up!”
My eyes widen. “Oh my! A pop-up bread toaster. I’ve heard of those.”
His face falls and he heaves a deep sigh. “That’s the problem. Every time I think I have a winner, I find out it’s already been invented. But this one is much improved.”
“I’m sure it is and I’m positive you’ll think of something,” I say to reassure him. “What else have you invented?”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know! But you’ll have to tell me something first. Aren’t those séances just a hoax?”
His eyes fix on mine, glinting with shrewd curiosity. My first instinct is to lie. The truth might get us arrested. But an image of the planchette moving on its own under my fingers and Walter moving through my body makes me shudder. “Not always,” I say softly.
“So then your mother is more of a magician than a medium?”
I consider that. Though my mother knows a bit of sleight of hand, her abilities are the result of my showmanship. “Not really. She’s more like a really good actress.”
I shift uneasily in my seat. That’s more than I’ve ever told anyone about what my mother and I do. How odd that I should trust a gruff old man with clever blue eyes.
Suddenly a burning smell fills the kitchen and thick black smoke pours from the bread-toasting machine. I back up hastily and Mr. Darby yanks the plug from the wall. Then he grabs a wet towel from the sink and pulls the scorched bread from the machine. I clap my hand over my mouth and he casts me a look as he tosses the burned offering into the sink.
“Don’t you laugh at me, missy!”
I shake my head but don’t dare answer.
“Good God! What have you done this time?”
I jump as Cole rushes through the doorway behind me. He skids to a stop when he spots the machine sitting on the counter. “Oh. Burned toast for breakfast again, I see.” He notices me and nods politely. “If you’ve come to dine, I think you should reconsider.”
His voice is thick with irony and he gives me a smile— a real smile that lights up his whole face and makes him look more like a boy than a schoolteacher. My breath hitches.
“We’ve already had breakfast,” Mr. Darby answers crossly. “I was just showing her my machine.”
“You should be flattered. He doesn’t show his machines to just anyone.”
Cole glances at me and then away. Casually, I move back to the table and brush up against him, sending out a pulse strand as I do so. But before the strand can connect, it’s deflected, like it hit a wall of some kind. I frown. I’ve never felt anything like that before.
“And just who else would I be showing it to?” Mr. Darby asks belligerently.
I edge toward the sitting room, unsettled. “I should be going. My mother will wonder where I’ve gotten to.”
I gather up my things, and Cole takes the basket from me.
“Allow me,” he says politely.
“It’s only upstairs,” I protest.
“I don’t often get to act like a gentleman. Indulge me.” He inclines his head and sounds so formal, it’s hard to believe that he was teasing Mr. Darby just a few minutes ago.
I follow him through the sitting room, Mr. Darby right on our heels. “You come back anytime, girl. I haven’t even shown you my workshop yet.”
I nod. “I will. I’d love that.”
Cole and I walk out into the stairwell. I reach for my basket and he hands it to me with a slight smile that softens his stern lips. I find myself staring at his lips and look quickly away, embarrassed.
“Thank you for coming to visit. Mr. Darby can be a bit crabby, but that’s only a front.”
“I like him,” I say truthfully.
As I stand there, looking into his dark eyes, the strangest feeling comes over me. As if we are somehow connected. The space between us is almost alive with a dawning awareness of the other person. This new sensation is as intriguing as it is alarming and I fight my temptation to just give in to it.
Swallowing, I turn to go upstairs, but he reaches out and catches my coat.
My eyes widen. “Oh my! A pop-up bread toaster. I’ve heard of those.”
His face falls and he heaves a deep sigh. “That’s the problem. Every time I think I have a winner, I find out it’s already been invented. But this one is much improved.”
“I’m sure it is and I’m positive you’ll think of something,” I say to reassure him. “What else have you invented?”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know! But you’ll have to tell me something first. Aren’t those séances just a hoax?”
His eyes fix on mine, glinting with shrewd curiosity. My first instinct is to lie. The truth might get us arrested. But an image of the planchette moving on its own under my fingers and Walter moving through my body makes me shudder. “Not always,” I say softly.
“So then your mother is more of a magician than a medium?”
I consider that. Though my mother knows a bit of sleight of hand, her abilities are the result of my showmanship. “Not really. She’s more like a really good actress.”
I shift uneasily in my seat. That’s more than I’ve ever told anyone about what my mother and I do. How odd that I should trust a gruff old man with clever blue eyes.
Suddenly a burning smell fills the kitchen and thick black smoke pours from the bread-toasting machine. I back up hastily and Mr. Darby yanks the plug from the wall. Then he grabs a wet towel from the sink and pulls the scorched bread from the machine. I clap my hand over my mouth and he casts me a look as he tosses the burned offering into the sink.
“Don’t you laugh at me, missy!”
I shake my head but don’t dare answer.
“Good God! What have you done this time?”
I jump as Cole rushes through the doorway behind me. He skids to a stop when he spots the machine sitting on the counter. “Oh. Burned toast for breakfast again, I see.” He notices me and nods politely. “If you’ve come to dine, I think you should reconsider.”
His voice is thick with irony and he gives me a smile— a real smile that lights up his whole face and makes him look more like a boy than a schoolteacher. My breath hitches.
“We’ve already had breakfast,” Mr. Darby answers crossly. “I was just showing her my machine.”
“You should be flattered. He doesn’t show his machines to just anyone.”
Cole glances at me and then away. Casually, I move back to the table and brush up against him, sending out a pulse strand as I do so. But before the strand can connect, it’s deflected, like it hit a wall of some kind. I frown. I’ve never felt anything like that before.
“And just who else would I be showing it to?” Mr. Darby asks belligerently.
I edge toward the sitting room, unsettled. “I should be going. My mother will wonder where I’ve gotten to.”
I gather up my things, and Cole takes the basket from me.
“Allow me,” he says politely.
“It’s only upstairs,” I protest.
“I don’t often get to act like a gentleman. Indulge me.” He inclines his head and sounds so formal, it’s hard to believe that he was teasing Mr. Darby just a few minutes ago.
I follow him through the sitting room, Mr. Darby right on our heels. “You come back anytime, girl. I haven’t even shown you my workshop yet.”
I nod. “I will. I’d love that.”
Cole and I walk out into the stairwell. I reach for my basket and he hands it to me with a slight smile that softens his stern lips. I find myself staring at his lips and look quickly away, embarrassed.
“Thank you for coming to visit. Mr. Darby can be a bit crabby, but that’s only a front.”
“I like him,” I say truthfully.
As I stand there, looking into his dark eyes, the strangest feeling comes over me. As if we are somehow connected. The space between us is almost alive with a dawning awareness of the other person. This new sensation is as intriguing as it is alarming and I fight my temptation to just give in to it.
Swallowing, I turn to go upstairs, but he reaches out and catches my coat.
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