said, “Are you there?”
“Thinking,” Lannes muttered. “Ask around. I’ll call if anything changes.”
He hung up on his brother’s good-bye and sat still, wracking his brain. Coming up with nothing. He was going to have to ride this through. Play the situation by ear.
Lannes heard footsteps on the stairs. Quiet. Careful. He half-expected the woman to make a run for the front door again, but after a long minute of silence, he heard her walking down the hall toward the study.
He said, “I’m in here.”
The woman peered around the door. She still wore Clarissa’s old clothes, and her hair was wet. Her face was scrubbed clean and pink. She looked tired and tense, but there was a strength in her gaze that was sharper, clearer. Like she had gotten her second wind. He liked that. She was not a whiner. Not a quitter. And she had every reason to quit, based on what little he had gleaned.
“Feel better?” he asked, still seated.
She nodded, peering at the workshop, the glow of the antique lamps warm on her face. She carried the scent of lavender with her, and her feet, wrapped again in his big socks, flopped charmingly. The small garbage bag crammed with her old clothes swung from her hand.
She limped near, gazed down at the table covered in tools and paper. She seemed especially fascinated with the partial cover he had been working on, which was still laid out in loose form.
“Ulrich Schreier,” she murmured. “Your work is similar. And it looks as though you’re using the cuir-ciselé process.”
Lannes stared, heart thudding faster. “That’s a very obscure name. And a little known technique.”
She blinked, ripping her gaze from the table to stare at him. “Is it?”
He forced himself to breathe and folded his wings tighter around his body. He was wishing suddenly that he had not been so quick to free them. “Schreier was a fifteenth-century Austrian artisan. Famous in his time. But usually only bookbinders are familiar with his work.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Is that what you are?”
“It’s one of the things. I restore books. I make them, too.”
“Useful.”
“Not many would say so.”
“Then they’re not readers,” she said simply and frowned again, briefly shutting her eyes. Lannes leaned back, trying not to react. Her memories might be gone, but her spirit remained. Personality, likes and dislikes. A storehouse of random information.
“You should rest,” he said. “You can take the room you woke up in.”
“The sun will be up soon.”
“Does it matter?”
“I should say good-bye.”
“Sleep first, then good-bye.”
“What makes you think I don’t have somewhere to get to?”
“Because you would have gotten there by now.” Lannes wanted to stand, but his wings were pressing against the worktable, and that was probably the safest place for them. “The bedroom door has a lock, too, if you’re worried.”
The woman faltered, staring. “Why are you doing this?”
He smiled, sadly. “The way you ask…You think I’m going to hurt you.”
“I think you’ll want something, eventually.”
“You’re jaded.”
“I’m realistic.”
“Fair enough.” Lannes tried to think of anything that would reassure her, but nothing came to mind. She had a right to be scared. He was a big man with a suspicious absence of motives.
Lannes heard something outside the room. A click. Not from the stairs, not on the second floor, but closer. He froze, then stood so swiftly the woman backpedaled away from him. He did not try to reassure her, just walked into the hall. He tasted night on his tongue and moved faster, almost at a run, until he found himself in the foyer.
The front door was open. Not just a crack, but thrown wide. Heat washed over his back, and he moved aside as the woman drew up beside him. She stared at the door and went very still.
“I didn’t do that,” she whispered.
“I know,” he breathed. “Go upstairs, second door on your right. If Freddy is
“Thinking,” Lannes muttered. “Ask around. I’ll call if anything changes.”
He hung up on his brother’s good-bye and sat still, wracking his brain. Coming up with nothing. He was going to have to ride this through. Play the situation by ear.
Lannes heard footsteps on the stairs. Quiet. Careful. He half-expected the woman to make a run for the front door again, but after a long minute of silence, he heard her walking down the hall toward the study.
He said, “I’m in here.”
The woman peered around the door. She still wore Clarissa’s old clothes, and her hair was wet. Her face was scrubbed clean and pink. She looked tired and tense, but there was a strength in her gaze that was sharper, clearer. Like she had gotten her second wind. He liked that. She was not a whiner. Not a quitter. And she had every reason to quit, based on what little he had gleaned.
“Feel better?” he asked, still seated.
She nodded, peering at the workshop, the glow of the antique lamps warm on her face. She carried the scent of lavender with her, and her feet, wrapped again in his big socks, flopped charmingly. The small garbage bag crammed with her old clothes swung from her hand.
She limped near, gazed down at the table covered in tools and paper. She seemed especially fascinated with the partial cover he had been working on, which was still laid out in loose form.
“Ulrich Schreier,” she murmured. “Your work is similar. And it looks as though you’re using the cuir-ciselé process.”
Lannes stared, heart thudding faster. “That’s a very obscure name. And a little known technique.”
She blinked, ripping her gaze from the table to stare at him. “Is it?”
He forced himself to breathe and folded his wings tighter around his body. He was wishing suddenly that he had not been so quick to free them. “Schreier was a fifteenth-century Austrian artisan. Famous in his time. But usually only bookbinders are familiar with his work.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Is that what you are?”
“It’s one of the things. I restore books. I make them, too.”
“Useful.”
“Not many would say so.”
“Then they’re not readers,” she said simply and frowned again, briefly shutting her eyes. Lannes leaned back, trying not to react. Her memories might be gone, but her spirit remained. Personality, likes and dislikes. A storehouse of random information.
“You should rest,” he said. “You can take the room you woke up in.”
“The sun will be up soon.”
“Does it matter?”
“I should say good-bye.”
“Sleep first, then good-bye.”
“What makes you think I don’t have somewhere to get to?”
“Because you would have gotten there by now.” Lannes wanted to stand, but his wings were pressing against the worktable, and that was probably the safest place for them. “The bedroom door has a lock, too, if you’re worried.”
The woman faltered, staring. “Why are you doing this?”
He smiled, sadly. “The way you ask…You think I’m going to hurt you.”
“I think you’ll want something, eventually.”
“You’re jaded.”
“I’m realistic.”
“Fair enough.” Lannes tried to think of anything that would reassure her, but nothing came to mind. She had a right to be scared. He was a big man with a suspicious absence of motives.
Lannes heard something outside the room. A click. Not from the stairs, not on the second floor, but closer. He froze, then stood so swiftly the woman backpedaled away from him. He did not try to reassure her, just walked into the hall. He tasted night on his tongue and moved faster, almost at a run, until he found himself in the foyer.
The front door was open. Not just a crack, but thrown wide. Heat washed over his back, and he moved aside as the woman drew up beside him. She stared at the door and went very still.
“I didn’t do that,” she whispered.
“I know,” he breathed. “Go upstairs, second door on your right. If Freddy is
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