whirled. “No offense, Limye,” she said in a terse voice, “but I don’t think I’ll have any need to call.”
“You might someday, child. You’ll be eighteen soon and no longer hidden. They’ll realize you’re a Chosen and will stop at nothing to find you.”
Limye was making her uneasy again. Shifting slightly, Grace wondered if she should be worried. The lady might be crazy, but she somehow knew who she was. And who were the “they” that would stop at nothing to find her?
“I don’t understand,” Grace insisted.
Limye’s features settled into a patient smile. “You’re a Chosen, Grace, just like Christophe. Your job is to protect Pandora’s jar. Evil will come out in force to take it from you. And if they succeed…well, let’s not think about that just yet.”
Grace didn’t want to think about any of it, because it sounded completely absurd. Instead, she laughed. She laughed loud and hard, tears streaming unhindered down her face. When she finally caught her breath, she looked back at Limye, who was patiently looking back at her.
“People usually have trouble with that part as well,” Limye said.
“It’s because it sounds—”
“Crazy?” Limye finished her sentence. “I assure you, it’s not.”
Needing to adjust her uncomfortable position, Grace cocked her hip and passed the jar behind her from one hand to the other. “I’m sorry, but it sounds completely crazy.”
“In time, your eyes will be opened. But now you must hurry. Put Pandora back in the bag and in the backpack, and do not take her out until you’re at your grandfather’s house. Do you understand?”
“Why do I—”
The woman’s smile disappeared and her tone became sharp as she interrupted. “Grace, you must hurry. Do you understand?”
Limye’s urgency jarred her. The lack of understanding left her frustrated and confused, while a litany of questions zipped around in her head. What the heck was a Chosen? Why did she have to protect Pandora? What in the world was a Guardian…some kind of fairy godmother? The more she questioned, the more crazy Limye seemed. Grace decided to take the opportunity offered and get the heck out of Dodge.
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good,” Limye said firmly. “Now go.”
Carefully, she nestled the container in the bag, put the bag inside the backpack, pulled its strap over her shoulder, and made her way back to the front doors of the bank. Two words from her grandfather’s letter kept playing over and over in her mind as she walked through the lobby—trust and answers. Once she pushed through the glass doors and back into the suffocating arms of the heat, she walked the short distance to where Quentin stood waiting.
Grace crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him with exasperation. “Apparently you have some answers I’m looking for?”
His face stretched in a knowing grin that twisted her insides. “That I do, Grace. That I do.”
It was hard not to focus on the allure of his smile. It pulled at her in ways she’d never felt before and complicated an already bewildering day. She nodded at him without returning his smile and suggested tersely, “We better get going.” Not waiting for a reply or to see if he was following, she turned on her heel and crossed the street. Grace didn’t know what was going on, but she sure didn’t want to wait around to see if Limye was coming too or not, and picked up the pace getting to her car.
Despite the windows being down, the unease that wedged itself between Quentin and Grace during the drive to the manor felt brutally suffocating. He couldn’t scoot close enough to the opened window to get a pardon from its stranglehold, and as far as he was concerned, they couldn’t get back to the house fast enough.
The seneschal band always tingled and warmed more in her presence. And sometimes when her emotions were high, he felt them hammer through his veins. Like now. Internally, she was spinning six ways to Sunday, and he was struggling to sit still. Moved by a compulsion he had yet to understand, Quentin shifted in his seat, trying to squelch the urge to fight whatever or whoever was upsetting her.
Unable to stop his hands from fisting, he watched her from the corner of his eye. Her furrowed brows clearly revealing her internal struggle—confusion, anger, and fear—while his internal male struggled with getting lost in her outer beauty. He was mesmerized as his gaze roamed, appreciating the sight of her. The rays of the sun played artist, brushing highlights around the