“Now, Sinclair, I must offer a rebuttal to your comment for it was more that than a question, I believe. The basis of Aggie’s assumption was several initial impressions of your complete presentation, albeit mere glimpses in an almost dreamlike state. By no means would a true person of character judge or define another by glimpses and impressions alone. We are first, as you said yourself, products of our environment and experience.”
“I’ll grant you that point, sir, and ask you to pardon my generalization.” I salute him with my butter knife in hand and bow my head at Eddy. “Only, it would seem to me that there are very few true persons of character then, even after they’ve been given the opportunity to acquire one.”
“Quite,” Owen says with a twinkle in his eyes. His appreciative glance heightens the color on my face, and I’m at once thankful for the slow rumble of laughter that travels around the table. I turn away to see Archer watching Selene, who is watching Owen with interest. When my brother turns to look at me, I throw him a warning smile stretched across my teeth.
“And why is it you call River Sinclair, Mr. Carr?”
“For precautionary reasons entirely, Miss Bryce. A matter decided at our first encounter,” Owen explains, turning to me with a knowing grin. “When together we met with a rather unsavory character who mayhap intended her harm. I realized then that it would not do for me to slip in public. Thus, Sinclair. Maybe someday I will not have cause to fear such a bumble on my part, and ‘River’ will come to me as readily despite the situation.”
“Yes, but why Sinclair and not Saint Clair?” Selene clarifies, annunciating the difference. “I only ask because the question of the Sinclair family name as has come up before.”
“As you will have noticed, Miss Bryce, Owen has a distinctive way of speaking. Saint invariably comes out as Sint. And you are correct on the other point. Prior to Francis deciding otherwise, the family name was, in fact, Sinclair. Owen’s mother, Blanche, was a Sinclair prior to marrying my brother.”
“Ah,” Quinn says, “alternatively, we thought the records office made a mistake on Francis and Aurelia’s marriage license.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be sure which it was—whether the origin of St. Clair was by design or error.”
“I’ve meant to ask, Eddy, about your unusual gift. Owen mentioned earlier that you see clearer in India. It’s strange that your abilities should be heightened there.”
“Again, I cannot be sure of the cause, my dear. All Carr women have been able to see beyond the present to a certain degree. While I have always been peculiarly intuitive, before about twenty years ago, coinciding with our move to India, it had been a sort of spotty prescience at best. I believed the true gift had all but skipped me like it had my grandmother, who became rather mentally fragile instead at near about the same age I was when my abilities began to develop in earnest.”
“And ma’am, does the future strike you as odd? What do you think of it?”
“Ah, well, Miss Bryce, that I did not see. I haven’t an iota whence in time you’ve come. I am able to see into the future, but it is into the relatively near future, never more than a decade. In this case, my sight replayed the past, which I suppose is confusing, is it not?”
“Yes, it is,” Selene says with a short laugh.
“In June of last year, at the height of monsoon season, I began to dream in fragments of the evening of the Great Fire over and over, specifically in this house.” She casts a glance over her wine glass at her nephew from the corner of her eye, which, of course, I notice.
“Then your insights have to do with Perpetua—”
“Pardon, who?” Edwina crunches up her face in concern.
Allen supplies, “Quinn’s referring to the house.”
“A moniker for our purplish time machine,” I add.
“Oh. I see. Well, to answer your question if it was one—a time machine, that is—sir, I cannot rightly say. Most often, my visions were of River and her surroundings and oft from her vantage point. The only others of whom I glimpsed were your other brother and the elder Mr. St. Clair,” she says, wincing at the remembered images, giving me a sympathetic look, “and Mr. Hennessy, but again all from River’s perspective.”
“Wait. Really? I didn’t see Vale that night.” Under the table, Vale squeezes my hand, and I turn to him.
“Perhaps you were not aware of him or could not see him through the flames and smoke, my dear. But you were on the lawn, looking directly at him standing at the opening of the shattered front window of the salon.”
“You did look at me, River. But you didn’t see me. I could tell. You were with Martin. Do you remember?” I nod, and he proceeds, “If he never said anything, then it’s probably because I wasn’t visible, like Miss Carr said.”
