The Warlock's Daughter Read Free

and whirled away. Stepping toward the family tomb with fluid grace, he returned with the vase she had been sent to find.
    “You wanted this, I think.”
    How could she have forgotten? The answer was in the form of the man before her. Foolish, so foolish. She murmured her thanks, not quite meeting his gaze as she accepted the piece of white porcelain.
    To stroll at Renfrey's side along the rows of tombs toward where the gate stood open had all the tremulous excitement of the forbidden. Carita salved her conscience with the knowledge that it would be for only a few short minutes. At the same time, she savored, carefully, the close company; it was so very rare.
    Her aunt had done her duty by taking an orphaned babe into her home, but Carita never felt as if she belonged; there was always a sense of being there on sufferance. As she grew older and her cousins, her aunt's daughters, married, she had been left the sole companion of her aunt. The two of them had sadly little in common, however, as Carita had no liking for gossip and hand work such as funeral jewelry made from human hair, and her Aunt Berthe cared nothing for books or ideas.
    Taught from an early age to make herself useful around the house, Carita had only discovered after she came of age that the household subsisted on money left behind by her father for her care. By then, service, like isolation, had become a habit.
    Renfrey matched his pace to hers without apparent effort. He was an able escort as they wove in and out among the tombs, steering her clear of entanglements and around obstacles. She could feel the warmth of his body, sense the taut muscles and sinews under the broadcloth of his sleeve beneath her grasp.
    He had thrown back his cape so that the lining had a blood-like sheen as it dipped and swirled behind his shoulders. In his free hand he swung his cane, batting at the dusty heads of weeds. Well-balanced, it seemed rather heavy, as if it might have a sword concealed in its glinting, silver-tipped length.
    The night flowed, timeless and lavender-gray around them, shutting out all else. Behind them, a gray cat followed at a distance, a soft-slipping shadow leaping from tomb to tomb with insouciance, mincing down the gravel walk, starting at shadows to streak ahead then sit waiting for them.
    Conversation being an accomplishment expected of a lady, Carita said after a moment, “You are not from New Orleans, I think? Are you visiting relatives or friends?”
    “What makes you think this isn't my home?” The words were accompanied by a quick downward glance.
    “The way you speak, for one thing,” she said. “You have an accent I find hard to place. Then you appear a gentleman, yet I've never seen you at the theater or any of the balls of the winter season. The social circle here is small; we should have met at some time or other.”
    “Actually, I arrived only recently,” he said.
    “From Europe, perhaps?”
    “Among other places, from Turkey to Taipei.”
    “A world traveler,” she said dryly.
    “In a fashion. I am thinking of staying, though whether I will… depends .”
    “On what?” It seemed a natural question.
    “Developments.” He went on with hardly a pause. “You enjoy your life here? You never think of leaving?”
    “Often,” she said. “There is so much beyond this one place that I would like to see.”
    “Then you aren't happy?”
    “Oh, who would not wish for some change, however small? No matter. I am resigned if not content.” The understanding in his voice was addictive; she must beware of it.
    His glance was skeptical. “What do you do with your days?”
    “Very little you would consider of interest,” she said in even tones.
    “Permit me to guess. You direct your aunt's servants in their cleaning; you order the meals, see to the shopping. You mend and sew and embroider linens. Yes, and you fetch and carry and run the small errands your aunt finds inconvenient.”
    “How did you—” she began, then stopped