Page 27 of House of Crimson Kisses
Eventually, the horse sticks its head back over the stable door, and she unfreezes and pats its velvety nose.
She wraps her arms around its neck and leans into its ear almost like she’s whispering to it. I shift foot to foot, and a twig snaps underneath my feet. Sadie stands bolt upright and turns to find me. It makes me feel like a trespasser.
Her eyes lock onto mine and narrow. She’s motionless, yet an ocean of darkness swims in her expression. It makes me wonder what’s truly beneath the surface.
I edge away. But she’s already charging across the yard towards me, her gaze fixed on me the way it was on the horse. I shiver.
I glance at the path I came down. I could turn back, probably should. Instead, I step towards her.
Why the hell I would want to be caught near a St Clair on my own, at night, when they’re my competition, I’ve no clue. But here we are.
She halts. Waits for me to come to her, fucking entitled. Just like the rest of the St Clair’s. Why should they come to you when you can go to them?
But regardless, I step toward her. She stares at me the whole time, patiently waiting for me to reach her.
“Hi,” I wave, knowing that she uses sign.
“Hi,” she waves. Her expression is open, friendly. The opposite of what it was facing that horse. I wonder if it’s a ruse, whether she’s waiting for me to turn my back so she can drain me and eliminate the competition?
“Shouldn’t you be with Octavia in the castle?” she says. Or I think she does. My signing is a little lacklustre. It’s been a while since one of my students spoke in sign.
I take a second to process what she said.
“Ah. Yes. I, umm… I have to get back to her, you’re right.”
Her eyes narrow further at me. She doesn’t buy the bullshit I’m selling. It occurs to me then that she works in the church, with the spirit, with the fibre of our beings, and that perhaps she could give me back the memories Octavia stole.
“Can I ask you an answer?” I sign.
She frowns at me.
I try again. “Can. I. Ask. You. An. Answer?”
She smirks. “You mean question?” she signs correctly.
“Shit. Yes. A question,” I half say half gesture as I mimic her hand movements. Signing is coming back to me now.
“Sure,” she shrugs.
“In the church, you guys focus on spirit stuff, right?” I ask.
She bites her lip as if trying to suppress a smirk. “Yes, we do spirit stuff.”
“Gods, sorry, I’m not being very polite. What I mean is, do you work with people’s minds?”
“Sort of,” she signs.
“Could you tell if someone’s memories have been messed with?”
That earns me a tilt of her head as she examines my expression. “Yes. Do you mean compulsion?”
I shake my head, not understanding the word.
She rolls her eyes at me and signs slower. “Com-pul-sion.”
“Yes. That. Can you help someone get them back?”
She folds her arms, making me wait while she decides whether to tell me what I want to know. She pauses long enough I shift on the spot, uncomfortable with the silence. But as I drag my gaze from her, she unclasps her hands and answers.