I blink several times, trying to clear the smoke away in my thoughts. I can picture the scene so clearly, and still, he isn’t there. I clench his hand and let go when I realize Owen and Selene are watching us, both with measured expressions on their faces.
“Fascinating,” Quinn says absently, snapping my attention back to the other side of the table. He then adds, “That it would have been River to pique your abilities, Edwina.”
Archer’s focus is on Selene and Owen, however. What can he be brooding over now? I wonder.
“It is indeed uncanny,” Eddy says quietly, looking from me to Vale and back to me with a fond smile.
“She does not share our St. Clair genetics but rather a biological connection on mine and Archer’s mother’s side. You are not related biologically to the St. Clairs either, and yet, it is the St. Clair line that has brought us all together. It would seem then, that while your gifts are genetically passed down among the Carrs, they are not restricted thus.”
“Not all makes sense until it simply does, Mr. St. Clair.”
“Quinn.”
Edwina simply acknowledges my brother’s blunt directive with a nod. “I have long since decided not to question my visions, Quinn. I let them guide me as they will, and trust they are well-meant. For this time, they have led us to family we did not know we had. Nor would we have ever known of your existence as we live in India almost exclusively.”
“Well said, aunt.”
“And how long are you planning on remaining in Chicago?” Archer asks, directing his question across the table, a distinct edge to his tone. I narrow my eyes on my brother.
“We have left the family business in capable hands,” Edwina offers, “The exact timing—”
“As long as it takes,” Owen interrupts coolly, and it occurs to me that here is a man who’s not in the least intimidated by my big brother.
“For what?” I ask, volleying glances among my brother, Owen, and Eddy.
“Why, for us to become adequately acquainted, Sinclair,” he says with a mischievous grin.
Edwina dabs at her pursed lips with a napkin, and says, “What delight may we expect for dessert, Mr. Bryce?”
“Mango sorbet with Victoria sponge,” Allen says.
“You don’t say,” she remarks, her eyes widening. She taps her fingertips together in joyful anticipation. “It has not been possible for even the Queen to get her hands on a mango that has not gone rotten by the time it reaches England. However did your chef manage it?”
“Mrs. Cook reproduced the flavor rather, ma’am.”
At our end of the table, Owen begins, “Sinclair, Mr. Hennessy—”
“It’s Vale or Henry if you prefer.”
“Quite. Well, Sinclair, Vale, have you ever considered visiting the subcontinent?”
“I haven’t, but ever is still a ways away,” I answer.
“I have been there; however, not northern India. From what I’ve seen, it is a beautiful, surprising country. In ways so raw and untouched despite …” Vale says, “well, it is now, I imagine.”
“I agree. Try as some might to uphold them, all the pretenses must slip away there. How about you, Selene?”
“Sorry? I didn’t catch your quest
ion.”
“Have you been to India, or would you go?”
“I have not, but perhaps you’ve inspired me to visit one day.” Again, I take note of my brother’s pretended disinterest in our conversation. I now know that Archer is warm-blooded after all. His outer shell had undergone a considerable thaw this past year and a half, and it will be interesting to see what sort of person emerges when he’s been thoroughly defrosted.
As I lie in the middle of my bed, staring up at the elaborate oval medallion in the center of the ceiling, my eyes tracing the curlicues, my mind meanders over the past five hours.
Our esteemed guests stayed until just after eleven. Selene attempted to get away earlier, but when he learned she played the piano, Owen beseeched her to supply us with post-dinner musical entertainment. It didn’t take much convincing, and everyone was quite dazzled by her performance, including Archer—the rogue. Now, there’s one person who behaved very unlike himself tonight.
It was as though my usually stoic and decisive brother simply couldn’t make up his mind whether he approved of Selene getting better acquainted with Owen or he wanted to throttle Owen for paying such close attention to Selene. The glances Archer volleyed from me to Owen and Selene to Owen over the dinner table were more critical than approving I’d say. I rather think he was torn between which one of us to protect from his beautiful cousin/uncle, me or Selene. Apparently, he believes I’m at risk of being seduced. Or maybe he was protecting Vale?
