18. In Which Luke Discovers a Magical Amulet

It was for the best.

Luke picked up the lamp and moved to exit the bedroom.

As he approached the arched doorway, he noticed something in the periphery of his vision. A blue glint on the arch.

Luke looked up at it, and froze in surprise.

In the center of the arch, hanging by a short string, was a round, flat piece of glass holding concentric circles of blue, the size of his palm. An amulet to ward away the evil eye.

Luke recognized it because he had given it to the earl. He’d bought it outside a ruin in Greece when he was fifteen years old. It required the last of his pocket money, but after weeks as Bexley’s shadow, he felt he must give the man some token of appreciation for his generosity.

“A magical amulet,” Bexley had said, in an amused tone that let Luke know he found the concept ridiculous. They were on the ship, and Bexley was at his desk, writing.

Luke had shrugged. He didn’t believe in nonsense, either. “Thought you’d like the color.”

Bexley had smiled then. He did favor cobalt blue. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”

Luke could not imagine that he would. People gave the earl magnificent gifts all the time, and he bought heaps of souvenirs in every port. He’d chuck it in a chest, or lose it, or give it away. Regardless, it was the giving that mattered.

Luke was leaving when the man said, “Ash. Would you like to hear my one spiritual belief?”

Luke had turned. Bexley was running his thumb over the evil eye. “There’s no God, of course. Or angels, or objects that shield from evil. None of those will keep a man safe. And I have a ridiculous amount of money so I don’t mind telling you, hoarding that won’t keep you safe, either.” He fixed Luke with a look that was serious and amused at once—the way he always looked when he said something important. “The only thing with that sort of power is connection with another. Friendship. We keep our eye on each other. That is real.” He smiled. “And so this bit of glass is more powerful than you thought.”

Then he waved Luke away and resumed writing.

Thirteen years later, it turned out that Bexley had held onto the bit of glass. And he’d placed it in the center of the secret heart of the building that was his life’s work.

It took Luke a moment to realize he was shaking. He’d been focused on his breath, keeping it regular, and flexing his hands, which had begun to tingle. His heart was pounding.

Someone had to keep going after the fire. Denton was drunk, the new earl was grieving. Someone had to be calm. Someone had to be able to think. There was so much to do.

Then Grace came, and it was a relief to feel contempt, anger, mortification—none of those even brushed up against any emotion with the power to fell him. And when things changed between them, that was its own welcome distraction.

But the museum was open. The job was done. It was all ... over.

His last moments with Grace were over—and he’d made a vicious, pitiable mash of them.

Bexley was dead.

His mentor. Teacher. His friend.

Gone.

Grace’s voice carried from the sitting room. “Are you coming?”

Luke shut his eyes. “Go on ahead.”

“It is pitch dark,” she snapped, and then she was walking toward him, and he only just managed to turn away before she saw his face. “What are you peering at?”

“Nothing of import.” Collecting himself, he turned toward her, because he had to in order to get through the door.

But when she saw his face, she stood in his way. A probing look in her eyes. “Luke ...”

He needed to say something offhanded. Or amusing. Or cutting. But his mind was occupied in keeping his features placid, his breathing regular.

“You look as though—” she stopped herself, realizing what she’d been about to say.

Bloody hell. He affected a raised brow. “As though someone’s just died?” he finished for her, blandly. “Did not mean to linger. We can go.”

Evidently, his dismissive demeanor was unconvincing. She hovered where she was, uncertain, but unwilling to step aside. “I’d like nothing more than to leave you be, believe me. But ... you look very pale.”

“I’m well.”

“No, you are not.” Whatever she saw, it had caused all her anger to temporarily evaporate, leaving only worry. “Ashburton. Do I need to advise you to breathe?”

He should laugh. He should make a joke. He should pull his spent, maudlin self together.

“It is nothing,” he said, and was horrified to hear his voice trembling. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. That ... trinket up there. I gave it to Bex—”

His throat closed. His eyes filling with tears. Damn it.

Gently, she lifted the lamp out of his hands, set it down. “Luke. It’s all right.”

He shook his head. It was anything but all right. It was iron, cracking. He could not bear it.

She stepped closer. “We can hack off one another’s remaining limbs shortly,” she murmured. “For a moment ... let us call a truce.”

“Please ... ” Please go. But he could not finish it.

She laid a hand on his forearm, and he realized his arms were crossed over his chest. “How exhausted you must be,” she said, and her voice was so gentle it drew a choked sound from him. “Seeing to everything, from the moment he died.”

If he contemplated what she was saying, he would disintegrate. He needed to say something to push it all away. But all he could do was keep his arms tight around himself.

She did not move her hand. “Day and night, in the very building where we lost him, repairing the destruction, making it as he would have wanted. All the rest of us falling apart and letting you pin us back together. Even in the solarium ... I’m sure it wasn’t too much a burden, but if we’re honest, you were doing it to help me go on.”

