Amanda Quick - Quicksilver

“It is astonishing that someone actually possesses the ability to construct such a weapon. I talked to my cousin Nick today. Thus far he has not had any luck finding the clock maker, but he has picked up a few intriguing rumors from some rather eccentric collectors.”

The carriage halted in front of Virginia’s town house. He opened the door, vaulted down to the pavement and turned to lower the carriage steps. Virginia gave him her hand and descended to the pavement. She had put her gloves back on, he noticed.

“I believe I need a strong dose of medicinal spirits tonight,” she said.

He smiled. “I certainly plan to take the same therapeutic medicine when I get home.”

She contemplated the dark windows of the town house for a moment, and then she turned back to face him. In the shadows cast by the gas lamp and the hood of her cloak it was impossible to make out the expression on her face. But he could sense the heat in her eyes.

“Would you care to share a glass of my tonic with me, sir?” she asked. “I have some excellent brandy.”

His blood was suddenly several degrees warmer. He felt as if he had just received an invitation to enter paradise.

Virginia held her breath. She could not believe what she had just done. The invitation had been an uncharacteristically impulsive act inspired by the edgy sensation that was generating a fever deep inside her. It was surely a mistake, one she was certain she would regret. If Owen hesitated for even a heartbeat she would change her mind.

He did not give her time enough to catch her breath.

“I would like that very much,” he said.

The even, casually polite tone of his voice told her absolutely nothing. But his eyes heated a little in the darkness. She knew that he was in the grip of the aftermath of a heavy burn, just as she was. No one but another powerful talent could understand the sensation.

She pulled her cloak around her and started up the front steps. “It is not as if either of us will be getting much sleep tonight, is it?”

“No,” he agreed.

He paused long enough to pay the coachman. Then he followed her up the steps.

She dug her key out of the small chatelaine purse she wore. “And like it or not, we appear to be colleagues, at least for a while. We might as well share a drink and discuss the case.”

“It sounds like a very useful way to proceed,” he said.

She fumbled with her key and managed to drop it.

Owen snagged it in midair with no apparent effort.

“Allow me,” he said.

He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. She moved into the dimly lit hall. Mrs. Crofton had taken herself off to bed two floors above, but she had left a wall sconce burning.

She’ll know I’m home, Virginia thought. She’ll know that I am not alone. Housekeepers always knew everything that went on in their domain.

Owen set the dragon on the floor, stripped off his leather gloves and reached out to help Virginia with the cloak. When his warm fingers brushed the sensitive nape of her neck, another flicker of awareness went through her. The feverish sensation got more intense, but she did not feel the least bit ill.

He hung her cloak on a brass wall hook and then he set his hat on the console table alongside his leather gloves.

It is as if we were two lovers coming home late after an evening at the theater, she thought.

Her imagination was running wild, and her nerves were still tingling with the icy-hot sensation. She desperately needed a shot of brandy.

She led the way down the hall and into the darkened study. Inside the small, cozy room she turned up a lamp and went to the little table that held the brandy decanter.

Owen crossed to the hearth, struck a light and lit the fire with the easy familiarity of a man making himself at home. When he was finished he rose, peeled off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He was not wearing a waistcoat, Virginia noticed. He unknotted his tie and left it hanging loosely around his neck. Next he opened the collar of his shirt. With deft movements of his fingers he removed the cuff links that secured the sleeves of his shirt, and tucked them into a pocket.

Virginia caught her breath. Oh, yes, he was definitely making himself at home.

She splashed brandy into two glasses. The decanter clinked lightly against the rim of one glass. She realized her hands were trembling. She set the decanter aside and gave Owen one of the glasses.

“To both of us getting some sleep tonight,” she said, raising her glass.

“To us.”

Not quite the same toast, she thought, but she did not think it would be a good idea to correct him.

His eyes never left hers as he downed some of the brandy.

She took a more cautious sip and lowered the glass.

“May I ask what you saw tonight when that storm of hallucinations struck?” she said.

“I saw the victims of the murders that I have investigated over the years,” he said. “The ones I failed.”

She exhaled slowly. “You mean those poor souls for whom you could not find justice?”

“And those I arrived too late to save. They are the ones who haunt me.” He went to stand in front of the fire. “What did you see, Virginia?”

She crossed the carpet to join him at the hearth. “My visions were not unlike your own. Like you, I saw the ones I failed, those who died by violence. The ones for whom there was no justice because the killer was never caught.”

He nodded once, understanding.

For a long moment they stood side by side, gazing into the fire.

“Do you ever wonder why we have been cursed with talents such as ours?” she asked after a time.

“There is no such thing as a curse,” he said. “That is superstitious nonsense.”

She almost smiled. “I was speaking metaphorically, Mr. Sweetwater.”

“Of course. My apologies.” He drank some more brandy. “I tend to be quite literal when it comes to matters involving para-physics.”

“I understand.”

“I will tell you the truth, Virginia. The reason I responded so sharply just now is because there have been many times when I have asked myself the very same question.”

He had used her first name again. But she now thought of him as Owen, she reminded herself. It was astonishing how sharing danger had a way of injecting a degree of intimacy into the atmosphere between two people who were otherwise barely acquainted.

“I am a modern thinker, sir,” she said. “Like you, I certainly do not believe in the supernatural. But have you ever come up with an answer to the question?”

He gripped the edge of the mantel and contemplated the fire. “I can give you an answer that conforms to the laws of para-physics, at least what I know of those laws. There is, as I’m sure you know, a great deal left to be discovered in the field.”

“I am aware of that. Well? What is the scientific answer to the question?”

“A person who commits murder or an act of violence generates a heavy surge of psychical energy. Even the coldest of killers leaves a hot trail.”

“Yes,” she said. She shivered at the memory of some of the images she had seen in the mirrors.

“The same is true of the victim if he or she has time to react to the assault,” Owen continued. “Strong energy does not simply evaporate. It continues to oscillate in the atmosphere of a space and is absorbed into the surfaces of furniture, walls and floors.”

“And looking glasses.”

He inclined his head. “Yes, although I cannot perceive what you do when you look into a mirror. The physics of looking glasses are quite unique.”

“I comprehend that both of us are sensitive to the residue of the energy that is laid down by violence. But why do we both feel the need to find answers for those who are left behind?”