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I rested my hands on my hips. “Besides, Dr. von Keller is away, or so I am told, and he is the one who spent the most time with her. I’d thought the man I saw today outside the church might have been him, after all, how many German physicians could be here? But Father Crawford told me he would not be back until the morning.” I sighed. “Yet another little mystery, I suppose.”

Ruan gestured for me to turn around and I did, stepping backward into his arms, allowing him to work on the stubborn buttons. His voice was low when he finally spoke again, as the first button loosened and I could breathe a little freer. “Do you think this doctor will help you understand?”

“I doubt anyone will. But I must try. I owe it to her to learn the truth. And if there is someone out there who hurt her and that second patient, then I intend to find them.” The next button gave way and the skirt slipped a little lower down my hips.

Ruan made a low grunt of agreement as he struggled with the following contrarian button, muttering beneath his breath in Cornish. Within moments he’d managed them all, allowing the filthy skirt to fall to the floor. I stepped out of it and turned to face him. He reached up running his roughened palm gently across the side of my face. I closed my eyes, allowing myself the small weakness.

“Will you be all right?” He pulled me into his arms. My muddied chemise and drawers soiling his clothes. I looked up at long last into his eyes. They were pale green today—lighter than normal save for the dark cloud in the one that stretched across the iris. My chest eased and I laid my cheek against him, listening to the eerily slow thrum of his heart as his question echoed in my mind, one I could not yet answer.

CHAPTER SIXThe Missing Child

I woke before dawn the next morning, the other side of the bed empty. It still bore a Ruan-shaped indentation where he’d slept. The poor man had endeavored mightily to help me forget the troubles of the day and I was grateful for it. I certainly didn’t know what to do with his misplaced love and devotion, but sex? That, I understood. I was certain this insatiable need for him would pass, but I would accept the escape our entanglement provided for as long as it lasted. Oh, one day, Ruan Kivell would wake up and realize what a terrible bet I was, but until then he was mine. The sheets still smelled of him, making it that much more difficult to leave the warmth. Particularly as I knew I would not like what I would find today. The old priest told me Dr. von Keller wouldn’t be available until after his rounds, but I could not wait to return to the priory to see what else I could learn about my mother’s final days and what those men were so afraid of.

I hastily dressed myself in a pair of loose trousers, a pale green blouse, and my field jacket. After the sorry state of my attire yesterday, it was for the best. My housekeeper, Mrs. Penrose, would never forgive me if I ruined two dresses in one trip. She had lately begun taking inventory of the crimes I committed against my wardrobe and I didn’t need to give her any more evidence.

I ran my fingers along the wall as I made my way down the stairs to the main room of the boardinghouse. Mrs. Wauters, our landlady, was seated by the wood-burning stove, mending a pair of stockings.

“Your husband … he does not sleep.” She did not even look up from her work. Though her words were nothing I’d not noticed on my own. Ruan seldom slept, even at home in Cornwall. Constantly waiting on the next crisis to handle. Births. Deaths. Injuries. It had taken a toll on him, but I often wondered if his staying busy was just a way to outrun his own memories.

I fiddled with the fingertip of my leather glove, unable to look her in the eye. It was still far too early to go to the hospital. It was likely Ruan’s own restlessness that woke me at this hour. “I’m afraid not.”

She frowned, tilting her chin to the back door. “My Djhan was the same after the war. Came home and did not like the silence here. He spent his time with the chickens. Preferred to be with the beasts rather than man, for at least there was honesty amongst the animals.”

This conversation was taking an entirely different tone than I’d expected. I laid a gentle hand on her forearm. She didn’t pull away. “Djhan was your husband?”

She shook her head. “Mon fils.”

Her son. “I am sorry. Did he…” I cleared my throat and rubbed my arms to ward away the chill that overtook me. “How is your son now?”

“I do not know.” She stood, putting down her mending. “It is only that your man reminds me of my son. There is kindness in his eyes. Djhan was a kind boy too. The war could not take that from him. Come … I will take you to him.”

She didn’t know? Puzzled, I followed her through the small home. Were they estranged? Had he moved away? A thousand questions came to mind, but it wasn’t my place to pry into her life.

She shoved open the old door that led to the garden. The wood had swollen overnight with the damp. Early morning light began to break through the darkness. She led me across the back lawn to a lean-to at the far edge of the property. Pigs rooted about, snorting on the other side of a clapboard wall.

“I’ll leave you to him…” she said softly, giving me a sympathetic look before returning to her chores.

I took a few steps deeper into the garden, wondering where exactly Ruan had gotten to, when a soft rumble came from the far side of the rickety structure. The low, warm cadence I had come to love wrapped itself around my chest and squeezed.

Ruan.

He was talking in Cornish. Likely to himself—he often did, whether he realized he did it or not. I followed the rhythm of his voice until I saw him, sitting with his back against the building surrounded by a flock of chickens pecking at the ground. He cradled a bucket of old scraps from last night’s supper between his knees, full of bits of bread and vegetables along with some cutoff ends from whatever Mrs. Wauters had been cooking. One rather large bird pecked its head into the bucket. Another, offended at the temerity of its flock mate, joined it, skirmishing over the scraps.

Ruan continued muttering to himself—half beneath his breath. He may as well have been a thousand miles away instead of a handful of feet.

I took another step, and whatever trance he was in broke and he snapped his gaze to mine. His unshaven jaw was stubbled with black and silver from the night before. The peculiar distance that had bubbled up between us evaporated as he drew in a haggard breath. The edge of his mouth curved up into an almost sheepish look.

“Are you…” I began, uncertain what exactly I was asking before shaking my head and looking at the rough-hewn wood wall behind him. “Why are you hiding in a barn?” This place was in a terrible state of disrepair. It must have been a long time since Mrs. Wauters’s son had been around to help with things.

He ran his hand along a nearby hen’s back. His gaze fixated on the flutter of feathers. “Technically speaking, I’m outside the barn.”

I let out an amused laugh. Quite possibly the first genuine smile that crossed my lips since arriving in Belgium. “Are you all right?” Fancy me asking him that after yesterday’s discoveries. It should certainly be the other way around, but I found it far easier to focus upon him than my own problems. Namely, the peculiar re-death of my mother.

“I will be. I think. This place is strange. Loud. I can hear everything and nothing all at once. It all feels so much … more. More power. More energy. More … more.”

My eyes widened in dawning awareness of what he meant. That certainly explained why I had to tell him my suppositions about what happened to my mother when I came back last night. One of Ruan’s more inconvenient powers as a pellar was his ability to hear the thoughts of people. None so clearly as he could mine. It had never proved a particularly useful skill in our sleuthing endeavors. He’d catch a hint of things, a sense of something coming, but never a convenient confession of guilt. Now that would be helpful. He’d once compared the sensation to being in a crowded train station as a train approaches. A vague notion of something coming, a word here or there. It was no surprise then, that he found himself out here seeking solace amongst the hens. “You said that once before, when we were in Scotland. Is it the same as it was then?”

He flinched, nodding. In Scotland this past October he’d been able to draw upon more of his power than ever before. My gaze dropped to the spot on his chest that I knew bore the scar from the bullet that had pierced us both. My fingers rose to my own breast and I could see that his thoughts went to the same place. His ability to save our lives had to do with the power of that land—or so he’d said. We’d been in that peculiar lake when he’d drawn upon himself. Perhaps this was another such place. Another lake. Another place of power.