In a high-backed chair near the window sat a woman in a blue dress, a woven shawl in a rainbow of colors draped around her shoulders. Her skin was warmly colored and well wrinkled, her hair cropped and gray, her eyes hauntingly blue. She was a beautiful woman even now, and had probably been stunning in her youth. And I recognized her.
She was Eleanor Arsenault. The Arsenaults were old New Orleans from an even older Creole family. They’d had a mansion on Esplanade and threw big krewe parties every year. Or at least they had before the war ended those traditions.
She looked toward me, then Liam, and she smiled broadly. Her gaze fell near us, but not upon us, as if she couldn’t see precisely where we were. If she could see, it didn’t look like she could see very well.
“Hello, Eleanor,” he said, walking toward her, and pressing his lips to her cheek.
“Hello, darling. How are you?”
“I’m good. I brought you some tea.”
So that’s what had been in the paper bag. I should have snooped. And I should certainly find Quinn’s dealer.
“And how’s your friend?” Eleanor asked. “Your Blythe?”
“She’s . . . fine.”
I guessed Blythe was his girlfriend.
“Mm-hmm,” Eleanor said, and looked at me. “And who is this?”
“Claire Connolly. She works in the Quarter. She’s Sensitive.”
“Ah,” she said, and looked toward me with those hauntingly blue eyes. Toward, but not quite at. Her eyes were focused on something, but I didn’t think it was me.
“I’m Eleanor,” she said with a smile, and patted the arm of her chair. Come sit by me, Claire Connolly.”
I walked toward her, sat down on the small footstool in front of the chair. She held out a hand, and I offered mine. Her skin was cool and soft, and felt as fragile as a bird’s.
“Tell me about yourself, Claire.”
I looked hesitantly between her and Liam. “I’m not sure there’s much to tell.”
“There’s always something to tell. You’re from New Orleans. I can tell from your voice. It’s a lovely voice.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m from New Orleans. My father’s family is from here. The Connollys.”
She smiled softly. “No ma’ams are necessary here, dear. We’re already friends if you’ve gotten past Liam, Victoria, and Foster.”
“Liam barked the most.”
Eleanor threw back her head and laughed with gorgeous melody. “So he does, dear. So he does. Now, you said you’re a Connolly. That’s not the Michael Connolly family, is it? The one who ran Royal Mercantile?”
“Michael was my great-grandfather.” He’d emigrated from Ireland. “My father’s name was Mark.”
She nodded. “I believe my family knew both of them. Bought from the store frequently.” Her voice softened. “And is your family still living?”
“No. I mean, not the Connolly side. My dad was the only one left. He’s gone. I didn’t know my mother.”
She made a soft sound of acknowledgment or understanding. “I see. And that makes you the last of your line. Is the store still open?”
“It is. For as long as I can keep it.”
And then it hit me. Because of Liam, I hoped I’d be able to continue running the store, to look forward to a “normal” life, something I thought was impossible only a little while ago.
I looked at him, found his eyes already on me. “Liam helped me tonight. The store will be open tomorrow because he helped me.”
Liam nodded. “Least I could do.”
“Well,” Eleanor said. “Well. I’m glad to hear he’s doing his part for this city. It’s a good city, where we live.” She patted my hand, still in hers, and looked just over my head. It occurred to me that perhaps she couldn’t see at all.
“You can call things,” she said. “Move them.”
I blinked. I hadn’t thought of it as “calling” things before, but yeah—that’s pretty much exactly what I did. “Yes. You can tell that?”
“I’m only blind in this world, dear. Not the other one.”
Startled, I looked at Liam.
“Eleanor was struck by a sharur, an enchanted mace, during the Second Battle. She began to lose her vision—in our world—and she became able to see magic.”
“You’re Sensitive?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said. “At least, not in any way that activates the magic monitors. We believe Sensitives are born, that their Sensitivity is part of their makeup. I wasn’t born this way, but received my new sight—that’s what I like to call it: my new sight—because I was hit by magic. And perhaps because of where I was hit by magic.” She touched her forehead gingerly, where a pale scar crossed her forehead at an angle.
“Prefrontal cortex,” Liam said.
“The impulse-control center,” I said, and Liam nodded with approval.
“That’s basically where she was hit,” he said. “We think that might be the reason she’s been affected this way.”
“And not affected the other ways,” Eleanor said. “But enough about me. What brings you by?”
“Claire needs a teacher.”
I didn’t like the implication—that I was doing it wrong currently—but I couldn’t exactly disagree with him.