14. Rafe #2
Quinn, standing beside the service-dog photographs, saying the museum had the object and my family had the absence. Quinn laughing while I danced with Max. Quinn at her apartment door, tired and beautiful, eyes dropping to my mouth before I forced myself to step away.
I shut the thought down, but it refused to leave.
My mother leaned closer. “When will you stop all this busy working and find someone to love?”
“There it is,” my father murmured.
I shot an accusing glare his way. “You encouraged this.”
“I didn’t. I simply failed to prevent it.”
“Coward.”
“Married man,” he corrected.
My mother tapped the table. “Well?”
I sighed. “I’m occupied.”
“Everyone is occupied with something. What makes love so interesting is that it interrupts.”
“Mama, I’m not interested in being interrupted.”
She made a small, disapproving sound. “Nonsense. You were interrupted the day you were born and have been coping ever since.”
My father coughed into his tea.
I pressed two fingers against the bridge of my nose. “Mother.”
“What? It’s true.”
It was impossible not to smile. Unfortunately, smiling only encouraged her.
“Is there someone?” she asked.
“No.” I said it too quickly. My father’s eyes moved to my face. I ignored him.
My mother’s attention had already slipped, her gaze drifting toward the orchard. “I had a ribbon once. Red. No, gold. It was for the festival.”
My father shifted closer. “Which festival, love?”
“The one with the lanterns.” She frowned. “Or the one with the snow.”
“We can look at the photo albums later.”
“Yes.” Her eyes brightened. “And my father will bring sweets.”
My father’s hand tightened slightly around hers. “Perhaps.” The word was gentle enough to break my heart if I let it.
I didn’t let it.
My mother lifted her cup, then stopped halfway. “I’m very tired.”
“Of course.” My father stood at once. “Let’s rest before dinner.”
I rose as he helped her to her feet. She accepted his arm, then paused beside me and touched my cheek. “Bring home the singing sword.”
“I will.”
“And bring someone who laughs at you.”
My father looked away. I didn’t dignify either of them with a response.
My mother smiled, suddenly tender. “You’re very handsome when you’re annoyed.”
I grinned. “I’ve heard that.”
“From whom?”
“No one reliable.”
She patted my cheek, then allowed my father to guide her inside.
The gardens moved gently in the afternoon breeze.
Somewhere below, a gardener spoke softly to another, and water ran in the fountain near the west path.
The estate wasn’t quiet, not truly. It was full of maintenance staff and memories.
Full of things I’d inherited, and things I didn’t always know how to hold.
Bring someone who laughs at you.
Quinn’s laugh drifted through my mind before I could stop it. That was becoming a problem.
I walked to the balcony rail and looked over the reflecting pool, the orchard, and the old landing lawn beyond it.
The changes were subtle enough that guests rarely noticed them.
At first, I’d thought of those changes as losses.
Small ones, perhaps, but losses all the same.
The estate becoming less itself by degrees.
Less grand. Less old. Less faithful to the form it had held for generations.
Quinn wasn’t a relic to recover or a problem to solve. She wasn’t a room to rearrange without consent because I found the current architecture insufficient. She had her own ambition, her own life, her own fierce little economy of effort and pride and jokes sharp enough to protect softer places.
And yet.
In less than two weeks, she’d accomplished what my wealth, my records, and my social standing hadn’t managed alone.
The necklace by chance, yes, but chance didn’t explain the rest. She’d known to ask for a boon.
She’d found Georgiana’s soft point by understanding Miriam.
She’d turned a gala from an obstacle into a bridge.
Was she a good-luck charm, or was she simply that good?
The answer mattered less than the result, which was precisely why I didn’t trust myself to separate sound strategy from wanting her near. And my judgment was apparently abysmal when it came to Quinn Bradley.
I took out my phone.
The broken shrine mirror was going to auction that weekend.
The auction house had confirmed the lot placement that morning.
I’d planned to attend with my usual team and a small army of documentation, and have Moira, the junior on the team, on call if necessary.
After the gala, that seemed insufficient.
Quinn saw angles I didn’t.
That was why I dialed her number.
She answered on the third ring, slightly breathless. “Hello?”
“Ms. Bradley.”
A pause. “Are we back to last names? Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Good, because I didn’t think I’d had time to cross you. It’s been a very document-heavy day.”
I looked toward the garden, unwillingly pleased by the sound of her voice. “I would like you to accompany me to an auction this weekend.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“An auction?” she said.
“Yes.”
“As part of the case?”
“Of course.”
“Right. Obviously. What kind of auction?”
“Private antiquities and Olden Folk artifacts. One of the items listed appears to be the shrine mirror from my family’s collection.”
Her breath changed. “The third relic.”
“Yes.”
“That’s huge.”
“It may be.”
“It is.” Her certainty moved through the phone with startling force, and for a moment I let myself have it. Not hope as contract. Hope as useful, my father would say.
“I think your presence would be beneficial,” I said.
“Because of the legal angle?”
“Because you have shown an ability to identify social and practical avenues that others miss.”
“Oh.” There was a rustle on her end, then a muffled sound, as if she’d covered the phone and answered someone nearby. When she returned, her voice had lowered. “I’d have to clear it with Moira and Helena Wallace.”
“I’ll speak to the firm.”
She sighed. “Of course you will.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. It’s just very dragon of you.”
“I am a dragon.”
“I walked into that.”
“You did.”
She laughed softly, and the balcony seemed to warm by several degrees.
God, I was in trouble.
Business decision, I reminded myself. Professional judgment. Keep a clear head.
“So,” she said, “does this mean we need to dress up again?”
“It is a high-end private auction.”
“I’m going to translate that as yes.”
“Yes.”
“Is my gala dress too much for this, not enough, or wrong in some expensive third way?”
“I suspect Mrs. Andreas will have opinions.”
“Oh no,” Quinn said, with unmistakable delight. “You’ve learned Octavia’s name.”
“I was present when she introduced herself.”
“Yes, but now you said it like a man about to voluntarily enter her domain again.”
“I require your attendance, and you require appropriate clothing.”
“Two birds, one stone,” she said.
I knew, with absolute certainty, that she was smiling. “You don’t sound too unhappy about getting another outfit,” I said.
“I’m trying to serve the client’s interests through strategic wardrobe alignment.”
“That sounds rehearsed,” I said.
“I’m very talented,” she said.
“Oh, I know.”
The words came out before I could make them less honest, and I closed my eyes briefly.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You’re welcome.”
We stayed on the line, but neither of us spoke. In the gardens below, the fountain that fed the reflection pool continued running. Inside, somewhere beyond the balcony doors, my father was likely helping my mother settle into bed.
I thought again of care and consequence. Of the difference between building a life and merely being pulled by desire into one.
I needed to keep my head clear.
“I’ll send the details once the firm approves,” I said.
“Okay.”
I ended the call before I could find a reason to prolong it, then stood with my phone in my hand, thinking of a woman in a thrifted dress who had made me see my own home differently without ever setting foot inside it.
Then, from down the hall, my mother laughed.