his hat in pleased greeting.
Mrs. Moore’s hand fluttered over her ruffled collar. “Excuse me?” she said faintly.
Millie dragged him into the most flower-filled parlor he’d ever seen. Vases covered every surface and even occupied most of the chairs. “G-g-g-oodn-ness!”
Millie wrinkled her nose. “I know. Hideous, aren’t they?”
He had to agree. While he loved flowers as much as the next person, this riotous array made him feel queasy.
Then he sussed it out. These were Elliott’s gifts. His brand of oily-weak magic suffused every blossom. What kind of spell was that? Attraction? Compulsion? Repulsion, it felt like. Poorly done magic grated on the soul the way bad opera grated on the ears.
This would not do. Why hadn’t the Moores thrown these out? As Millie fretted and flustered over clearing seating space, Raymond made a circuit of the room. This magic was easily undone, its influence evaporating into the ether.
He saw her attempting to lift a rather heavy vase off the sofa in front of the window. “H-here. L-l-let m-me.” His fingers closed over hers as he wrapped his arms about the arrangement. Her hands were soft and warm. He remembered how they had caressed his face that morning and he nearly dropped the vase. Luckily he was able to set it on the floor without incident. A wave of his fingers dispelled the last of Elliott’s weak magic.
The room felt fresher and lighter.
“Oh, Mildred.”
Raymond turned at Mrs. Moore’s voice. He’d forgotten she was in the room.
Mrs. Moore likewise seemed to have forgotten him, for she looked about in awe, her hand still clutching the ruffles at her pigeon bosom. “Did you open a window?”
Millie blinked at her mother. She looked to Raymond who winked at her. A secret smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She sat on the sofa. “Mr. Wilson. Do sit down. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” She patted the seat next to her.
Yes, too long. Hours.
Mrs. Moore, not willing to leave them alone, moved a flower arrangement from a chair, hesitating where to put it.
“Put it out in the hallway, Mother.” Millie’s hand stole to Raymond’s. “I don’t know why we have to keep them all in here anyway.”
Mrs. Moore sighed at the flowers in her hands. “I suppose so. After all, they don’t seem so charming now.” Thus she departed the room.
“G-gifts f-f-f-rom Ell-lliot-t-tt?”
Millie shrugged. “Gifts are important to him, I guess.”
“I d-d-idn’t br-ring you an-nything.” All he had were the hearts in his pocket. At least he hadn’t brought more flowers.
“I don’t care. I’m not one to be bought with things.”
“Wh-what d-do you l-like?”
She smiled at him and his heart melted.
“Words.”
“I’m-m n-n-ot g-g-g-ood-d with w-words.”
“I don’t care how they’re said, only that they are said.”
Mrs. Moore walked back in and did her best to sit carefully in the vacated chair. She still had his calling card. “Wilson. Of the New York Wilsons?”
He nodded.
“And Gregory John Wilson. Your father?”
“Uu-ncle.” Raymond’s father was a younger brother of the famous art investor. Uncle Greg had done very well for himself in his youth, starting with the Grand Tour in Europe and select art purchases. His shrewd business and art sense accelerated his reputation and fortune.
Having a bit of the family talent didn’t hurt either.
Mrs. Moore smiled. “I didn’t know you were of those Wilsons.”
Raymond stroked a daisy in the vase on the floor. Time for some fun. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
The daisy ever so softly, began to hum.
Mrs. Moore nodded. “So Mrs. Chandler was a New York Wilson? I hadn’t realized.”
“Oo-only the best f-f-f-or us.”
Mrs. Moore peered closer at him. Had she judged his stutter and sentenced him yet? His finger ran over the petals of some orange flower. Its subtle tune complemented the daisy.
Beside him, Millie fidgeted with excitement. “The Wilsons are an excellent
Mrs. Moore’s hand fluttered over her ruffled collar. “Excuse me?” she said faintly.
Millie dragged him into the most flower-filled parlor he’d ever seen. Vases covered every surface and even occupied most of the chairs. “G-g-g-oodn-ness!”
Millie wrinkled her nose. “I know. Hideous, aren’t they?”
He had to agree. While he loved flowers as much as the next person, this riotous array made him feel queasy.
Then he sussed it out. These were Elliott’s gifts. His brand of oily-weak magic suffused every blossom. What kind of spell was that? Attraction? Compulsion? Repulsion, it felt like. Poorly done magic grated on the soul the way bad opera grated on the ears.
This would not do. Why hadn’t the Moores thrown these out? As Millie fretted and flustered over clearing seating space, Raymond made a circuit of the room. This magic was easily undone, its influence evaporating into the ether.
He saw her attempting to lift a rather heavy vase off the sofa in front of the window. “H-here. L-l-let m-me.” His fingers closed over hers as he wrapped his arms about the arrangement. Her hands were soft and warm. He remembered how they had caressed his face that morning and he nearly dropped the vase. Luckily he was able to set it on the floor without incident. A wave of his fingers dispelled the last of Elliott’s weak magic.
The room felt fresher and lighter.
“Oh, Mildred.”
Raymond turned at Mrs. Moore’s voice. He’d forgotten she was in the room.
Mrs. Moore likewise seemed to have forgotten him, for she looked about in awe, her hand still clutching the ruffles at her pigeon bosom. “Did you open a window?”
Millie blinked at her mother. She looked to Raymond who winked at her. A secret smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She sat on the sofa. “Mr. Wilson. Do sit down. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” She patted the seat next to her.
Yes, too long. Hours.
Mrs. Moore, not willing to leave them alone, moved a flower arrangement from a chair, hesitating where to put it.
“Put it out in the hallway, Mother.” Millie’s hand stole to Raymond’s. “I don’t know why we have to keep them all in here anyway.”
Mrs. Moore sighed at the flowers in her hands. “I suppose so. After all, they don’t seem so charming now.” Thus she departed the room.
“G-gifts f-f-f-rom Ell-lliot-t-tt?”
Millie shrugged. “Gifts are important to him, I guess.”
“I d-d-idn’t br-ring you an-nything.” All he had were the hearts in his pocket. At least he hadn’t brought more flowers.
“I don’t care. I’m not one to be bought with things.”
“Wh-what d-do you l-like?”
She smiled at him and his heart melted.
“Words.”
“I’m-m n-n-ot g-g-g-ood-d with w-words.”
“I don’t care how they’re said, only that they are said.”
Mrs. Moore walked back in and did her best to sit carefully in the vacated chair. She still had his calling card. “Wilson. Of the New York Wilsons?”
He nodded.
“And Gregory John Wilson. Your father?”
“Uu-ncle.” Raymond’s father was a younger brother of the famous art investor. Uncle Greg had done very well for himself in his youth, starting with the Grand Tour in Europe and select art purchases. His shrewd business and art sense accelerated his reputation and fortune.
Having a bit of the family talent didn’t hurt either.
Mrs. Moore smiled. “I didn’t know you were of those Wilsons.”
Raymond stroked a daisy in the vase on the floor. Time for some fun. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
The daisy ever so softly, began to hum.
Mrs. Moore nodded. “So Mrs. Chandler was a New York Wilson? I hadn’t realized.”
“Oo-only the best f-f-f-or us.”
Mrs. Moore peered closer at him. Had she judged his stutter and sentenced him yet? His finger ran over the petals of some orange flower. Its subtle tune complemented the daisy.
Beside him, Millie fidgeted with excitement. “The Wilsons are an excellent
Similar Books