If he had his wits about him, there were a hundred quips he could make. A hundred protestations that his interest in her pleasure would be identical with or without a museum to open.

But all he could do was stand there. Bloody trembling .

“Is this the first you’ve really felt it?” She asked, softly. “Luke ... you ought to let yourself feel it.”

She was sliding that hand to his shoulder, and he could not have this—he could not —if she put her arms around him, he would fall to pieces—“Grace—don’t—”

But then her arms were encircling him. Guiding his head down to her shoulder. God , the warmth of her, the smell of her, the strength, the aliveness. It surrounded him. Filled him. Without thinking, his arms moved to embrace her, pull her tight against his chest.

And then the box shattered and he was sobbing.

She held him as it shook him. She stroked his hair, his back, and he could not recall the last time he’d been touched so gently, with such care. Sometime in the ancient past, before his brother died, perhaps, when his mother could bear to be tender. Not since.

“You know, Charlie would think you very silly to try to hold back the biology of it,” she murmured. “It’s only salt water.” And then, “Let go, love. I have you.”

The grief was a gale. Stopping every voice in his head. Stopping time. It broke him to pieces too small to see with the eye. Boiled him to vapor.

And yet.

Her. In the center of it. With him. Crying with him, and whispering to him. Let it pass through you. It never takes as long as you’d think. A little laugh through her tears. I cry ten times a day. Her mouth, pressed to his temple. I have you. The solidity of her, anchoring him to the earth. I have you. The wisdom in her hands, stroking his back. I have you, love. The sweetness. God, the sweetness. He’d never known anything like it. His body full against a body that only wanted to comfort him. Ride through the dark of the wave with him.

“I do understand,” she whispered, as it began to loosen his grip on him, to ebb. “His loss is unbearable.”

He sighed into her hair. “His ... is not the only loss I grieve.”

He felt her tighten. Her hands clenched fistfuls of his jacket.

He blew out a long exhale. Steadier, now. And lifted his face to meet her eyes. She smoothed her hand over his cheeks, to wipe away his tears. He wiped away hers with a thumb. And then they both gave a little laugh, at the strange, tender symmetry of it.

So this was the other side of the storm. This peace. Lightness.

She laid her cheek against his shoulder. Staying in the embrace. Lingering.

He wanted to thank her. But he didn’t want to disturb this silence. So they stood there, in each other’s arms.

And then, slowly, something began to shift.

Neither had moved. Yet, one moment, she was comfort. And the next ... she was a woman. Her body against his, the flower garden of her hair. Miles of soft skin under a gown he was fairly confident he could unbutton in under thirty seconds.

She felt the shift, he knew; he heard it in her breathing. And her stillness—no longer repose. Now she was holding herself.

She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Are you ... ” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed, tried again. “Are you well?”

“No,” he said, and it was clear she knew exactly what he meant.

She studied him. Thoughtful. She seemed to be mulling a decision.

Finally, she spoke. “Luke ... I will walk with you out of this room. And we will part friends.”

He tilted his head, as though mildly dubious. “Will we?”

“If we can keep our deuced mouths shut and resist lashing out for the time it takes to walk back to Bexley Hall, I believe it is genuinely possible.”

“You must know why I do it,” he said softly. “Despite holding you in the highest possible regard. It’s all because you terrify me.”

She looked surprised, and her brow shot up at the word terrify. “Afraid I’ll say something so emasculating you’ll turn to stone where you stand?”

He resisted an urge to match her sardonic tone. “No. It’s what I feel when I’m near you. The vulnerability is bloody agonizing. It’s ... walking off a cliff into the sheer air. So I get it wrong. And I hurt you. Because I’m terrified of your power to do it to me. I’m not sure why you’d comfort me, Grace. You’re more generous than I deserve.”

She blinked, taken aback. “Don’t make me out to be a saint. I’ve said horrible things.”

He ticked a shoulder. “As I’ve said, often, when you’re scathing, I rather want to kiss you. And other times,” he continued, “the wounding is transcendently brutal, because you’ve put some ugly truth I thought no one could see onto the tip of your bayonet.”

“Now you are too generous. Sometimes it’s less truth and more whatever I know will cut deepest. Because ...I’m the air, too.”

A moment, as they contemplated it. The energy between them sharp and uncertain.

“So. You suggest we part friends,” he said.

“Yes.”

Another moment. Neither moving.

“Was there an ‘or’?”

She nodded slowly. “Or I will kiss you.”

Weightless, glimmering, that idea. A butterfly, flitting between them. “I see.”

“But if I do it ... I want everything. And tomorrow will hurt like the devil.”

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t imagine I would recover.”

She nodded, like this was what she expected him to say.

She began to move away—but he held her where she was.

“Kiss me,” he said.