“What’s a nice girl like you doing out here all alone?” heasks.
I remove my concealing spectacles, tuck them into a cloakpocket, and smile. Waiting for you, Tom Craddock. Or have you forgotten?
Never, love. The words float through my mind. Howcould I?
Every Visionary needs an Interpreter, and Thomas FearcharCraddock is mine. He is a gifted telepath and helps me analyze my dreams. Tomalso teaches me about the sighted world by sharing pictures of his memorieswith my mind. This is how I know he has black hair and matching eyes. How Iidentify shades of color, symmetry, and visual beauty.
His father’s people come from Scotland, and while there is nota drop of their Highlander blood in my veins, Tom and I are two halves of awhole. Since childhood, we have communicated with each other through clairvoyantthought—often using Latin, a language we’ve never studied yet still understand.The side-effect of our ties to ancient Rome, I suppose.
Iam invenisti me, Thomas. It took you long enough to gethere.
Tom laughs, the happy sound filling the conservatory.Paenitet me fuisse serus. How shall I make amends?
He lifts my hand and touches the lucky pebbles. “Worried aboutsomething, love? What happened?”
Putting the pebbles in my pocket, I smile at Tom. My distress overmeeting Mary Arden burns away like dew in August, and I feel safe once more.Valued, loved. I am not the odd town’s town oddity when we are together. Mygloves warm from the outside as I touch his face. Strong cheekbones and jaw.Poetic brow. The full lips curve into a smile.
Kiss me, Hettie. I’ve missed you.
Salve, Temptatio.
Tom smells of the dried alfalfa he feeds to his livestock. Hepulls me close, inside the lapels of his cowboy coat—a long, leather duster—andhis arms and shoulders are work-hardened and muscular. I never have bad visionswhen I touch Tom. He cradles my head in his hands as though I am a delicatetreasure. I marvel that such a rough and tumble man of action who wranglescattle and runs a ranch can be so gentle.
Beginning slowly, Tom kisses my forehead, temple and cheek,working his way to my mouth, where he lingers for quite some time. I pull back,wishing that I could shout, make some assertion of my happiness for the worldto hear. What would I say to equal the joy in my heart? Would it provoke thegods to wrath? They can be jealous, it’s said.
The thought of the immortals sobers me. We have Visionary businessto attend to, and we’ve put it off long enough. Incipiemus?
Tom releases me with a sigh. I suppose we must, Hettie.
I sense his feelings, the longing and physical attraction,inhale their scent as we separate. Rich and deep, like the finest cocoa withjust a hint of chili powder. My favorite.
Tom claims a creaky wooden chair and provides me with a seat onhis knee like Father Christmas. Smiling, I touch the rumpled material of hisshirt, and tug at the thick lock of hair that always falls into his eyes when heleans forward. He unbuttons my glove like a man of leisure, gently taking histime and drawing out the process of removing it, as though nothing dark or evilawaits us in the moments ahead.
First I tell him of Mary Arden’s visit, and I feel his surpriseover the message she delivered. Any sense of whether she’s telling thetruth, Hettie?
No. I couldn’t read much through olfaction or voice. Is iteven credible, that the heir of Archimendax lives in Stonehenge?
We’re here, aren’t we? Who’s to say there aren’t more withsupernatural gifts? Let’s assume the threat is real, for now, and use extracaution where you’re concerned.
Tom switches to audible speech. “I take it you’ve had anothervision. Was it bad, love? Are you all right?”
My Interpreter has this habit of changing from telepathy to thespoken word. It’s a breach of etiquette among clairvoyants, and technicallyagainst the rules. I let it slide because it’s Tom.
Since I receive the visions through physical contact with avictim or perpetrator, I must also use touch to share the revelations. Tom cansee them in no other way. Counter-balancing my skills, he shares his own memoriesthrough our psychic link at any time, over great distances. We clasp hands, andI show Tom the All Hallows vision several times. The Cornishwoman’s blackmailattempt, the murderer throwing her off the mountainside.
He considers the crime scene, hoping to identify the location. “Isaw something white behind those cedars. What do you suppose it is?”
After reviewing the scene again, I notice the blur of white. Snowdrift, maybe?
“Not with columbine growing all over the place. Must be June orthereabouts. The weather’s still cool then, but not enough for snow.”
What if it’s a house?
“Not many settlers in the mountains anymore, but it might be abuilding of some kind.”
Ruminating, he plays with the fringe on my shawl. “According tothe vision, the killer wears an expensive suit and a fur trimmed coat. Yet whenhe was with you in the gazebo on Halloween, he stubbs out his cigar and takesthe unused portion with him. The man’s either very frugal orunaccustomed to wealth. I’m betting it’s the latter since most frugal men don’town fur coats.”
Tom drops the fringe and picks up my sash, probably unawarethat he is even holding it. “Victim’s thin, her clothing patched. Most likelyunmarried, too. No ring.”
Notice her hands? They’re red, almost raw.
“My mother’s look like that when they’ve been in hot water andlye. Perhaps our lady was employed as a laundress.”
You didn’t recognize the killer?
“Nope, but now that I’ve seen his face, I won’t forget it. I’llkeep an eye out; ask around about a woman matching the victim’s description. Rancher’swives love to gossip.”
I sigh and nestle closer to him. If only Freckles could tellus her name or identify the man who killed her. But you know ghosts. They hatethinking about their past lives.
He switches seamlessly into telepathic mode. Who’d want toremember how they were murdered? With trauma too horrible to relive, the spiritsuppresses the memory.
Can’t move on, can’t remain here either. Believe me,
