and I could live at Dalgliesh one day.”
“I’d rather eat fried grasshoppers.”
“I thought you liked the castle.” Every September,when Dalgliesh was closed to tourists, we visited Lady Patricia. Vivi had played in the maze, explored the turrets, and walked the Scottish terriers. I’d thought the trips had gone well. Lady Patricia was seventy-nine years old. Technically, when her husband, Sir John Barrett, had died, Dalgliesh Castle had passed into Jude’s hands, but Vivi wouldn’t inherit the property until Jude died. Lady Patricia was afraid we might lose Dalgliesh, and she begged me to have Jude declared legally dead. I’d reluctantly agreed, and ever since, Vivi had been in a temper.
“Dalgliesh is okay,” Vivi said. “But I don’t want to live there.” She blinked convulsively as if cinders had flown into her eyes.
The back of my neck tingled, the way it always did when she was concealing something. “What’s really bothering you?”
A tear curved around her mouth and beaded on the edge of her lip. “Nothing.”
I remembered that her idea of the perfect mother was Dame Helen Mirren. I straightened the olive oil cruet.
“Please stop doing that,” she said, her eyes brimming. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just…I need air.”
She threw down her napkin, pushed back her chair, and vaulted to her feet. The people at the next table gaped as she ran out of the restaurant. I left a pile of euros on the table and walked outside, my heart tripping against my breast bone. I wasn’t sure where she had gone, but this lane went to the River Arno. I’d look there first. I loved this child beyond all else. Was I being too hard on her? Until now, she’d never cared where we lived. Usuallywe summered at one of Raphael’s homes, but I’d leased the Scottish house, mainly because Manderford was located on the sunny East Lothian coast, a place noted for dry, radiant summers. I’d hoped that Scotland’s long daylight hours would add a layer of protection from the Sinai Cabal, not that I’d heard from them in years. But I wasn’t taking chances. I was also looking forward to mucking around on the beach with Vivi, exploring the museums in Edinburgh, and researching the history of the North Berwick witch trials—the region was infamous for sixteenth-century burnings. I wondered if any of the accused had been half-vampires like myself. Many hybrids had perished during the Inquisition.
I let out a sigh when I spotted Vivi beside the bridge. I remembered that long-ago night when Raphael had shown up at São Tomé. He’d led me out of the cottage, Vivi asleep on his shoulder. Now she stood just ahead of me, her pink hair stirring in the wind, but she still looked like my baby.
As I moved toward her, I took a breath and tried to channel Dame Helen. What came out was vintage momster: “Thank goodness you’re all right.”
Vivi’s shoulders hunched. “It’s daylight. All the Italian vampires are in their crypts.”
“You’re just tired. Let’s go to the hotel.” I put my arm around her.
She leaned away. “Why did you make my father officially dead? You know he’s gone. Why did you need it on a piece of paper?”
So that was the real problem. We’d discussed the situation about Dalgliesh many times, but she was too caughtup in her own misery to care about a pile of rocks. I knew how she felt. I’d spent so many years in mourning, I wasn’t ready to move on. I wouldn’t know how. What did legally dead mean, anyway? A document hadn’t changed anything.
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to go to Scotland. There’s nothing but heather and men in kilts. Maybe
that’s
why we’re going. So you can fall in love.”
I wrapped my arms around my waist. An image from one of my dreams rose up. God, what was wrong with me? Actually, I had a theory. I was thirty-nine years old, on the cusp of my sexual peak, a dicey place for a hybrid, and my dreams were a
“I’d rather eat fried grasshoppers.”
“I thought you liked the castle.” Every September,when Dalgliesh was closed to tourists, we visited Lady Patricia. Vivi had played in the maze, explored the turrets, and walked the Scottish terriers. I’d thought the trips had gone well. Lady Patricia was seventy-nine years old. Technically, when her husband, Sir John Barrett, had died, Dalgliesh Castle had passed into Jude’s hands, but Vivi wouldn’t inherit the property until Jude died. Lady Patricia was afraid we might lose Dalgliesh, and she begged me to have Jude declared legally dead. I’d reluctantly agreed, and ever since, Vivi had been in a temper.
“Dalgliesh is okay,” Vivi said. “But I don’t want to live there.” She blinked convulsively as if cinders had flown into her eyes.
The back of my neck tingled, the way it always did when she was concealing something. “What’s really bothering you?”
A tear curved around her mouth and beaded on the edge of her lip. “Nothing.”
I remembered that her idea of the perfect mother was Dame Helen Mirren. I straightened the olive oil cruet.
“Please stop doing that,” she said, her eyes brimming. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just…I need air.”
She threw down her napkin, pushed back her chair, and vaulted to her feet. The people at the next table gaped as she ran out of the restaurant. I left a pile of euros on the table and walked outside, my heart tripping against my breast bone. I wasn’t sure where she had gone, but this lane went to the River Arno. I’d look there first. I loved this child beyond all else. Was I being too hard on her? Until now, she’d never cared where we lived. Usuallywe summered at one of Raphael’s homes, but I’d leased the Scottish house, mainly because Manderford was located on the sunny East Lothian coast, a place noted for dry, radiant summers. I’d hoped that Scotland’s long daylight hours would add a layer of protection from the Sinai Cabal, not that I’d heard from them in years. But I wasn’t taking chances. I was also looking forward to mucking around on the beach with Vivi, exploring the museums in Edinburgh, and researching the history of the North Berwick witch trials—the region was infamous for sixteenth-century burnings. I wondered if any of the accused had been half-vampires like myself. Many hybrids had perished during the Inquisition.
I let out a sigh when I spotted Vivi beside the bridge. I remembered that long-ago night when Raphael had shown up at São Tomé. He’d led me out of the cottage, Vivi asleep on his shoulder. Now she stood just ahead of me, her pink hair stirring in the wind, but she still looked like my baby.
As I moved toward her, I took a breath and tried to channel Dame Helen. What came out was vintage momster: “Thank goodness you’re all right.”
Vivi’s shoulders hunched. “It’s daylight. All the Italian vampires are in their crypts.”
“You’re just tired. Let’s go to the hotel.” I put my arm around her.
She leaned away. “Why did you make my father officially dead? You know he’s gone. Why did you need it on a piece of paper?”
So that was the real problem. We’d discussed the situation about Dalgliesh many times, but she was too caughtup in her own misery to care about a pile of rocks. I knew how she felt. I’d spent so many years in mourning, I wasn’t ready to move on. I wouldn’t know how. What did legally dead mean, anyway? A document hadn’t changed anything.
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to go to Scotland. There’s nothing but heather and men in kilts. Maybe
that’s
why we’re going. So you can fall in love.”
I wrapped my arms around my waist. An image from one of my dreams rose up. God, what was wrong with me? Actually, I had a theory. I was thirty-nine years old, on the cusp of my sexual peak, a dicey place for a hybrid, and my dreams were a
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