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box, he took a pinch. Sneezed once. Twice. “What’s that? Not your colonel?” As if he hadn’t heard anything she’d said after. “Well, you know best, Morgana girl. You know best.” He blew his nose with a great honking snort. “Probably just as well considering.”
That caught her attention.
“Considering what? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hmm? What’s what supposed to mean?”
Morgan just shook her head. Pinning Uncle Owen down was akin to nailing jelly to the wall. Best to let him follow his own train of thought to whatever end.
Stuffing his handkerchief back into his waistcoat pocket, he stood. Gave a thoughtful rub of his chin. “Here, I have something that might help. If I can find it.”
They’d made some headway in cleaning away the worst of the mess, but it would take an army of servants to restore the Delvish library to its former glory.
Instead of moving to the shelves, Uncle Owen crossed the room to a locked chest. Removed a ring of keys from a peg beside it. Fitted the largest into the rusty lock. Lifted the lid with a groan of hinges.
“I’m surprised Doran and his thieves didn’t bother that old trunk.”
He rummaged inside the trunk, his voice echoing. “Didn’t need to. They’d found what they were looking for.” Straightening, success lighting his features, he waved a leather-bound book over his head. “Aha! Knew it was here.”
“What is it?”
“A copy, my girl. A more recent version. Not as extensive in footnotes and sources, but still invaluable.” He set the book on the table in front of her. “Found it in an estate sale in Dublin last year.”
Morgan ran her hand over the warped cover. Leafed through the furred edges and water-stained pages. Some stuck together. Others hopelessly illegible. “Unless it tells me how to track Doran or how to combat Neuvarvaan, it’s not going to be much use.” Disappointed, she closed the book. Pushed it back across the table toward Uncle Owen.
He pushed it back. “Keep it. A gift to my favorite goddaughter.”
“But—”
He laid a fatherly hand upon her shoulder. “A piece of advice, Morgan, from an old, broken-down fortune-teller. Not even the wisest of the prophets know for certain what the future holds. We see possibilities. Probabilities. Of both past and future. From this we can deduce the most logical path, but nothing is writ in stone. Nothing is immutable. You may be wrong about the young man.”
Leave it to Uncle Owen to cut to the crux of things with the delicacy of a pickax. He meant well, but it was a conversation she didn’t want to have. Not when her emotions were as jumbled as the room around her. She sought to end it. Quick. “Cam and I live in different worlds, Uncle Owen. Our paths—logical or not—aren’t meant to cross.” She hoped her tone said, Leave it alone. But in a tactful, respect-your-elders way.
Uncle Owen ignored it. He took her chin in hand. Tilted her face to his just as if she were four and not four and twenty. His eyes, a lightning flicker mix of brown and green, trapped hers. Carried her into his vision. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror. And every one an image of Cam. Of her. A million futures. One past. His words sounded like a drum in her skull. “To be a great seer, you must never discount the messiness that is the human heart.”
A door opened. “Things are still muddled in the kitchens, but I’ve found cold ham and bread. Some soup.”
Startled, Uncle Owen swung around to Cam.
The connection severed, Morgan dropped her gaze. Focused on the wood grain of the table. A frayed corner of the book. Anything to keep her thoughts from what she’d seen. How she felt.
Cam looked from one to the other, his face questioning. “Did I miss something?”
She tried to play it off. Tossed him a smile. “Not much.”
And knew Cam knew she was lying.
Morgan woke to the shink of curtain rings being pulled open and silver light falling across her bed, her face. Instinct had her reaching for her knife even before she’d come fully into consciousness. But then the dark form outlined against the window moved, and she relaxed back against the pillows.
“Did I frighten the spell-wielding Amazon Morgan Bligh? I hadn’t thought it possible.”
His words fell as harsh as his expression, revealed as he stepped out of the shadows and the same moon-glow that had roused her fell upon him. More telling still was the sour whiskey scent clinging to his clothes as if he’d spilled on himself and hadn’t bothered to change.
“You’re drunk,” she answered swiftly. “Again.”
“I wish I were.” With one hand, Cam clung to her bedpost. With the other, he plowed a hand through his hair. “In fact, I’m feeling extremely clearheaded. For the first time in months. In years, even.”
She pushed herself up against the headboard, her stomach knotting at the cruel slice of his words. She didn’t like where this was going. Understood it less. What had happened to make Cam drop into the self-destructive behavior of their early days together? “Then you can explain yourself.”
