“How old were you?”
“Three months.”
He opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like his childhood had been conventional, but at least his had been private. People had thought he was imaginative when he’d mention seeing fairies, but Lydia had grown up in the shadow of her grandmother’s business and without a mother. That couldn’t have been easy.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t remember her. She had me at seventeen and took off. I had a nanny and Gran and that was all I knew until I went to school. Then I realized how different my family was.” She crossed her arms as if shielding herself from the cruel barbs kids made. But there was no defense.
He knew he shouldn’t pry—he was here to assess the estate, not chat up its owner—but he couldn’t help wanting to know more about her, wanting to melt her cool façade. “And your father?”
“No idea. I think Gran blamed herself and that’s why she shut down the parties. Helen had started joining in, but Gran didn’t realize until she was pregnant and then it all fell apart.” Lydia leaned against the door as if she needed the support. “And they’re just the recent skeletons. Wait until you start digging.” She forced a smile. “Still, I loved growing up here.” Her voice softened as if she was remembering happier times. “The stories, the dress-ups—there is a whole wardrobe of fancy clothes—I was surrounded by people who loved me. It could have been worse. She could have taken me with her.”
They looked at each other for a moment, but he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t change her past no matter how much of it he could see. He wouldn’t assess the room that had been hers—not by using his talent, anyway. The furniture wasn’t antique; he could just make a visual judgment the way a more human assessor would.
Lydia broke the silence. “Shall we go downstairs?”
“Is there much more to see?” Already he was tallying the hours.
“Not much. The kitchen, the yard, and the old stable building that hasn’t been opened in too many years. Plus the three cabins on the verge of collapse—rumor is they were used to make and store whisky during Prohibition.” She closed the doors and they began walking down the two flights to ground level.
“Are any of them full of antiques?”
“That would depend on your definition, Mr. Mort.”
“Caspian.” The decorative light fixture in the stairwell looked as though it had been installed around the same time electricity was connected. “I think assessing the house is going to take me longer that I thought.”
“You sound dismayed… Caspian.”
His name on her lips sounded nice. He wanted to hear it again. The walls seemed to sigh around him, the slow languorous sigh of a satisfied lover, reminding him there was a reason he hadn’t dated since his divorce. He saw too much and could never be honest. He wasn’t going to repeat the same mistake; the next person he was with would know the truth.
“Not at all. I love old furniture and looking into its past.” Spending more time with her wasn’t going to be difficult at all.
“But?” She paused on the landing, one hand on the railing.
Caspian stood opposite her and let his fingertips brush the wood. He didn’t have to imagine the parties that went on below; he could see them. Laid over each other in a haze of alcohol, perfume, and skin. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he’d be able to separate them all instead of just feeling the rush of excitement and the heat of desire. The yearning that lingered long after everyone had left. Just being in the house was crumbling the walls he usually put up against getting lost in the past.
Could he do this job without drowning? He didn’t need it, but he wanted it. There was so much here—and then there was Lydia. This close he could smell her floral perfume, something soft and almost faded that she’d probably put on in the morning, and he wasn’t sure if the heat in his blood was entirely from the past.
She was watching him. He needed to get a grip and focus on the present. She tilted her head a fraction, a small smile on her lips as if she was appraising him and liking what she saw. If only she knew… she’d run.
“But it’s going to take time.” This was not a one-evening job, or even a one-weekend job. And if there was furniture or items in the outbuildings it could really drag on. Although there were worse places to be working.
“I know. But it has to be done.”
He nodded. He didn’t want anyone else to do it, even though he wasn’t sure he could do it without getting lost in history. “Has the house been valued?”
“It will be. Once that’s done and you’re done, the carve-up can begin.” Her words caught in her throat and she turned away to walk down the last flight of stairs.
He felt the shock as a physical blow, breaking apart the pieces that made up Callaway House would be like destroying any artifact. He suppressed the urge to voice his objections. This wasn’t his house, and he knew nothing about Madam Callaway’s will, only that Lydia obviously didn’t want that to happen either.
“You’re selling?” was all he managed to say as he followed her to the rear of the house and into the kitchen.
“Hopefully not. But the will may be contested, so I have to be prepared.” Her lips turned down, but she lifted her gaze to him. “Still, it’s got to be done and it’s not your problem. So, when will you start?”
Caspian looked at the notes he’d made, then back at Lydia. Her eyebrows were slightly raised as she waited for his response. He wanted to be something else, someone else so she wouldn’t see him and think of her grandmother’s death. No matter what he did, death surrounded him. The joy of being fairy.
He should finish this job as fast as possible because an attraction to Lydia would only end badly. Yet he wanted to see her blond hair loose and without the suit she wore like armor. When he blinked, the image of her leading him up the stairs to the bedrooms remained. A taunt? A glimpse of the future? Or the past teasing him with things he couldn’t have?
“Did your grandmother have any of the furniture valued previously? Or did she keep a list of items for insurance?”
Lydia pushed a black folder over the kitchen table. “This is everything I could find. But I don’t know how complete it is, or how accurate. I know it’s not recent.”
He picked up the folder without touching the table. He was very used to not touching surfaces. Usually his defense against unwanted information was better, but the sheer weight of history around him was unavoidable.
Caspian flicked a couple of pages and saw the handwritten list. Spots of water had stained the page. Tears. He didn’t need to see the past to know that. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Most people won’t be.” She forced a smile that held no warmth, and he knew it was one that got well used. “Once the press finds out…” She shook her head.
He could imagine. The house’s history would be in the news again, and Lydia by default. “You don’t have to be here while I work if you’d rather keep your distance.”
Her eyes flashed, hard as stone. “I want to be here. This is my house.”
“I’d like you to be here too, to answer any questions I have.” Now he would have to ask some questions, otherwise she might ask a few too many of her own about why he insisted on touching everything. Everything but her, even though he wanted to reach out and run his fingers over skin instead of lifeless wood and metal. Old memories of other people’s lives were a hollow reminder of everything he’d walked away from. “Evenings?”
“Weekend?”
“I have a shop to run on Saturday.”
She pressed her lips together as she thought. “You don’t mind coming here for just a few hours at a time?”