Phoebe spoke for the first time since dinner. “We learned about Oscar Wilde in school, but I’d quite forgotten. It’s bloody awful, punishing a person simply because of who they love. One can’t help that, can they?”
“No,” Moira agreed. “No, they can’t. But what we can do is support those we love, whether we agree or no. We protect them, aye. While also allowing them the freedom to become the person they’re meant to be. Do you take my meaning?”
Phoebe’s gaze dropped to the table. She knew exactly what—?or who—?Moira meant. And though stubbornness pressed her lips together, she didn’t argue the point.
Later, in front of the computer in my bedroom, I hesitated.
“If you don’t do it, I will,” Phoebe said. “We need to find out more about this Gabriella chippy.”
Phoebe tugged my hand from my lips. Blood was smeared on the thumbnail where I’d been nipping at the cuticle. “Do it.”
I heaved a sigh and hit Enter next to the search box beside her name.
Gabriella’s full name popped up first.
Gabriella de Roca y Fonseca de Villena.
“Well, that’s a mouthful,” Phoebe snorted.
Though a very old and noble name, the current family was nothing compared to what it had once been. From what we could find, Gabriella had been telling the truth. After her grandfather’s death, she’d pretty much had to fend for herself.
She’d done well. Full scholarship to Barcelona’s Institut del Teatre. Accolades aplenty. Competition wins. She’d been an up-and-comer in the classical dance world until—?a year earlier—?her career had been cut short by the injury to her knee.
There were so, so many photos. Captured mid-leap, a pale and mournful Gabriella dancing the Black Swan in Swan Lake. A pensive Gabriella, poised on the ends of her toes and dressed in full Spanish regalia as she performed the flamenco before an enormous crowd.
Then, there were the paparazzi shots of her, smiling and glamorous, wheat-gold hair loosed from its tight bun in a variety of photos with members of posh European party sets.
The last photo was a year old, and looked to be the final taken before injury had sidelined the girl forever. In it, a group of young elites was being ushered past a waiting crowd into some nightclub or chic event. Dressed in a slinky silver number that revealed nearly every inch of her long and perfectly sculpted thigh muscles, Gabriella gleamed at the camera over one bare shoulder. The boy beside her had shed his black jacket and rolled up the sleeves of a white tuxedo shirt. One of those tanned arms was wrapped loosely around Gabriella’s tiny waist. Though we couldn’t see his face, I didn’t need to read the tabloid caption.
Phoebe paused to squint at the monitor. “Wait. Is that . . . ?”
“Yep,” I said. “It sure as hell is.”
In bed, I tried to convince myself. She’s his cousin. Okay, not technically a blood relative but still. He would’ve told me about her, eventually. I know he would’ve. But I couldn’t shake that image of his arm around her waist.
After exhaustion and . . . yeah, okay . . . jealousy and fear dragged me under like a relentless tide, I woke exhausted, sweaty from nightmares of careening through a black abyss. I finally gave up and spent the predawn hours huddled in one of Moira’s comfy afghans as I stared out over the dark and enigmatic world outside my window.
Chapter 14
THE FIRST TIME I ENTERED THE IMMENSE HIGH-TECH vault beneath my aunt’s home I’d inadvertently locked myself inside, and for a while—?until I found the light switch that revealed a collection worthy of any museum—?I had lost my mind. Now, as I stepped past the five-inch-thick reinforced steel door that housed the Viators’ extensive treasure trove, I stopped short. Collum cursed as he bumped into my back.
“Watch it,” he muttered, sliding around me.
Moving out of the doorway, I edged over to stand before one of two hermitically sealed cases that flanked the round entry. Inside the smoked glass cubicle, two wires dangled from the ceiling, empty and useless.
“Aunt Lucinda?” My voice pinged off the stone. “Where is it? Where’s the tapestry?”
“The hanging was donated to the Museum of Edinburgh two weeks ago,” Aunt Lucinda said as she passed by.
“Thanks for telling me.”
She stopped, one eyebrow raised beneath her blond wig as she pivoted toward me. “I wasn’t aware that I needed your approval to run this business, Hope,” my aunt replied crisply. “I shall endeavor to do so from now on.” Without another word, she walked away.
Nostrils flaring, I choked back a reply. For reasons I couldn’t exactly explain, every time I passed through here, it had comforted me to glance over and see my mother’s face woven into the ancient tapestry. It meant we’d won. That my mom was safe. Alive.
“Oi,” Phoebe said, giving my corseted waist a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry, aye? We’ll go see it at the museum soon as we return. I promise.”
One glance at my friend’s sympathetic expression and I felt like the world’s biggest ass. Was I really standing here fretting over a stupid piece of cloth while she worried herself sick over what might happen to Doug? Not to mention that my mom had made it back. Her dad was still out there.
Good going, Hope. Could you be any more selfish?
Since Doug’s announcement, a worry line had made a permanent home across Phoebe’s forehead. I smiled as I tugged at a curl of her auburn wig.
“Listen, we’re going to watch out for him,” I promised. “Make sure he takes his medicine. Doesn’t overdo it. All that. We’ll keep him safe, Pheebs.”
When she shrugged and tried to pull away, I held on. “Doug wants this so much. He wants to prove he’s not some invalid that you have to take care of,” I said. “I think . . . I think you should let him do that.”
Her eyes cut away, but not before I saw the gloss of tears. “If something happens to him,” she rasped, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I know,” I said. “Which is why I am prepared to be on him like white on rice.”
She looked at me askance. “What in all blazing hells does that mean?”
“No idea, but my great-grandma used to say it all the time when anyone in our family acted like a douche to me.” I humped my shoulders, quoting in my best Southern old lady voice. “‘You little hellions leave my sweet girl alone or I’ll be on you like white on rice.’”
Her laugh burst out on a snort. “Jesus, that was terrible.”
“Are you two going to stand there laughing like a couple of lunatics?” Collum called out. “Or are we doing this?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “We’re coming.”
As we hurried to catch up, I grinned, gratified to see that the wrinkle over my friend’s eyes had vanished.