Chapter 1 #2
Minerva shuddered as her mind conjured the image of her cousin’s fall.
Had she slammed against the cliff as she tumbled down?
Once? More than once? Had she sprawled broken on jagged rocks?
Had she died before she entered the water?
Or had she been insensate when the ocean claimed her?
Or had she been aware, terrified, desperate—
The questions tumbled one against the next, scratching her raw, spreading like cracks racing through glass.
Again, Minerva tapped her fingertips slowly against her thigh, once, twice, thrice.
She forced her thoughts to halt in their hazardous course.
She had not been possessed of an anxious nature prior to her parents’ deaths, but after…
well, after, she had imagined the scene, conjured images of their suffering, tormented herself with truths she had no way to know.
Thereafter, with every mundane occurrence, her thoughts skittered like cockroaches in the light, always seeking the darkest corners.
If she saw children playing in the street, she imagined a wagon overturning atop them.
If she saw a mother with a pram, she imagined a runaway cart killing the babe.
She had quickly learned that once her imagination took flight to dark realms, she would be hard pressed to pull it back.
And since she could not stop the thoughts from forming, she had instead taught herself tricks to hold the terrible fears at bay.
Now she employed just such a trick, closing her eyes and picturing her favorite ice shop, her mother’s smiling face, the twinkle in her father’s eye as he set the dish before her.
She summoned every detail—the scents of vanilla and sugar, the cold cream smooth against her tongue and teeth.
The memory pushed back her darker thoughts.
She looked up at Mr. Granger and asked, “Why are you here?”
“I handle your cousin’s affairs. You are her heir.
” He withdrew something from his pocket and held his hand out toward Minerva, opening his fist to reveal a gold pendant on a chain.
At its heart was a teardrop-shaped amethyst held by three claws, and around that a thick band of gold filigree that followed the teardrop shape.
A sense of familiarity came over her as she studied the piece, a wispy memory teasing her thoughts, hovering just beyond reach.
“This locket belonged to your cousin. It has been passed down through generations,” Mr. Granger said.
“She sent it to me some weeks ago with instructions that were quite specific. I was to find you and place it in your hands at the earliest possible convenience. Her note was insistent that I personally place it in your hands and bid you wear it always.” He cleared his throat.
“I believe she sent it during one of her more coherent moments. Unfortunately, it took me some time to establish your whereabouts.”
He tipped his hand, letting the pendant and chain slide to her open palm. She stared at the purple stone, wondering how it could glitter so in the dim light. For an instant, she thought she saw movement in its depths, but when she leaned closer, the surface was even and still.
The memory that had nudged her rose now and coalesced. Not a clear recollection but fragments, splintered and thin.
A woman speaking, her voice low, the words indecipherable, a pendant with a purple stone bright at her neck…
Now, a strange pressure settled into her palm, the weight of the gold too heavy for its size.
Her hand dipped a fraction, her wrist tensing to compensate.
Frowning, she loosened her grip, but the sensation did not ease, as if the pendant were not merely resting in her hand but holding fast to her in return, claiming its place.
The gold grew warm against her skin, the sensation unfurling into a deep, unsettling heat that radiated to her fingers. The urge to close her hand around the pendant and hold tight battled with the desire to set it aside and free herself from the burn.
Her fingers clenched. A shiver chased up her spine.
Vertigo assailed her, leaving her feeling as though she stood on the edge of a precipice, an abyss gaping below her. There was something she needed to know, needed to remember…
An icy chill touched her left shoulder, slid up along her throat, her jaw, her cheek.
She brushed it away as she might an insect.
A sound came from her left, a shuddering inhalation, like air pulled through a narrow tube. Her head jerked up.
Mr. Granger stood to her right, watching her with polite expectation.
Her heart thudded in her breast, inexplicable unease crawling through her.
Another fragmented memory surfaced, sharper this time.
She sat in the drawing room, the afternoon light shining through the window, painting bright stripes across the floor.
“She is but a child.” Mama’s voice, tight and controlled in a way Minerva had rarely heard.
“She should be told. She is the one who must bear it one day,” another woman replied, the words calm and certain.
“She will bear it when she is grown. When you are gone and I am gone and she is all that remains. There is no need to tell her now,” Mama said, her tone soft but firm.
“And if the need for her to know arises before you deem the moment right?” the other woman asked gently.
Silence.
“Not yet,” Mama said, softer still, but no less firm.
Minerva blinked, the memory slipping away as suddenly as it had come. The drawing room and voices were gone, but the certainty that the memory was real remained.