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After Margaret and I finished our dinner, we browbeat Della into sitting at the table. Rafe was nowhere to be found, but Margaret served her some of the chipped beef and I made a mess of the dishes. Once Della was settled, Margaret elbowed me out of the way and took over the clean-up.
I was left to my own devices.
The rain had stopped, the clouds rolling back far enough to let some moonlight through. I put on my coat and hat and wandered down to the beach. I should be looking for the Ferox Cor, but it seemed we’d exhausted our possibilities. For now.
The tide was out, the moonlight casting a gloss over the rocky sand. There was a dim light in Rafe’s workroom, and though I tried to ignore it, inevitably my steps headed in that direction.
I cupped my hands on either side of my eyes, cutting the moon’s glare. The figure within was indistinct, a silhouette in motion. He made quick, repetitive movements, polishing or sanding an object in his hands.
After several minutes the motion jerked to a halt. A muttered curse, barely heard, brought my hand to the door. I turned the handle. Locked. Acknowledging that this was likely a mistake, I knocked.
The cursing grew louder and more plain. “What the devil do you want?”
Rafe jerked the door open, causing me to stumble.What did I want? More than Rafe could likely give. “I asked your mother about the people we’d be meeting tomorrow, and she mentioned a Mrs. Morrison.”
“So?”
“Your mother says the woman is a psychic.”
“I’m aware of her skill.”
“So unless you want your secrets spread across the town before nightfall, you should be prepared to deal with her. I, for one, don’t want my thoughts snatched by a stranger.”
He exhaled, an exercise in frustration, and for a moment I thought he would slam the door in my face.
He didn’t.
“Come in,” he said, holding the door so I could pass.
I confess I hesitated, uncertain I wanted to be in such a small space with a volatile man. I’d been there once.
As if irritated by my hesitation, he stormed out of the workroom, damn near knocking me over. He slammed the door. I spun around to face him. “Do you know anything about her?”
He was halfway to the corner when he paused. “Yes. I know she can read minds, and I know that I can put up shields to prevent her from reading mine. I also know”—he hesitated, as if he already regretted what he was about to say—“that if you stand close enough, I can shield you, too.”
With that, he disappeared around the corner of the workshop. I stayed put, wondering whether he’d given me a glimpse of his softer side.
Or whether I’d imagined it.
“Hey,” I said, jogging to catch up with him. “Thanks. What happened to the thing you were working on?”
He kept his back to me. “It broke.”
The defeat in his voice landed like a blow. I wanted to ask him why or how, but he went into the tower and shut the door. Since I’d already intruded on him once, I didn’t want to push my luck.
Instead, I reminded myself that he was grieving and went back to the beach. The steady pulse of the waves calmed me. My mind settled, and I gave the situation some thought. From what Della had said, Oliver Stevenson’s main power was his ego. I should be able to cajole him with flattery and a few well-placed mentions of the Congress and Madam Munro.
The others, except for Mrs. Morrison, should be manageable as well. As far as the psychic was concerned, I’d stay close to Rafe, and hope that his shields worked.
And that his proximity didn’t produce any of the kind of thoughts that could get me in trouble.
Chapter Nine
In the morning, Margaret met me in the kitchen with a gloriously warm mug of coffee.
“Thank you.”
“Are you ready for today?”
