She spoke so easily of her extra sense—as if everyone understood her ability.
“Not exactly an object one wishes to touch then. How did you learn what each emotion smells like?” His stick hit a hard object, and he dug deeper, suppressing any excitement.
“Trial and error mostly. Children learn easily, so perhaps it was like learning the differences in word sounds.”
A lesson he had thankfully missed. He couldn’t imagine going through life sorting out the complicated feelings of the many people around him.
“Isolation probably helped,” he concluded. “It must be easier to sort and study when there are only a few familiar faces about instead of hordes.”
“I’ve never given it much thought, but you might be right. The scent is stronger now. Do you feel anything?”
He thought for a second she was referencing his peculiar ability, but then realized she meant his digging.
In fact—he did feel the object, as he often did when an artifact called to him. He simply thought of it as an object speaking to him in the same way an artist might say a subject spoke to him.
Not the same, the soldier protested.
Gerard refused to argue with a voice in his head. That way lay insanity.
He uncovered filth-encrusted metal. Producing a penknife from his pocket, he pried around the edges until it loosened. “Possibly a knife,” he concluded. “I think I see insignia beneath the dirt.”
“Kitchen knife or long ago murder weapon?” she asked, as if he’d know.
And he did know, the instant he pried the blade from the clay and held it in his bare palm. “Someone’s prized dagger, reluctantly buried after an unfortunate fight.”
He regretted his observation the instant he uttered it.
Eighteen
As if just seeing him, Iona regarded Gerard with shock. “You have a gift. Or you’re a very good storyteller. But I don’t smell the lie on you.”
Cursing himself, still shaken by his reaction to the dagger, he handed her the filthy object. The tip of the blade had broken. “I doubt it’s precious metal,” he said dismissively, attempting to brush aside the incident.
“You’re only interested in the monetary value?” Disturbed by his reply, she didn’t appear to notice that he hadn’t answered her observation.
“That would be practical,” he agreed. “But no. I’m interested in the history. We could take it to someone knowledgeable, but what would be the point?”
She scraped at the dirt-embedded insignia with a hatpin. “We’ll never know the history if you can’t read more. I wonder how long ago it happened?”
Knowing better than to expose himself this way, but challenged by her question, Gerard removed the medallion from his pocket. He set it aside so as not to have two nags in his head and took the dagger back. His mind sought an inner voice as he’d learned to do as a curious child.
He had the vague sensation of rude curses but not an actual voice. “Medieval, like the tenement,” he guessed, hoping that sounded as if he could identify the hilt by its looks, which he couldn’t.
She reached for the object, and for a moment, both their hands gripped it.
A violent, dimly-lit scene struck him. A whirlwind of anger, betrayal, and pain swept through his head, followed by the slicing of flesh, a cry of anguish, and a wave of terror.
Iona dropped the knife and backed away. “Did you feel that?”
He flung the knife back in its hole and picked up his more sensible medallion to steady himself. The old soldier grunted in his head. Gerard refused to interpret grunts.
Iona snatched up the knife and shoved it in her waistband beneath her bodice.
Bolting down his anger at exposing her to that sordid scene, unable to deny what they experienced, Gerard took her elbow and steered her from the debris. “That’s not edifying history. That’s human nature at its lowest.”
She shifted her straw bag, lifted her too-short skirt, and let him support her across the rocky lot. “That’s never happened to me before. You are gifted. How does that work? Do you always feel things on objects?”
Gerard cursed his wayward tongue and her Malcolm curiosity. “Until this moment, I have never seen things on objects. Let us find the carriage and return to the house for luncheon, like sensible people. I’ll send a messenger to your flat to see if any mail has arrived, although I can assure you that the queen hasn’t replied. Your letter is still sitting on some underling’s desk.”
She refused to be distracted. “I had an odd sensation of a knife fight and all the dark emotions one might feel at such a time. It was no cold-blooded murder. Smell was only a small part of the feeling, so I’m assuming the rest was you? You made me feel the scene?”
“Odd things happen occasionally,” he muttered, hurrying her down the street with only a wave to the others. “There is no profit in them.”
She shook her arm free and responded irately. “Our gifts are meant to be used to help others, not to profit from them. Did your mother not teach you better?”
“She knows nothing of it, and I’d thank you to not mention it. I have quite enough to do without having people shove their prized possessions into my hands to satisfy their curiosity.” He’d heard tales of family members with the peculiar ability to sense powerful emotions on objects. It wasn’t a pleasant experience and in most cases, not productive. And it wasn’t as if he’d done it. . .
Except when Iona had been involved.
“Yes, I suppose, for a busy, important man, such importunities would be a nuisance, especially if you failed to feel anything,” she said stiffly, not sounding as if she really excused him. “Life is all about learning from failure. If you practiced more, you might develop a better sense of the artifacts you seek.”
“If I ever had the opportunity to seek them,” he grumbled.
“Ah, that is the reason for your wish to go to Italy! Yes, I can see that might be an exciting opportunity to explore
