The Importance of Being Emily

  “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.

  Frowning, I pulled my handkerchief from my purse and approached him. Mr. Gryphon moved to block me, and I nimbly dodged the hand he tried to place upon my arm.

  “He is dangerous,” he warned.

  “He is innocent,” I replied.

  “You can’t be certain of that.”

  “I am quite certain. He is not the man I saw in my vision. His hair is too red and not dark enough, and his clothing is different. And as I mentioned before, Miss Morgan called the man John, not Simon.” Stepping around him, I continued to the chronicler. “May I?” I nodded at the blood.

  “Please,” he said.

  The men watched me closely, as though they expected Mr. St. Jerome to snap his bonds and devour me like a sweet peach before anyone could intervene. Instead he continued to sit, serene and unaffected, as I dabbed at the sluggish trickle of blood. It looked wrong somehow, too dark, a reminder that he wasn’t quite normal. Unliving, as Michael would be in a few short months.

  For a moment I was gripped by the wild idea that I could lie, that I could tell Lord Willowbrook that Mr. St. Jerome was the killer. Michael would be safe and we could be together…but the idea of lying was abhorrent to me. I would tell the truth, no matter the consequences. The bleeding stopped and I stepped away.

  “Thank you,” he said politely.

  “So well mannered for a cold-blooded killer,” Mr. Gryphon disparaged.

  Michael cleared his throat. “I have never heard of a chronicler killing anyone, but I have heard of hundreds dying during sorcerer power struggles.”

  “You watch your tongue, whelp!” Mr. Gryphon threatened.

  “Control yourself,” Lord Willowbrook warned, but the younger man ignored him.

  “This man murdered my cousin. I don’t know why you are entertaining the fancies of this charlatan.”

  “Are you questioning my abilities?” I asked, deeply offended.

  “Yes. If you had any real power, you would not be wasting it playing at matchmaker.” Mr. Gryphon sneered at me, his words stinging like a slice through my skin, and I fought back the petty urge to shove my way into his thoughts to find something to embarrass him with. “Are we to trust her based on a few moments of a vision?” He spoke the word with derision, and I stood a bit straighter, my head held high.

  “Miss Wright was correct about the second bite mark,” Dr. Bennett said.

  “Anyone could have guessed that. How can we be certai
n she is telling the truth? Everyone knows she is fond of Mr. Black,” Mr. Gryphon argued. “She is only concerned with helping him, not with finding justice for Amelia.”

  “How dare you!” My hands clenched into fists at the insult. “If you knew anything about seers, then you would know that we are dedicated to seeking the truth. I would not lie for my father, and I have a lifetime’s worth of fondness for him,” I informed him archly.

  “That’s enough,” Lord Willowbrook interrupted. “Mr. Gryphon, because you are grieving I will excuse the insults to my guests, but I warn you not to do it again. I have faith in Miss Wright’s desire to determine the truth. We will proceed with the questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Gryphon replied reluctantly.

  I flexed my fingers and primly brushed at my skirt. “Thank you.”

  I glanced around the room for a second chair but did not see one. Instead I made my way to a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. “May I sit, please?” I asked Lord Willowbrook, and he nodded his permission.

  I perched atop the chest, smoothing my skirts and then primly folding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. This was my first practical attempt at determining truth. I had honed the skill reading my sisters’ auras, without their knowledge, in attempts to discover important truths such as who had eaten the last biscuit or borrowed my shawl without consent. The theory of spotting a lie was the same, though the subject matter was far more serious. I stared past Mr. St. Jerome, allowing my vision to shift, but when his aura appeared it was faint and anemic. The hues were washed out, bleeding into each other like watercolor paint. Confused, I turned to glance at Dr. Bennett and found his aura as strong and vibrant as it had been in the parlor.

  “Is something wrong?” Lord Willowbrook asked.

  “His aura is unique. I have not encountered anything like it before. I may need a few test questions to acclimate to reading it,” I informed him. “Yes or no questions are simplest.”

  Lord Willowbrook nodded. “Very well.” He paused, probably wondering what to ask, and then he began. “Is the year 1857?”

  “Yes.” Mr. St. Jerome sounded as weary and drained as his aura, and I felt sorry for him.

  “Are you a member of the Order of St. Jerome?”

  “Yes.”

  The energy remained steady for both answers, and I nodded my approval. “Perhaps a falsehood next?”

  Lord Willowbrook nodded again. “Is your name Simon St. Jerome?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  This time the energy flickered like a candle in a drafty room, and I frowned. I took it as the mark of a lie, but that did not make sense.

  “You were supposed to answer falsely,” Lord Willowbrook chided him.

  The chronicler sighed, and his aura flashed red with annoyance. “I did. It is not my true name.”

  “What is your true name?”

  Again his aura flashed with irritation, but he dutifully answered the question. “Lord Simon Augustus Wroth.”

  His aura blazed in recognition of his true name, and I nodded.

  “Were you acquainted with Miss Amelia Morgan?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Gryphon shook his head. “Unacceptable. He could have killed her without having been properly introduced.”

  “Did you kill her?” Lord Willowbrook asked.

  “No,” Mr. St. Jerome replied. His aura stayed steady and even, and I knew he spoke the truth.

  “That won’t suffice either. He could be convinced that she died of complications from the blood loss and consider himself blameless,” Mr. Gryphon said. “I will ask the questions. Have you fed this evening?”

  “Yes. From my apprentice,” he clarified. His aura did not change, but my heart skipped a beat at the admission. Of course I understood that such a thing was necessary, but my reaction was understandable after having seen Miss Morgan’s erotic bite. Surely not all bites were so…salacious.

