Not often did I meet someone who showed understanding towards my condition. A condition I tried to keep secret, but when I failed, people would call me names or suggest I go to an asylum. Never mind help.
“Darling.” He touched his temples. “He chose to steal.”
“We don’t know what happened to him.”
I regretted having shouted when the thief had taken Papa’s wallet. His mischievous feelings and sudden triumph had given him away, and I’d reacted on impulse. But I’d had no idea that Papa would have slammed him against the cobbles with such strength.
“We should listen to him first,” I said.
He sipped his tea, half hiding behind the cup. “How many people should I listen to today?”
“Oh, please.” I shot up and paced on the thick carpet. It’d been Mama’s favourite, as had the blue silk sofa and the pretty vases full of white daisies, and the painting of a stormy sea. “Mama would have agreed with me.”
Since I was a terrible diplomat, I might be a good blackmailer.
He put down the cup. The veil of indigo sadness crossing his aura made me regret my words. “Irene…”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I rushed to sit next to him and took his big hand in mine.
When I was a child, he would lift me with one hand while I squealed in delight as he made me swing up and down. Mama would laugh, too. Good feelings were easier to handle than sadness. Sadness had sneaked into her mind and taken residence there until she’d stopped caring for her life. When she’d caught the flu during the outbreak four years ago, the struggle to get better had been too great, and she’d let herself fade.
“You’re right.” He stared at Mama’s portrait on the mantel, his breathing changing subtly. His love for her glowed pink around him. “She would have taken care of the thief.”
The butler opened the door to let Dr. Fletcher in.
I sat upright. “How is the man?”
“He has a bump on his head that should heal in a few days,” Dr. Fletcher said. “His weak constitution is more worrying. The fellow needs a few good meals and rest.”
I exchanged a glance with Papa. “Can we see him now?”
Dr. Fletcher pushed his round glasses up his nose. “Of course.”
Since the young man had been unconscious when we’d brought him home, Papa had asked the footman to lay him in the library.
When we entered, the man was halfway through the window, his pitch-black hair ruffled by the wind. His aura was a pulsating deep purple halo, and his fear pinched my chest. I took a few deep breaths and tried to block my power.
“What are you doing?” Papa crossed the room with two long strides and grabbed the man by the jacket.
“Let me go!” He struggled, his spidery limbs moving this way and that.
As his shirt rode up his torso, it showed his ribs and a few dark bruises.
“Papa, be careful.”
Papa put him down, and the man straightened his jacket, scowling.
“We don’t want to hurt you.” I tried to sound as sweet as possible, but his expression remained pinched.
“You were fleeing.” Papa shut the window. “Without a word. Is this how you repay our generosity?”
“What generosity?” To be short and thin, he had a fierce look.
I was glad he didn’t mention my seizure or his help to use it for leverage.
“I can send for the police anytime.” Papa made the gesture of ringing the bell for the butler.
“What do you want?” He widened his stance as if preparing for a fight.
