Circle of Spies (42 page)

Marietta edged up her chin, though he didn't miss her shiver at the next mighty heave of thunder. She said nothing at all, though he imagined some choice explanations ran through her mind.

Mrs. Hughes stepped by them. “Well, I was just on my way to lie down. I always enjoy listening to the rain.”

“Certainly. Rest well, Mother Hughes.” Marietta shifted her hold on Elsie and continued to the kitchen.

Slade grinned when the girl peeked at him and made the sign for his name. He returned the greeting with the sign for hers. He was far behind the others in terms of understanding, but a few of the oft-used signs he had picked up this past week. When he wasn't staring in amazement at how Marietta never once faltered as she taught them.

She faltered now, though, when the kitchen windows shook in their frames as they entered. His instinct was to slip an arm around her waist, but he didn't dare. Tandy, loyal to Mrs. Hughes, certainly couldn't be counted on to not mention it, and he had the impression Cora wasn't all that pleased at his and Marietta's familiarity either, despite Walker's new amusement with it. All he felt safe doing was to briefly touch the small of her back.

Cora stood before a stack of vegetables and within seconds had taken Elsie from Marietta's arms. Rain hammered against the glass, and no one tried to speak above it except to explain Freeda's departure. Within a minute, Marietta left the room.

Slade paused in the doorway and looked from Cora to Tandy to the small, high panes of glass over the work area. “Stay away from the windows.”

Marietta must have heard his quiet warning. When he caught up with her in the main hall, she sent him an almost accusing glare. “Why would you tell them that?”

As if in answer, the sound of shattering glass came from the parlor. With a whimper, Marietta took off that direction, and Slade ran to gain the room ahead of her. He stopped her a step inside with an outstretched arm. It wasn't too bad—the topmost pane of the corner window now had a jagged hole, but it was on the protected side of the house, so not much rain should come in. Though it apparently hadn't stopped the piece of slate from hurtling at them from the nearby roof. The broken culprit rested, wet and heavy, on the floor amid shards of glass.

“We can take care of it when the storm passes. It will be all right.” But when he turned around, she didn't look all right. Her eyes were
wide as a kitten's and her hands shook, though she tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt.

Another peal of thunder shook the remaining panes and looked to nearly undo her. What was he to do but wrap his arms around her and hold her close? “Ah, Yetta.” The scent of lilacs drifted from her hair. Which he may not have noticed had he not rested his head on hers. “It's nothing to worry about.”

“Says the man who just spent an hour frowning at the clouds.” Her arms cinched tight around him.

He wouldn't have, had he realized how much she hated storms. Though to be honest, the howl of the wind didn't set easy with him either. If he saw those clouds twisting, the way they did five years ago… “Come on. There's nothing we can do, so we had better find a distraction.”

Giving in, he touched his lips to the bruise on her temple. Unwise on the one hand, though he couldn't regret it when he pulled away and saw that old flirtatious glint in her eyes. Much as he liked the depth of the new Marietta, he did have a certain predilection for the fire of the old one.

Her fear very nearly left her eyes when she batted her lashes at him. “What kind of distraction do you have in mind, Mr. Osborne?”

For the sake of his sanity, he chuckled and stepped away. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the parlor. “Don't tempt me, Mrs. Hughes.”

“Why ever not? I can think of no better distraction than—”

“We're going to have to make due with second-best.” He pulled her into the library, to a corner well away from the sweeping glass window, and swung her toward a chair.

She put just enough weight into the movement to land on the couch instead, and then she tugged him down beside her. Heaven help him, he shouldn't smile…but he couldn't help it. “Now there's something worth noting. When you get frightened, you get flirtatious.”

Lightning flashed, the thunder all but tripping over it. Her eyes flickered like a lamp in the wind. “You had better provide that second-best distraction soon, Slade, or I will be forced to resort to the first.”

“Right.” He pushed back to his feet before he could invite the fool move. “If you will light a lamp, I'll grab the book.”

It took him a minute to locate it on the shelf. He had picked it up
before but had opted as usual for one that would remind him of who he was and what he was doing here. Now, though, they needed an escape, not a sermon.

There. He grabbed the volume of short stories and turned back to the couch. A glowing lamp perched on the table beside Marietta.

She looked unsteady as she stared out the window, and no wonder. The boughs of the trees bent low, and the rain lashed at the glass. Down the street, a piece of fencing ricocheted off one building and then another. His throat went dry.

“Here.” He handed Marietta the book and settled beside her again.

She frowned. “Poe? You think to distract me from the storm with Gothic horror?”

“The storm will be nothing but a backdrop. You obviously like his work.”

“Hmm?” Confusion cloaked her face for half a moment. “Oh, the parlor game. I glanced through this compilation once. I don't really…but you have a point. It will provide ample distraction.”

Slade leaned into his corner of the sofa and studied her as she opened the tome and flipped through it with shaking fingers. The pages seemed determined to stick together. Or maybe her hands just refused to cooperate. After a moment, she slapped the cover shut again and shut her eyes, drawing in a long breath. “Which story would you like?”

“How about ‘The Cask of Amontillado'?”

She nodded but made no move to open the book. Didn't even open her eyes.

Slade cleared his throat. “Do you want me to find it?”

“No.”