Oh, Archer, what are we going to do about you?
But Eddy’s singing voice was a surprise, wasn’t it? Like a caress, lulling me to sleep. The perfect end to a very fine party.
I press the backs of my fingers against my cheeks; even now they are flushed from what I’m going to credit as our first successful social event with old and new friends. In truth, my feverish state has more to do with the frequent gazes of a certain pair of sea-green eyes on me all evening. I let myself believe this soft-focus moment and the feeling it gives me will last forever. But it’s not in me to exist in a haze of pipe dreams. And still, seeing Vale, knowing him and what this whole ordeal did to him, I feel the stirrings of forgiveness.
“Really, ‘can’t it just be over?’” I ask myself, repeating Vale’s question aloud just to hear it, make sense of it. For him, maybe comes the unbidden silent reply, and suddenly I’m beside myself with grief. My chest heaves as though trying to regurgitate the years of unspent sobs over him. Tears finally erupt and continue to fall for an immeasurable time. I eventually fall asleep, exhausted.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“RI-VERRR. RI-verr?” a voice beckons from afar. The echo approaches; it’s not quite as melodic as I’d thought. And the blackness shifts, growing fuzzy and gray. “River?”
“Hm?” I murmur. My eyelids are hard to open. “What is it? I was-I was, …” What was I doing? I can’t remember. It was nice, though. Or, no, it wasn’t. Finally, I blink through the haze. “What is it?” I ask again. “Something wrong?”
“Hell. Thank God.”
“That makes no sense, Archer. Oh, hi, Martin.”
“What your brother means t’say, St. Clair, is thanks to the Good Lord there’s a fiery pit specially made for some folk. Because whoever did this to you is goin’ there, sure ’nough, even if we have to see to it ourselves. Ain’t that right, inspector?” My friend crosses his thick forearms over his barrel chest.
I prop myself up on my elbows, and my head immediately begins to pound. I ignore it and take in the unfamiliar surroundings. I then squint at Martin and Archer suspiciously and look down at my waist-coated torso. “Did what to me? I’m fine. Though my—”
“Lay back down, River,” my brother says.
I do as I’m told but narrow my eyes on the two men again, which prompts a pang of pain to spear my temple. I wince. “Uh, Martin? Um, tell me I’m dreaming. And you, Archer, how about you stop referring to me as a body of water?” I ask through gritted teeth, which makes my skull feel as though it’s been wedged in a vice.
“That ain’t the way of it, I’m afraid, St. Clair. You ain’t dreamin’. I found you in the alley out back, just like before,” Martin says, shrugging.
“River, do you remember what happened?”
“Damn it, Archer. Why can’t you follow the simplest instructions?” I rise to my elbows again.
“There she is!”
“She?”
“Doggone it, St. Clair, you’re makin’ a habit of passin’ out in my alley, and I don’t like it one bit. Better there than someplace else, I suppose,” Martin says, rubbing his chin.
“Someone hit you on the side of the head, River,” Archer supplies and adds when I glare at him, “Relax. Martin knows. He’s known since he carried you to the hospital after you’d been attacked the first time.”
“Actually, inspector, t’weren’t right then that I put two and two together but ’twas soon after that. I knocked on your door, remember? I came to tell you about your relation, and you said you didn’t know a ‘young master St. Clair.’” He turns. “And since then I ain’t called you Reid, now have I, St. Clair?”
“Christ,” I mumble.
“Though I have to admit, your engagement to—Miss Bryce, was it?—had me befuddled for a quick minute. Sometimes, I haven’t a clue what you could be thinkin’. Weddin’ your maid, indeed.” He scoffs a disbelieving laugh. “Aye, t’were an odd turn of events t’ be sure.”
I drop back on the hard bolster behind my head with some force this time. “Ugh.” Reaching back, I find my pillow is really a burlap sack probably filled with buckwheat.
