She worried at her lower lip and nodded and before I could censor my actions, I stroked my tongue over the faint bite mark and kissed my mentor, my teacher, the Mistress of Needles.
My Demesne.
Time stood still and for the first time in my life, I completely understood that oft repeated truism. My objective side approved its veracity.
My inner romantic was a swooning goner.
Chapter 9
I arched the full length of my torso into the heat of Bas’s embrace. His warm, strong arms held me tight. A third hand, slipping wispy and cool down the side of my arm, snapped me back to the reality of what was happening beyond the necromancer’s unexpected kiss. I broke away and swatted at the air behind me.
Bas looked alarmed, searching my face for direction.
“Moira’s still here,” I whispered, taking his cheeks in my hands. “I promise we’ll talk to my parents, and Malvyn and James, and insist they give us more details about the Demesne before we take another step. I’ll use magic to compel them to answer truthfully if I have to.”
“Then let’s get dressed and find your sister’s ghost.” Bas gripped my hips and peeled me away from his chest.
I shivered. I didn’t want to go. My quaking knees knocked his legs on the way down. Bas steadied me as he turned on the bedside lamp, then leaned over the mattress. “I’m going to need to know more about her,” he said, straightening, “about her skills and what kind of magic she practiced. What was it Berto said when he surprised us, something about finishing the work Moira started?”
“My sister was a witch and a Binder. Individuals petitioned her for help finding their soul mate, their love match, their—” I shrugged and hugged myself. The shivers skating across my body were swinging me back and forth between the joyful possibility of raising my sister, to the sorrow emanating from her invisible presence.
“Their anam cara? Even their possible Demesne?” Bas finished.
I nodded, adding, “The problem is, Berto can’t find Moira’s workplace. We thought it was in her shop in Massachusetts, but if it is, no one’s been able to figure out how to access it. And without that access, all of her clients with outstanding love-matches are in limbo. Love limbo.”
Bas sighed. “The supplies I need are in my room, but I don’t want to leave you alone or leave this here,” he said, gesturing to the bed. “Get dressed. I’ll remove the curtain and the bedsheet and we’ll go to my quarters to get the rest.”
My magic took a heavy toll on my body, even when I wasn’t actively working. I hadn’t had enough to eat or drink at dinner and my muscle mass was shrinking at the lack of nutrients. The stretchy leggings I chose bagged at my knees. I rolled the waistband, pulled a cashmere V-neck sweater over my head, and slipped my feet into ballet flats. Bas passed through the dressing area carrying a voluminous load of white fabric. He’d left his shirt unbuttoned and wasn’t wearing his slacks. “We need to hurry,” he said, striding toward the main door. “The ghost became extremely agitated as I was removing the curtain.”
Bas’s bared legs urged me forward. I’d have to quicken my pace to keep up with the length of his stride. First, I had to locate the box of sewing needles and threads I kept at the ready for emergency situations.
“Do you think she’s been living in my room?” I asked. I would have felt if she had. Or so I desperately wished. Moira’s death certificate stated she died of natural causes. Malvyn and I weren’t convinced that was the case, but without her clients’ records—or her ghost—my brother and I were at a loss.
A quiet sob threatened to rattle the front of my ribs. I pressed my palm to the cashmere and rubbed my chest until the urge to cry passed.
“I don’t think so, but my curiosity is piqued by her choice to appear now, when her husband is also in the house.” He waited for me to catch up and offered me his elbow. I tucked myself against his side willingly. “Do you have anything of your sister’s? Something she would have worn or used that would carry her after-presence?”
“I wore one of her needles tonight, and there’s a small shrine to her in a niche in the larger hallway.”
“Let’s go there first.”
Sections of Mictlantecuhtli’s blocky torso grated stone against stone as we paused diagonally across the hall. I ignored the god’s gravelly stirrings and swept my gaze over an octagonal, black lacquered table.
Diego refreshed the family altars daily. Beeswax candles and seasonal flowers were arrayed alongside an assortment of my sister’s favorite foods and libations. One of the necklaces Moira had frequently worn draped the corner of her black-and-white portrait. Placed in front of the ornately carved frame was her first sewing kit, child-sized and lovingly used throughout her life.
“There,” I said, pointing to the oval box of tightly wrapped torote fibers. When we were younger, my sister and I were gifted the lidded baskets by our maternal grandmother. Mine was topped with a piece of heavy cotton dyed with Mexican indigo. The lid of Moira’s was covered in brown dupioni silk, tufted around a center button carved from mother-of-pearl.
I tucked my oblong box of needles under one arm. My hand shook as I held the basket and wiggled the fragile loop free. Opening Momo’s little sewing kit meant opening myself to childhood memories I preferred to keep folded in perfumed paper and tied with velvet ribbon.
Inside, every object I thought should be there was intact. I angled the basket for Bas’s perusal. “See those little scissors? She used them even though they pinched her fingers. The engraved thimbles too. My sister was extremely sentimental.”
Alabastair nodded his approval. “Bring the kit to my room. And the ring.”
“What ring?” I asked. The
