid it as much as possible. It is unsettling.” I watched his reaction closely, my stomach twisted into knots as I searched for signs of fear. Many magicians were afraid of me because they wrongfully assumed that I could read their inmost thoughts as clearly as though printed upon their faces. Mr. Black stepped away, but he seemed amused instead of upset, and I was grateful for it.

“I understand. We should return, before they send anyone to find us.”

“This doesn’t change matters between us,” I warned him. “A kiss hardly solves our problems.”

“Perhaps not, but I do know one thing.” Mr. Black offered me his arm, and I tilted my head as I looked up at him.

“What is that?”

“I would like to kiss you again, Miss Wright, when the opportunity arises.” He smiled, and I blushed.

“Emily,” I said, and his brow rose. “Please call me Emily. It pleased me when you did earlier.”

“Very well. You must call me Michael then.”

I nodded, blushing again as we walked away. The noise from the ballroom was still hushed when we returned to the house. There would be no more dancing this evening, only mourning. I hoped that the guests were safe in there and that a killer did not lurk among them. It was a large estate, and whoever he was, he could be hiding in any number of empty rooms or outlying buildings.

We proceeded up the stairs, and as we turned down a hallway we spotted two men guarding a door. They appeared more bored than alert, which did not bode well for the safety of anyone.

“Lord Willowbrook is expecting us,” Michael informed them.

I stepped into the room and was instantly stifled by the negative energy, like a thick cloud of smoke that stole all the air and stung my eyes and nose. Blinking rapidly, I tried to shut it out as best I could as I looked around the room. It was a guest bedroom, decorated in an elaborate floral motif—perhaps that was the source of the energy, for the wallpaper was truly hideous.

Mr. Gryphon paced back and forth beside the bed, wearing a path into the carpet that glowed with malice. Dr. Bennett and Lord Willowbrook stood next to the fireplace, and the lord’s arms were folded across his chest as he frowned down at a man bound to a chair.

My brow rose at the sight of the ropes. “Is that really necessary?” I was certain that if Simon St. Jerome had a mind to leave the room, it would take much more than rope to stop him.

“Yes. I can assure you that he is a murderer,” Mr. Gryphon growled. The venom in his voice startled me, and I tightened my grip on Michael’s arm.

“That is what we are about to determine,” Lord Willowbrook pointed out.

I peered at the chronicler, curious, for I had never met him before. Michael had made numerous mentions of his mentor, but he always seemed to be off speaking to someone else on mysterious business at the gatherings. Mr. St. Jerome was pale, his face framed with long auburn hair that was neatly tied back, and his light blue eyes regarded me with cool interest. He wore all black, from his cravat to his boots. Though he sat still and calm, blood trickled from the side of his mouth.

“You struck him?” I asked, horrified.

“Mr. Gryphon lost his temper,” Mr. St. Jerome explained.