to do with Reese's hovering presence.
“I’ve a white glow?” Eva questioned.
“Ah, yes, I see a stunning shade,” Deb continued, her coiffed head bobbing.
Eva's shoulders slumped and she leaned in close, her brow furrowing. She was grateful she hadn’t worn her trademark high heels and opted for comfortable flats, the lack of height making the woman's diminutive stature more accessible.
“What does that mean?”
“A white aura reflects other sources of energy, the purest state of light.” Deborah's voice lowered to the softest breath of a sigh, the words nearly indistinguishable. “It’s rumored a person with a white aura holds spiritual and non-physical qualities existing in a higher dimension.”
“Such as?”
Deb exhaled a giggling breath. “I would say you’ve some nearly angelic qualities that haven't been unleashed.”
“I suppose I'll take that as a compliment.” Eva smiled indulgently at the woman, and remembered that Lucien's similar comment. “I had read somewhere a white aura symbolized impending death.”
“That all depends on who's doing the interpreting,” she scoffed. “Angels are in the presence of those with a white aura, which could be defined as either impending death, or protection.”
“What would you say the auras are around your fellow investigators?”
“Brice, there,” Deborah indicated the balding pate of the elderly man, ambling toward the white picket fence surrounding Mendelssohn House. His gait was slow and deliberate, each step measured, as if he were uncertain of his own footing. He paused for a moment, ignorant of their rapt attention. He slid his thick lenses from his nose and lifted his eyes to the fading sunlight, squinting as he checked if the glass was clean. “Brice possesses a distinctly orange-yellow aura.”
“Which means?”
“Oh, he’s creative and intelligent.” Deb breathed.
Eva couldn't fail to notice the slight brightening of her cheeks in the soft rays of the soon-to-set sun. There were unspoken emotions running deep in this woman, and she bore some affection for the elderly scholar.
"Is he?" She couldn't resist asking, even though she knew the answer.
“Brice is also detailed orientated, scientifically inclined, and a devout perfectionist.”
Eva had surmised that much information on her own. She had watched him review the facts he sequestered on the screen of his ever-present laptop. During the past few hours, before the light dimmed and night approached, he perused pages about the site they were investigating.
“Ethan?”
The woman's attention shifted to the energetic figure of the younger man, who bounced about on the toes of well-worn tennis shoes. Even with the heaviness of the camera equipment, he feinted left and right, pretending to throw jabs at Gil's averted back.
“He's an orange,” Deb chuckled, a motherly look invading her features. “He couldn't sit still if you were to tie, gag, and duct tape him to a seat.”
“I think the condition is labeled as ADHD,” Eva supplied as Gil placed his camera equipment on the ground and slapped away Ethan's punches with playful regard.
“That's the problem with this world.” She huffed and her birdlike appearance changed to a fierce annoyance. “Everyone's so preoccupied with placing labels on each other. If you don't have an Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, then you have an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. If you don't have OCD, you may be psychotic. There's a drug for everything and anything, and the drugs cause more damage than the affliction.”
Eva frowned, realizing the woman spoke the truth, as far as she was concerned. “So, what does the orange mean?”
“It's the color of vitality and vigor. Ethan is full of good health and a wholesome dose of excitement.”
….wonder if I was an orange.
“Really?” She questioned, thankful her question applied to both matters at hand.
….though, don't like being compared to fruit.
Eva couldn't contain her laughter at Reese's pensive comment, the loud trill causing all eyes to turn toward her. She sobered instantly at the scowl directed by the crew leader. Eva glanced at the woman and the woman granted her a minuscule smile that relayed the pain assuaging her knees before shaking her head.
“Does Lucien…” Eva forced herself to recall the name he used among his co-workers. “Does Luke have an aura?'
“That's the strangest thing of all.” Deborah admitted in sotto voce. “I’ve watched him for the longest time and I can't find one.”
“What does that mean?” Eva questioned. “What happens if someone doesn’t have an aura?”
“Only the dead lack auras, Miss Keyes.”
Speechless, she pushed her hands deep into her jean pockets as Deb walked away. Eva released a pent-up breath, shaking her head.
….hit the nail on the head
“A little too closely,” She agreed, looking at the home.
Before her was a luxurious Victorian