  “Have you ever bled anyone to death?” Mr. Gryphon asked.

  Mr. St. Jerome hesitated, filled with an emotion I couldn’t identify. “Once.”

  “You see, I told you he was a murderer,” Mr. Gryphon exclaimed, but his triumph was short-lived.

  “Being drained to the point of death is part of the ritual to become a chronicler,” Mr. St. Jerome explained. “There is a chance that the apprentice can die as a result. I believe it is also required to become a master necromancer, though I am not familiar with their ritual.”

  “Does that happen often?” I asked, my voice strained. Fear iced my veins as the horrible realization that perhaps I hadn’t seen Michael’s transformation in my earlier storm of visions—perhaps I had seen his true death. I suddenly regretted my earlier decision not to lie about Mr. St. Jerome’s involvement.

  I shivered when Simon St. Jerome turned his attention to me. “Not often, but it is a risk. Do you have further questions, or have I satisfied you, Lord Willowbrook?”

  “It has to be him,” Mr. Gryphon argued. “Amelia’s blood was drained. No one else could have done it!” His outrage blazed so brightly that the outline of his body was burned into my vision, remaining a ghostly afterimage as I shielded my eyes with my hands. A hand touched my shoulder, and I felt Michael’s concern even as I tried to blink the pain away.

  “Obviously someone else did,” Michael countered. “You should be more concerned with finding that person before someone else is injured or killed. Anyone could be at risk.”

  “The killer is likely a newly turned master necromancer. Someone who has not yet learned to properly control the amount of blood he takes, or someone whose mind was damaged by the transformation,” Mr. St. Jerome said. “Such a person could be very dangerous.”

  Lord Willowbrook shook his head. “There are no necromancers of any variety in attendance, and no one could have passed the wards without an invitation.”

  “There are no necromancers that you know of,” the chronicler pointed out. “I did say newly turned. You may have invited him without knowledge of his change in condition.” The room fell silent, and I opened my eyes again to find Mr. St. Jerome watching me. “Could you recognize the aura of a master necromancer?”

  “I believe so. I have never seen one before, but I assume I could through process of elimination if I examined the other guests.”

  “How do we know it was not you?” Mr. Gryphon peered at Michael.

  “Me?” he said.

  “Mr. Black is still an apprentice,” his mentor replied.

  “You could be lying to protect him.”

  “But he has a librarian’s aura,” I said.

  Mr. Gryphon scowled. “You could also be lying to protect him.”

  “She isn’t, and even if she were, I have an alibi. We already established that I was speaking with Mr. Castle at the time,” Michael pointed out.

  “That is true.” Lord Willowbrook squared his shoulders. “Mr. Gryphon, you will accompany me to inform my men of the new development. We will begin searching the rooms, and Miss Wright will read the guests in the ballroom.”

  I frowned. “Surely he has fled by now.”

  “Are the carriages all accounted for?” Mr. St. Jerome asked.

  “Yes, as are all the horses.”

  “Then he is still in the house or on the grounds. He could not risk traveling by foot and being caught without shelter when the sun rises,” the chronicler explained. “He will look for somewhere to hide until sunset. Somewhere without windows most likely.”

  “Like your room, no doubt,” Mr. Gryphon muttered.

  “Sunlight bothers the young and the weak. It does not bother me,” Mr. St. Jerome replied archly.

  “We must focus on finding the killer as soon as possible,” Lord Willowbrook said.

  “Now, am I free to go?” Mr. St. Jerome asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Michael stepped forward to unbind his mentor, but the chronicler stood and the chair beneath him snapped like kindling. He brushed the ropes and wood away as easily
as he would a bit of dust, and everyone stared at him in stunned silence. “I would apologize for the chair, Lord Willowbrook, but your hospitality has been lacking.”

  “I understand,” he said slowly. With a strained nod he left the room, Mr. Gryphon close on his heels.

  “May I speak with you for a moment, Miss Wright?” Dr. Bennett asked.

  “Yes, of course.” I refused the hand he offered and rose on my own. “If you will excuse us.”

  “I would speak with you as well, after your word with the doctor,” the chronicler said. I nodded, though the idea made me nervous. Whatever Dr. Bennett wanted, I was sure that it would be easier to discuss than speaking with Mr. St. Jerome.

  Chapter Four

  Dr. Bennett and I walked slowly down the hallway toward the stairs. “As you may have guessed, I am visiting from the United States. England is only the first stop on my journey.”

  “Where else are you traveling?” I asked, curious.

  “I’m on a bit of a tour of Europe. I’ll be visiting Paris, Venice, Berlin and Vienna, to name a few cities.”

  “That sounds lovely.” I never understood why my family could be so enraptured by reading about faraway places without wanting to see them for themselves. I dreamed of seeing the world.

  “It promises to be quite an adventure. I must admit, I did not expect to meet a seer. I had almost thought you mythical.”

  “Not quite. I have never met another one of my kind. I believe the closest seer lives in Italy.”

  “You primarily use your abilities for matchmaking?”

  “Yes. Do you wish me to match you?”

  “No, thank you.” Dr. Bennett chuckled at the idea. “Do you find your work fulfilling?”

  I hesitated, considering my reply. In all honesty, I often found it stifling, but it would not be appropriate to admit that to a stranger. “There are aspects of it that are rewarding.”

  “As rewarding as bringing a killer to justice?”

  We paused at the top of the stairs, and I bit my bottom lip. “I suppose it depends on your point of view. There are those who would not see the value of finding happiness for others, but those I have matched value it greatly.”