tendrils of dark energy leaking out from under the door. The
dreamlight was so powerful that she could perceive it without raising her talent. But she was
familiar with the lamp’s currents, she reminded herself. She had been living with them since her
fifteenth year. For Griffin, however, the power of the lamp likely came as something of a shock
to the senses.
“Did you think I lied to you?” she asked. There was no logical reason why she should have been
offended by his lack of trust. When had she come to care for the opinion of a crime lord?
“No, Mrs. Pyne,” he said, studying the locked door. “I did not doubt that you believed you were
telling the truth. But I had to allow for the possibility that you were mistaken.”
“I understand.” She gentled her tone. “You did not want to have your hopes raised only to see
them dashed.”
He looked at her, brows slightly elevated, as though he found her sympathy charmingly naive.
“Something like that,” he agreed politely.
She cleared her throat. “I did warn you, it is not the sort of thing one keeps next to the bed,” she
said.
“As I recall, you mentioned that it was not the sort of ornament one kept on the maNtel ,” Griffin
said neutrally.
She felt herself turn very warm and knew that her cheeks were probably quite pink. She could
not believe that he was making her blush. But to give Winters his due, he gallantly pretended the
word bed was not now hanging between them like a razor-sharp sword.
She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, revealing the heavily shadowed interior
of the attic. The low-ceilinged room was crowded with the usual flotsam and jetsam that tended
to gravitate upward in any household: odd pieces of furniture, old paintings in heavy frames, a
cracked mirror and two large steamer trunks. The bulk of the stored items had been left behind
by the previous tenant; only the trunks belonged to Adelaide. Thirteen years spent on the road
did not allow one to collect a great many personal possessions.
“The lamp is inside that trunk,” she said. She took one step into the room and nodded toward the
second of the pair of steamers.
Griffin went past her and stopped at the large trunk. She watched him, aware of the seething
energy swirling in the atmosphere. Not all of it was coming from the lamp. Much of it emanated
from Griffin and for some inexplicable reason, she found it utterly enthralling.
“The artifact most certainly belongs to you, sir,” she said. “There cannot be any doubt. It is
obviously an object of enormous power. But I find it difficult to believe that your ancestor
actually thought it could endow him with additional talents.”
“I have translated the old bastard’s journal and studied it for years but even I don’t know the full
truth about the lamp.” Griffin did not take his eyes off the trunk. “I’m not sure that Nicholas,
himself, understood what he had created. He was quite unstable at the end. But he did not doubt
the lamp’s power.”
She moved a little farther into the room. “You said that Nicholas and Sylvester Jones were first
close friends and later rivals?”
“Mortal enemies would be a more accurate description. I suspect that they were both driven at
least partially mad by their lust for additional paranormal talents as well as by their own
alchemical experiments. They were convinced that if they solved the secret of enhancing
psychical powers they would add decades onto their normal life spans.”
“The ultimate alchemical quest.”
“Yes. They believed that the paranormal state was so entwined with the normal physical state
that an increase in talent would have a therapeutic effect on all the body’s organs.”
“But researchers have discovered that too much psychical stimulation drives one mad.”
“That’s certainly what Arcane’s experts have concluded.”
“There is some logic to the theory. Overstimulation
dreamlight was so powerful that she could perceive it without raising her talent. But she was
familiar with the lamp’s currents, she reminded herself. She had been living with them since her
fifteenth year. For Griffin, however, the power of the lamp likely came as something of a shock
to the senses.
“Did you think I lied to you?” she asked. There was no logical reason why she should have been
offended by his lack of trust. When had she come to care for the opinion of a crime lord?
“No, Mrs. Pyne,” he said, studying the locked door. “I did not doubt that you believed you were
telling the truth. But I had to allow for the possibility that you were mistaken.”
“I understand.” She gentled her tone. “You did not want to have your hopes raised only to see
them dashed.”
He looked at her, brows slightly elevated, as though he found her sympathy charmingly naive.
“Something like that,” he agreed politely.
She cleared her throat. “I did warn you, it is not the sort of thing one keeps next to the bed,” she
said.
“As I recall, you mentioned that it was not the sort of ornament one kept on the maNtel ,” Griffin
said neutrally.
She felt herself turn very warm and knew that her cheeks were probably quite pink. She could
not believe that he was making her blush. But to give Winters his due, he gallantly pretended the
word bed was not now hanging between them like a razor-sharp sword.
She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, revealing the heavily shadowed interior
of the attic. The low-ceilinged room was crowded with the usual flotsam and jetsam that tended
to gravitate upward in any household: odd pieces of furniture, old paintings in heavy frames, a
cracked mirror and two large steamer trunks. The bulk of the stored items had been left behind
by the previous tenant; only the trunks belonged to Adelaide. Thirteen years spent on the road
did not allow one to collect a great many personal possessions.
“The lamp is inside that trunk,” she said. She took one step into the room and nodded toward the
second of the pair of steamers.
Griffin went past her and stopped at the large trunk. She watched him, aware of the seething
energy swirling in the atmosphere. Not all of it was coming from the lamp. Much of it emanated
from Griffin and for some inexplicable reason, she found it utterly enthralling.
“The artifact most certainly belongs to you, sir,” she said. “There cannot be any doubt. It is
obviously an object of enormous power. But I find it difficult to believe that your ancestor
actually thought it could endow him with additional talents.”
“I have translated the old bastard’s journal and studied it for years but even I don’t know the full
truth about the lamp.” Griffin did not take his eyes off the trunk. “I’m not sure that Nicholas,
himself, understood what he had created. He was quite unstable at the end. But he did not doubt
the lamp’s power.”
She moved a little farther into the room. “You said that Nicholas and Sylvester Jones were first
close friends and later rivals?”
“Mortal enemies would be a more accurate description. I suspect that they were both driven at
least partially mad by their lust for additional paranormal talents as well as by their own
alchemical experiments. They were convinced that if they solved the secret of enhancing
psychical powers they would add decades onto their normal life spans.”
“The ultimate alchemical quest.”
“Yes. They believed that the paranormal state was so entwined with the normal physical state
that an increase in talent would have a therapeutic effect on all the body’s organs.”
“But researchers have discovered that too much psychical stimulation drives one mad.”
“That’s certainly what Arcane’s experts have concluded.”
“There is some logic to the theory. Overstimulation
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