“Or I can read—”

“No. Just…” She shook her head and leaned back. “ ‘The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as best I could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.' ”

“Wait.” He sat up straight again. “You have it memorized? You just said you had read it once.”

Her eyes opened and glowed green-gold in the lamplight. “Do you want to hear it or not? Because if not, I would be more than happy to toss myself into your arms to pass the time.”

His lips twitched. That rated as the most interesting threat he had ever received. “Sorry. Go on.”

She closed her eyes again. “ ‘You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat…' ”

He slid the book from her lap and located the story, reading along with her. She didn't miss a word—or rather, when she did, she quickly corrected her fumble. Nearing the end of the page, he prepared to flip it…and frowned. The pages were still folded together from the press, uncut, making the inner pages inaccessible. He fished out his penknife.

Marietta stumbled over her words, came to a halt, and opened her eyes. A frown marred her brow. “Let me see that.” Without waiting for his reply, she took the book back and sighed when she noted the same thing he had.

He leaned over and slid the blade along the crease, separating the pages and revealing the words.

She glanced at one page, the other, and then handed the book back and closed her eyes again. “ ‘We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of catacombs.' ”

“Yetta.” He didn't know whether to stare at the book or her. Obviously, she had never read these pages before.

“ ‘I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.' ”

“Yetta.” He seized her by the elbow, though hesitatingly. But she opened her eyes, glanced once out the window at the still-raging storm, and then turned her gaze to him, somber. He rested his arm on the back of the couch, his fingers resting against her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Her smile, for a reason he couldn't discern, looked self-deprecating. “Reading.”

“No, you're…what? Reciting?”

“No.” Her gaze fell to her hands, which were twisting and untwisting a portion of her skirt. “Recitation, as I understand it, is when you purposefully commit something to memory and then deliver it through practice. I am
reading
. From the pages in my memory.”

“Reading from…” He blinked, but that did nothing to help. He
moistened his lips, but with the same lack of result. “You mean, you have only to glance at a thing once, and you can recall the entire page perfectly?”

So all those times he had seen her sitting in seeming idleness, with her eyes closed just like this…

“Mm-hmm.”

“The files from the desk.” That was how she had copied them so exactly after she had given him her key. And what was it she had said when he asked her whether she had looked at them? That she had taken a glance—and that a glance was all it took. “The way you flipped through the book in the cellar. Yetta, that's—”

“Interesting, odd, and hard to believe.”

He reached for her hands and stilled them. “I was going to say miraculous. But how—so you remember everything you set your eyes to, or do you have to make a point of it?”

“Everything.” The way she said it…her tone heavy, her shoulders slumped. “Everything. Always. Not that the images are always there, but they can reemerge without warning. And they can evade me when I am too tired or in distress. Sometimes they flip so quickly before my mind's eye that I can scarcely lay hold of any one memory.”

A miracle and a burden both, then. He couldn't imagine. Sure, it would be convenient not to forget the important things. But everything? “Just visual memories, then. Things you read or see or…”

“No.” She said it on a half laugh, but this time she looked at him. Exhaustion filled her eyes. “Every word spoken, every event on every day.”

Which would mean every harsh word. Every scream, every tear, every fear. “How do you not go mad?”

Again she laughed, more fully this time, with a hint of relief. Her fingers hooked around his. “For years I decided the only way to handle it was to live solely in the moment.”

“There's a certain kind of logic to that.”

“A foolish kind, but yes.” Her breath quavered as she pulled it in, but he didn't think it had anything to do with the newest roar of thunder that shook the house. “My family…they always thought it so amazing. A miracle, as you said. A gift from God. And it is, but they never
understood why I sometimes hated it. Why I never wanted anyone to know. It is one thing to amuse a party with a parlor game, but they always thought it some trick.”

His hand on her shoulder traced the contour and trailed up her graceful neck. “Easier that way. If they realized, then they would never say an honest word in your company.”

“Exactly. And the Hugheses…” She shook her head, turned his palm over between hers, and wove their fingers together. “The thought of them knowing set alarm bells ringing. Perhaps I always knew they protected their ambitions above all, and they might think me a threat to them if they realized.”

So they didn't know. Lucien hadn't, and neither did Dev. But Walker would, growing up with her. That was why he had asked her to help with the signs. Why she never fumbled with them.

And she had told him. She made a definite choice to by reading as she had just done. Made him one of a select few who knew the depths of her mind.

And here he was, determined not to kiss her. Why, again, was that the wise course?

She glanced up at him. “But I could help you more. You see that, don't you? If you show me all you're working with, I can help.”

If she didn't look so resigned to failure even as she asked it, he may have suspected her motives. He still did, in part. He drew in a long breath. “Is that why you just told me this? To try to get me to bring you into this business?”

The lightning-lit surprise in her eyes couldn't have been feigned. “No. I just…trust you. You've become a…”

“Friend?”

“Not the word I was looking for.” She raised their joined hands and kissed his. Who knew such a light touch could make his stomach go so tight? “But I suppose it will do.”

Heaven help him. “I can't put you in any more danger, Yetta. I can't. But…Hughes is involved in something important. I think the orders came straight from Richmond. So if you hear anything…”

She nodded, a hint of fresh life sparking in her eyes. “I'll be listening. Though he hasn't been over much.”

“Yeah.” Hearing footsteps scurrying along the hall, he removed his hands back to his own lap and rested them on the book again. “I can't say I mind his absence.”