Page 9 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“I know. And you’ve repaid him by turning your interests in spectrometry to the field where Professor Gordon needs help. I’d think astronomy would be a more pragmatic choice than exploring the spiritual realm.”

“Spectrometry is useful in a number of fields. What I discover here can be applied to astronomy or chemistry or physics.”

“Yes, but you aren’t a true believer,” Carson pointed out. “You’re scornful of tales of the supernatural.”

“Aren’t you?” Desmond asked.

“I think there are important kernels of truth that can be found in stories handed down from generation to generation.”

“Monsters and gremlins?”

“No, not those.” Carson grimaced. “But spirits who linger after their time is gone? Are all those stories concocted? Weren’t they based on something? That shiver one gets quite out of the blue, the spot of cold in a hall, a curtain moving without any breeze...”

Desmond thought of that moment when he had awakened with a start and there was his dead sister, Sally, standing by his bed and smiling at him in that familiar way. The involuntary shiver that ran down his spine when Aunt Tildy talked about Desmond’s curse. “I know that one can see things, feel things that seem impossible. I can be convinced. But tales are not enough to do it.” He paused. “What about you? You’re a cynical sort most of the time. Do you believe in such things?”

“I believe in Anne Ballew. I know she lived. I know people feared her and revered her. I know she was ahead of her time. I believe she created the Eye.”

“Do you believe that she saw the dead through it?”

“Ah, well.” The corner of Carson’s mouth twitched up, and his eyes began to twinkle. “That’s what we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

His words were innocuous, but they seemed to hang in the air, and Desmond could not deny the chill that touched his back like a cold breath.

CHAPTER THREE

THISBE SAILED INTO the house, bursting with the need to talk to someone. As always, there were noises from all over the house, magnified by the huge, marble-floored entry hall. The buzz of her mother and the followers of her latest cause coming from the red drawing room. The pounding of small feet on the floor above, accompanied by shrieks of maniacal laughter from the twins, Con and Alex. A heavy thud from the back of the house, followed by her own twin’s voice letting out a string of heartfelt curses.

Usually it was Theo to whom she turned, but he was not the one she needed for this conversation, especially given his apparent mood. Nor was it her father, hovering over two servants opening a large wooden crate at the end of the long gallery. Papa’s answer, no matter the question, was usually a soothing “Yes, dear, that’s good,” after which he would ask her to admire his newest Minoan pot or statue or whatever else he had just received.

No. This discussion called for her sister. Thisbe started toward the stairs, but at that moment someone struck a chord on the piano in the music room, followed by a rollicking tune and female laughter. Thisbe turned and headed toward the music.

It was Kyria who was at the piano, her fingers flying and her head bobbing in time, the words she was singing unintelligible through her giggling. Her color was high, and a few stray tendrils of her auburn hair, loosened by her forceful pounding of the keys, trailed down from her upswept hair. She looked, of course, quite beautiful. A few feet away from Kyria, Olivia sat sideways in a chair, her legs draped over one arm and her back against the other, a book lying open and unread on her chest, as she waved her arms dramatically in time to the music and bellowed in a German accent, “Nein, nein, Fräulein Moreland. The pace! The pace! Ach, mein Gott!”

“I take it you’ve been harassing your music teacher again,” Thisbe said, raising her voice to be heard over the music.

“Thisbe!” Olivia bounded up from her chair, her brown braids swinging. “It was Herr Schmidt who was harassing me! ‘Fräulein, you must put the feeling into your music. It’s art! It’s passion!’”

“I was showing her how it’s done.” Kyria swung around on the bench to face her sisters.

Thisbe laughed. “It sounded more like the music hall than Mozart.”

“It was.” Kyria grinned. “Reed taught it to me. I told Livvy to play it for Herr Schmidt next time.”

“Please don’t. The poor man would probably have apoplexy,” Thisbe replied.

“Yes, he loves only Beethoven.” Olivia dropped down onto the bench beside Kyria. Only a little more than two years apart, the girls looked as if they were separated by much more. Kyria, making her debut this Season, was dressed in a ruffled white dress in the latest fashion, her hair swept up in an intricate style, pearl earrings in her earlobes. Olivia, at fifteen and still in short skirts with her brown hair done in plain braids, showed no desire to leave the world of the schoolroom.

“Where have you been?” Kyria asked. “No one seemed to know.”

“I told Papa.” When Olivia let out a hoot of derision, Thisbe went on, “Yes, I know. I should have told Smeggars, but he wasn’t there when I left. I went to a lecture at the Covington.”

“Oh.” Kyria wrinkled her nose. “I hoped you were doing something exciting.”

“I found it exciting,” Thisbe said.

“Wait.” Kyria jumped up. “I saw that smile. What happened? You look—”

“All aglow,” Olivia interjected. “Like Kyria when she returns from a ball.”