Chapter 3 #2
Usually, people’s thoughts flowed around her like water.
She could focus on one individual stream and hear exactly what that person was thinking.
At times, she had to push harder to get to the hidden secrets people tried to protect.
She knew her irises would lighten to silver and glow when she accessed her magic to delve so deeply into someone’s head, so she kept her eyes on the necklace and focused on hearing only Cynthia.
Complete silence.
It must be a mistake. Perhaps she wasn’t concentrating.
Maybe Cynthia’s beauty was distracting her.
Because even amidst her obvious shock, the woman looked as regal as a goddess when Helena had entered the room.
Cynthia’s chestnut hair was piled high with curls framing her face.
Her cheekbones could have been sculpted from the finest marble.
Hazel eyes, though slightly red-rimmed from tears, flashed with keen wit.
Her lips were the perfect Cupid’s bow, and Helena wondered if she used cosmetics to enhance their shape.
Surely noticing all those silly details was getting in the way of reading the woman’s thoughts.
When she tried a second time, only to once more be hit with a confounding vacuum of sound, Helena knew something was very wrong.
And then her familiar left her side to put his head on Cynthia’s fecking lap.
Blinking away any remnants of her power, Helena sought out her cousin, and the shock mirrored in Clio’s eyes did nothing to dispel her alarm.
What is going on with Hamlet?
Helena ignored Clio’s unspoken question. Because she had no bloody clue. A familiar did not abandon his witch. Ever.
Cynthia might have stolen Clio’s time and Ellie’s goodwill, but Helena would invite the fires of hell to burn every drop of water within her before she would see the damnable woman steal her familiar’s affections.
Hamlet looked back at her and yipped in reassurance. He wasn’t playing at treason. Just snuggling another woman. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about.
Except bloody everything!
She had only pulled out the locket to rattle Cynthia and see if that knocked loose whatever was blocking Helena’s power to read her thoughts. The plan backfired spectacularly.
Perhaps she had been unwittingly hexed, her powers blocked by dark magic.
By Cynthia? Certainly not. She has no powers. She isn’t a witch.
Helena tightened her focus on the woman as suspicion crept in.
Or could she be hiding latent magical abilities?
It was rare, but not completely unheard of.
Generally, magic was inherited along the matrilineal line, but there were cases of women from non-magical families demonstrating spontaneous powers.
Helena had never met such a woman, but Cynthia might have an echo of magic resonating through her. A fascinating idea.
No. An inconvenient problem if that is why I can’t read her thoughts. Or why my loyal familiar is snuggling her with his head on her lap.
Any jealousy she felt was directed at Cynthia for stealing Hamlet’s attention, not her familiar for knowing exactly how soft the woman’s skirts were, or whether her scent collected in all that silk.
Even if Cynthia did have a smidge of magic running through her veins, it wouldn’t explain Helena’s inability to hear her thoughts. She could easily read the thoughts of her coven, and they were all powerful witches within their own elements.
Every mind in the elegantly decorated room was open to her. Except Cynthia’s.
She had never needed to touch another to know what they were thinking, but physical contact enhanced her powers. Maybe that would break through the wall of silence surrounding Cynthia. She extended her hand, holding the necklace like a treat to draw out her prey.
‘I can’t imagine this belongs to any of your maids.’
Cynthia’s breathing accelerated as she stared at the gold and ruby locket as if the snake wrapped around it were real and ready to strike.
‘Go on, take it. If it’s yours.’ Helena was baiting her. She held her breath, waiting to see what the captivating woman would do.
‘It is mine. I won’t try to deny it. But I haven’t seen it in years. Hubert gave it to me when we were courting. I gave it back several months after we were married. I haven’t seen it since then.’
Helena snorted. ‘That’s rather convenient.’
Cynthia narrowed her hazel eyes and opened her mouth to deliver what would doubtlessly be a scathing retort, but she was interrupted by Uncle Lachlan. And Helena was unaccountably disappointed. She relished a battle of wits and knew this would be a worthy war.
‘Lady Burrows, can you think of any reason tha’ yer locket would be in yer husband’s study?’ Uncle Lachlan’s brown eyes flashed with real concern. Is it because you killed the bastard?
Helena felt a rush of triumph at her uncle’s thoughts.
She wasn’t the only one who suspected the genteel Marchioness of Kentmore.
But her elation was followed quickly by shame.
She shouldn’t be delighting in this woman’s disaster.
She could very well be innocent and awash in a sea of grief for her deceased husband.
Although she didn’t look devastated. Shocked, yes. Determined, yes. But not devastated.
Thomas stood from the settee, disturbing Hamlet, who seemed to remember his job as Helena’s familiar. He padded over to her, his tail swishing with each step. Winding around her legs, he sat and blinked up at her.
It was impossible to stay mad at the little charmer. Helena scowled at him, but when he twitched his pointed nose at her and whined, she lost the battle with herself and reached down to rub behind his ear.
‘You can’t think Cynthia killed her husband just because of a locket.
Lachlan, this is my sister we’re talking about.
’ Thomas stood directly in front of her uncle.
His deep voice and stern features were enough to strike fear in most men, but Uncle Lachlan stood his ground.
While Thomas was taller than Uncle Lachlan, the Scotsman’s thick corded muscles left no doubt he could hold his own if there were ever a battle between these old friends.
Helena rolled her eyes. Men were such fools. No wonder she preferred the company of women. How anyone could find such posturing attractive was beyond her understanding.
Uncle Lachlan’s voice stayed remarkably calm even as a muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘I’m no’ sayin’ I think anything, Thomas. I’m just asking questions. You’ll recall that’s my job as Superintendent of Scotland Yard.’
‘Thomas is right. Cynthia couldn’t hurt a fly.’ Clio looked to her friend, and the faith glimmering in her amber eyes matched the bright clarity of her thoughts. Clio certainly wasn’t lying. But when Helena turned to focus on Cynthia, she heard nothing but the staccato beat of her own heart.
What sorcery is this?
The irony wasn’t lost on Helena. A witch asking such questions would have tickled her dry wit in any other situation, but she wasn’t laughing today.
Cynthia shook her head. ‘It will come as no surprise that Hubert and I did not have a particularly… close… marriage. Ours was like many others in the beau monde. He lived his life rather separately from mine, but we were content in our roles. Rest assured, if such distance were inspiration for murder, there would be no lord left living in London. I don’t know why he was in possession of my locket, but I do know I didn’t kill him. ’
Helena pushed forward once more with her magic, desperate to hear the thoughts beneath Cynthia’s words.
Nothing.
Right. Enough of this guesswork.
Stepping forward, Helena pressed the necklace into Cynthia’s hand with firm fingers and held strong, forcing the connection. The contact was sure to shatter whatever shields were protecting the proper and staid marchioness.