and soon High Thornesbury had an entire generation of little circus performers . . . with pockets full of coppers.”
I smile, and I’m about to ask for another story when one of the day laborers calls, “Tell her about the mad lord of the moors.”
Daisy stiffens as does the old man at the end of the bar. Ignoring the laborers, she says, “Then there was the first lord’s wife, who—”
A mug slaps the bar right beside me as one of the day laborers slides into that seat. He’s about my age with thinning hair, and he seems to mistake my breasts for eyes, his gaze settling there as he talks.
“Did I hear you’re the new owner of Thorne Manor, lass?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, the word brittle.
“Well, then ask our lovely bar mistress about the mad lord, the one who murdered all those girls. Might make you decide to spend your nights elsewhere.” He grins, clearly ready to suggest where else I could spend them.
Daisy starts to interject, but he continues, leaning in close enough for me to smell tobacco and wet sheep as he whispers, “He murdered his own bride on their wedding night. They say you can still see the blood at night when the moon hits it.”
“No, not his wife. ’Twas a lover,” his friend says as he ambles over. “Two lovers. A girl he met in the moors—a comely milkmaid—and his best friend’s wife, who he was—” He makes a rude gesture.
“Don’t forget the sister,” the first man says. “Two lovers and a sister, which makes you wonder just how close he was with his sister.” His brows waggle suggestively.
“Enough!” The old man at the end of the bar clangs his mug down. “Perhaps they have no love for the old families where you’re from, but while you are here, you will respect ours.”
Daisy waves for the old man to sit down and says to me, “There are stories about that particular lord, but they’re just stories. Entertaining tales to tell over a pint . . . if you aren’t in High Thornesbury. Lord Thorne’s sister took off for London—with witnesses who saw her off—and his friend’s wife plunged over a cliff while he was in London, again with witnesses.”
The day laborers grumble and glower. As they wander back to their table, Daisy leans over and whispers, “Those two have been causing trouble all week. You might call and tell Del to come by a little later today. They’re usually gone by six.”
Freya’s mouth sets in annoyance, but she aims it at the two men and then thanks Daisy, saying they will indeed come by later. That’s when I realize what Daisy means. I think of Del as a man, but yes, once he speaks, he sounds female, and these two are certain to make something of it.
We finish our pints, and then I drive Freya to a neighbor’s, where Del is working on fence repair, and I head home to prepare for my evening with William.
William had asked me to check the floorboard before I came over, in case he wouldn’t be back in time. I’m not quite sure the logic behind that works, but I do as he requested and find a note . . . one with three simple words: close your eyes.
I laugh and pocket it as I bustle about, getting ready. Enigma sits on the dresser, watching me with a look that so obviously says, “You’re going away again, aren’t you?”
I’ve spent the last hour racing through the house with a length of fluffy yarn trailing after me, and I’ll pop back this evening for cuddles, but I still feel guilty enough that I almost forget to shut my eyes as I cross. I remember at the last second and put my hands over them for good measure.
The smell of a hearth fire tells me I’ve crossed, but before I can open my eyes, William’s hands go over mine. Then he chuckles, and as he says, “There you are,” I’m about to reply when I hear a very familiar kitten mew. His hands slide away, and when I open my eyes, he’s scooping up a tiny calico kitten, who purrs against his hand before shooting me a haughty look, as if to say, “See? Someone loves me.”
“Enigma?” I say. “You crossed over!”
Another look, one that clearly implies that she could have crossed over any time she liked. A mrrup from the doorway as Pandora trots in. Seeing her missing kitten, her