Dangerous Thoughts

Chapter 18

Saturday morning, Charles stood on the front porch of the Monroe estate, a pit of dread growing ever larger in his stomach.

It took him a while to gather his courage, but finally he lifted a hand and rapped on the door.

Cecilia opened it moments later. "Charles!" she said, green eyes widening in surprise. "I wasn't expecting to see you this morning. Is everything all right?"

She had no doubt been startled by the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes. He wondered if she had even noticed the small cut on his jawline—his shaky hands had slipped and he had cut himself while shaving.

"May we... may I have a moment of your time, Cecilia?" he said, forcing out the words. "To talk?"

His fiancée blinked in surprise, but nodded her head. "Sure." She peered out the front door. "The weather looks lovely. Why don't we sit in the back garden?"

Charles nodded dumbly and Cecilia stepped out of her home, looking like a breath of fresh air in a cream cotton gown. She reached for his offered arm; the weight of her flesh sent lovely shivers down his spine. But this time, he was aware of another sensation: a calming buzz, like he had just drunk a few glasses of brandy. Typically, her touch would set his heart at ease; today, it made it race madly in his chest.

He escorted her around the porch and down the small set of steps into the back garden. There were cobblestone pathways lined with mature trees, rows of trimmed hedges interrupted by bright splashes of flowers, a small pond teeming with water lilies, and a quiet bench in the shade.

Although Charles was the one guiding her, he felt that he wasn't entirely in control of his actions. His feet carried him to the bench, almost against his will. This was a bench they had sat at together many times before, the same spot where he had asked for her hand in marriage only a few months ago. This garden held so many fond memories, and yet now, as he sat in the midst of so much beauty, everything around him felt dull. It was as if someone had thrown a watercolor painting into a lake, blurring the ink until something that had once been so delicate and beautiful was nothing but a smudge.

Once seated, Cecilia's mouth puckered with worry. "Charles, is everything all right? Is something wrong with James? Or Lavinia's mother?"

Charles tried to swallow, but his mouth felt too dry. "Cecilia," he said, his voice nearly cracking, "we're to be wed in a few months. And I was just wondering... I was wondering if there is anything about yourself that you aren't telling me."

Cecilia blinked, and a look of confusion crossed her face, so genuine that Charles couldn't help but think that perhaps Lillian was wrong. Perhaps Cecilia wasn't a "truth void" at all, and Lillian's accusation was just another ploy.

"I don't think so," Cecilia said. "I feel like I share everything with you. Why are you wondering this now? Did something happen?"

She touched his hand and Charles felt it again: the soothing sensation settling his nerves. Now he was certain it wasn't a figment of his imagination. So, syllable by syllable, he forced the words out: "Are you a mage?"

For the first time since Charles had met her, he saw panic flash in Cecilia's green eyes—her pupils dilated, her lashes fluttered. "Where did you hear that from?" she demanded.

"You didn't answer me. Are you a mage?"

Cecilia drew a shaky breath, her eyes downward. And then, slowly, she nodded.

Charles' heart sank. With that single nod, he felt like he'd been thrown into a whirlpool and was slowly getting dragged under the current. "What kind of mage?"