Page 6 of Bloodlines and Birthright

We returned to the drawing room to see Willie had arrived. She stood behind the sofa and watched Miss Glass teach Gabriel a hand clapping game as he sat between her and his mother. Both India and Willie looked on with somewhat sad, wistful gazes at the elderly woman taking on a childlike quality as she played with her great nephew. Usually rather prim and stiff, it was sweet to see her engaging with the child, but knowing it was a result of her mind failing took some of the shine off the scene.

Matt picked up a letter from the sideboard and handed it to Willie. “It’s from Duke.”

She snatched it and began to read. “It’s about time he wrote.”

Miss Glass sighed. “Time is of the essence. Tell Duke to seize the day.”

“You should write to him and tell him yourself, Letty,” Willie said.

“Why would I write to Duke? He lives upstairs.”

“He moved back to America last year.”

“Oh? Why didn’t he say goodbye?”

“He did. You just forgot.”

“I did, didn’t I? I’m a little forgetful these days.”

India picked up Gabriel and placed him on her lap. She patted the space beside her. “Won’t you sit down and read it here, Willie?

“Yes, Willie,” Oscar chimed in. “You should sit down.”

She lifted her gaze from the letter long enough to glare at him before resuming reading.

Matt crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at Oscar then at his cousin.

Sensing his gaze, Willie folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket. “I’ll read it later.”

“We should be going,” Oscar said. “Walk us to the door, Willie?”

We said final farewells to Matt, India and Miss Glass, and ruffled Gabriel’s thatch of thick dark hair, before leaving. Willie led the way, eager for us to go, perhaps so she could read her letter from her dear friend.

Once we were out of earshot of the others, Oscar turned to her. “Will you consider letting me see the tattoo upon our return? I want to speak the spell into it directly to give it the best chance of working.”

“You’ve got to get the book with the spell first. It might not be at the abbey anymore.”

That was a very real possibility. Ever positive, Oscar merely shrugged off the concern. “So, will you tell us what you got tattooed on your arse?”

“No.”

“Is it the American flag?”

“No.”

“A love symbol?”

She screwed up her face as she opened the front door. “Goodbye, Barratt. Try not to get shot by anarchists while you’re gone.”

I gasped.

“Or if just one of you gets shot,” she went on, “make sure it’s you and not the professor. I like him better.” She ushered us outside and shut the door in our faces.

Oscar laughed. “Do you think that’s her way of flirting?”

“With me or you?”

“Both?”