“Careful now, mind your head. You were walloped pretty good. An’, don’t you worry. My lips are sealed. I wouldn’t ever do anythin’ that’d cause harm to come your way, eh? Like I said,” he vows, making a wide crisscross over the center of his chest.
“Martin, what can I say, you’ve been … you amaze me. You’ve rescued me three times now. I’m going to have to start paying you. Or Archer’ll pay you. His salary is bigger than mine.”
“Inspector, this bit of rough an’ tumble has loosened the doc’s marbles,” Martin says, chuckling. “Though she can spare ‘em; St. Clair’s got more than most.”
“Mm, heartwarming as this is, do you or don’t you remember what happened, River?” Archer asks.
“Uh, let me think. Today’s Saturday?”
“That it is.”
“Okay, then … it was a slow morning, so I thought I’d visit Martin,” I say to Archer and then Martin, “I’d told you I would come by Thursday, didn’t I?”
“That’s right, you did.”
“But it had been a crazy week, and although I could have come sooner, I wasn’t up for it, to tell the truth. Uh, I guess that’s all I recollect. But I haven’t lost my memory, I don’t think—if that’s what you’re worried about, Archer.”
“Good.”
“Oh, wait. I do remember a little more. This morning, the usual stuff. Then leaving the Station around lunchtime. And then my walk to Lucky’s. Yep, everything until the point I was crossing Indiana, looking down the mouth of the alley. That’s where my mind goes blank.”
“You’re wary of alleys. It makes no sense that you would have ventured down one by yourself. Have you ever gone into Lucky’s through the back entrance?”
“No.”
“Then someone must have gotten to you at the street just there and dragged your body behind the bar.”
“By the looks of it, ’twas as you say, inspector. St. Clair’s trousers are filthy and torn.”
“You know what? I think this is Bert Harris’s doing. … Last time I saw him was on Tuesday, in front of Lucky’s. Owen Carr interrupted that interview but not before Harris asked me to ‘lift the curse,’” I say with air quotes, my eyelids starting to feel heavy again. “Yeah, uh, he said ‘you’ll lift the curse’ as though he wasn’t really asking even though he also said, ‘I’m asking nicely.’ Anyway, then his pal, Reggie Marsh, died.”
“Well, ain’t that somethin’? You are gifted, St. Clair, I’ll grant you that. Here, let’s get you sittin’ up, eh?” He slides an arm under me, and I clamp my hands around his forearm and let him pull me up, cringing when Archer also helps me lower my feet to the floor.
Situating the bolster gently behind my back, Martin asks, “There now, how’s that?”
“Fine, thanks. But the way Bert went about it, Archer, would suggest he didn’t want to kill me, just warn me. Because he left me where Martin was sure to find me, didn’t he? And he needs me alive to de-cursify him.”
“What an ass. I think it’s about time he and my fist had a little one-on-one,” Archer says gently, looking at me with open concern.
“Not if he were to meet with my mitts first, inspector,” Martin says, standing over us, rubbing his knuckles.
“Now now, meatheads,” I tease, though I appreciate their protectiveness. “When I see him next, it’s likely he’ll either be on my slab, or I’ll have the opportunity of telling him again …” I long to fold up like an accordion and tip back over. Pulling up my legs, I groan at the dull ache down the lower half of my backside. At least nothing felt outright broken. Resting my forehead in the divot between my knees, I mumble, “I-I am but a messenger.”
“What?” Archer asks.
“Hm?” I crank my head up, which seems hinged all of a sudden. “Oh, right. I get to tell him … I told him that Mother Nature and the Grim Reaper are out for him, and he’s not long for this whirl-world. Remember?” Is the room spinning?
“I’m going to call a cab to take you home, River.”
“Cope-copa … okay,” I murmur as I’m about to pass out.
“River, you have to stay awake.”
“Yes, s-sir.” I hoist an unenthusiastic salute to my brow, and my eyelids flicker and descend.
“So I take it you don’t want me to call for a doctor, inspector?” I hear Martin ask from some somewhere in my subconscious.
“No, just make sure she stays awake for now,” my brother says. “Quinn will look after her.”
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