A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,74

now give me your right hand. What I have told you thus far is what you were born to accomplish. Now, with your right hand, I will see what you have done with your life.”

Sir Ralph hesitated, his muzzy senses once more alerted by old yet ever-present fears. “I know my past, Maxwell. It’s my future that interests me.”

“Your past is your future, my friend,” Maxwell said in a soothing voice, beginning to massage Sir Ralph’s right hand, his bony fingers gently pulling on each digit as he turned the hand palm down, then palm up once more. He ran a finger over the contours of Sir Ralph’s palm, then looked at him inquiringly. “I’m confused, my friend. Such greed. Such avarice. I see money, so much money coming into your hands and never leaving them. You live simply. You keep only one plain carriage and live in these few rooms—a Spartan life without luxuries. Why, my friend, when you have so much?”

Maxwell was getting too close. Sir Ralph pulled his hand away and balled it into a fist in his lap. “That is none of your concern. What I do with my money is my business.” He shoved his hand onto the table once more, surprising himself at his own daring. “Here—look again. Look at my line of life. Tell me what you see.”

Maxwell shook his head. “No, my friend. You don’t want to know what I see.”

“Why?” Sir Ralph had to force the question past his lips. It was as if he was back in Italy, and the old woman was cackling, laughing at his terrible fate. Hadn’t anything changed? With everything he had done, all the precautions he had taken, couldn’t his future have been altered, at least a little? Was he living plainly, austerely, soberly, saving his money for an old age he would never see? Was he about to die? Oh, God! He didn’t want to die! Not yet. Not ever.

“Because without your total cooperation, my friend, the reading would be incomplete. I might miss something of the highest importance.” He leaned forward, his black-as-pitch eyes nearly burning red, so that Sir Ralph found it impossible to look away. “I want to help you, my friend. I need to help you. Trust me, my friend. And tell me, tell me now—why do you need so much money?”

My friend. My friend. Sir Ralph’s mouth was dry, and his heart pounded in his chest like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil. He couldn’t look away from Maxwell, from those black, burning eyes. He felt otherworldly, as if he were floating above his chair, caught in the invisible rays of power emanating from the fortune-teller.

The final wall of his resistance lay in ruins at his feet. He could no longer deny the man anything. He no longer wanted to deny him. “It—it sounds silly to say it, Maxwell, but I—I’ve been saving as much as I can, living as evenly as I can, so that I will live longer,” he heard himself admitting against all he had promised himself. “I want to have a comfortable old age. I want to live—for a long time. A very long time.”

“So do we all, my friend. But if it is not written in your stars, in your palm—” Maxwell sat back, sighing. “Unless...”

“Unless what? Maxwell, do you know something? Can you help me? You must help me!” he fairly shouted, perspiration pouring out all over his body even as he shivered with cold. “Maxwell—I’m so afraid. You say you’re my friend. Can’t you help me? I need help, some way, some answer to life—to the alternative to death! I don’t want to die,” he said passionately, beginning to weep, his nondescript, emotionless features twisted into a grimace of real, physical pain.

He could still hear the old crone speaking of his death. And he could still see Geoffrey Balfour, dying. Geoffrey hadn’t wanted to die. He didn’t want to die. No sane man wants to die. “Death is so obscene, so wasteful. I saw it, Maxwell! I’ve seen death, felt it.”

Maxwell’s voice turned hard, demanding. “This is all very enlightening, my friend, but you are not being totally honest with me. You mustn’t fight me, my friend, but answer truthfully every question that I ask. We are, the two of us, on the verge of a miraculous breakthrough, a union of spirits and minds that can bring you your greatest wish. Talk to me, my friend. You are not telling me everything