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Angela and Prudence walked on, leaving Ezekiel and Corin to speak in private. Angela felt a quiver in her chest, then realized she was channeling the sensation from Prudence. She had lowered her empathic wall moments earlier to assess Ezekiel’s emotions and had forgotten to raise the barrier back up. Why was the older woman’s heartbeat unsteady? Was she ill?

“I can’t quite place your uncle’s accent,” Prudence said, touching her hair and glancing back at Corin, who was moving away through the crowd with Ezekiel. Her light-rosy complexion took on a deeper blush, and Angela again sensed the flutter in Prudence’s chest.

Then Angela understood, and she bit her lip, fighting the urge to smile. She likes Uncle Corin! She continued to read Prudence’s emotions, curious to know how deep her attraction to Corin was. “He’s Romanian-French. We actually lived in Paris before we immigrated to the United States.”

“Really? You don’t have an accent like your uncle.”

“I was seven when we left France, and I’ve lost most of my accent.”

Prudence gave Angela a sidelong glance. “Did you ever go back to visit?”

“No, we haven’t traveled outside the U.S. since we moved here.”

“Then you met Edgar before you left Paris?” Angela could sense that Prudence’s interest was piqued. “He just arrived in the U.S. almost five months ago, and he told me he’s never been outside of Europe till now.”

Angela’s mirth faded. “Oh, uh …” She had to confirm what Ezekiel said before about their alleged friendship. “Yes, that’s right. We met in Paris.” She fiddled with her nails, resisting the urge to bite them.

Prudence paused and gestured to the nearby relief carvings. “Do you recognize anyone in these portraits?”

Angela shook her head. “Should I?”

“They’re people Edgar once knew.” Prudence tilted her head in mild interest. “I thought maybe you knew them as well.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. No, I never met them.” Angela folded her hands to stop herself from fidgeting. “Or maybe I did. I don’t remember too many people from when I was that young. It’s difficult to keep in touch when you live on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“I suppose.” Prudence shrugged. “I’ve only lived overseas for a few years.”

Angela sensed Prudence’s curiosity diminishing, much to her relief. “Did you ever meet any of these people?”

“Me? Oh, no, I never had the pleasure, but Edgar told me about some of them.” Prudence pointed to one portrait. “That’s his brother, Enoch.”

Enoch’s hair was lighter than Ezekiel’s, but he still bore a striking resemblance to his brother with a pointed beard, an aquiline nose, and blue eyes. He wore early 17th-century clothing.

“Edgar got a little carried away and put everyone in Renaissance costumes,” Prudence explained, walking onward. “Although he also did a few portraits with 18th and 19th-century outfits, which I did tell him was after the Renaissance period.” She gestured to the next image in the series. “Those are his parents, Daniel and Temperance.”

Daniel resembled Ezekiel a great deal, but with a more rotund physique, short dark-auburn hair, and a bushier beard. He had a self-assured posture and clever eyes the same color as Ezekiel’s. His wife, Temperance, was a pale woman with gray eyes and golden-tawny hair. Angela could see little of Ezekiel in his mother’s sullen countenance.

Prudence stopped and half-turned to face Angela. “You know, the way Edgar introduced you … Well, I rarely see him that delighted.” She gave a thoughtful smile. “I’m glad you and your uncle came tonight.”

Prudence’s warmth and affection for Ezekiel washed over Angela, and she couldn’t help but return Prudence’s smile. “You really care about Mr. Blair, don’t you?”

Prudence chuckled. “Yes, he’s a sweetheart.”

“How did you meet?” Angela moved away from the portraits and motioned for Prudence to do the same to avoid blocking the way for other visitors.

“We met two years ago while I was living overseas. I work as a talent agent, and an opera company in London was putting together a production of Charles Gounod’s Faust. I was overseeing the auditions, and Edgar just sauntered in to try out for the role of Méphistophélès."

“Wait, Mr. Blair’s an opera singer?” Angela cut in.

“Goodness, it has been a while since you last saw him. Yes, he’s an opera singer.” Prudence frowned. “Though at the time, he didn’t have any of the qualifications—no formal training, academic degree, or performance experience. For the life of me, I cannot figure out how he even made it into the auditions with no credentials.”

“Pardon me for saying, but you seem a little annoyed,” Angela ventured.

“Do I?” Prudence winced. “I’m not sure if I should tell you this, but when we first met, I didn’t particularly like Edgar.”

“You didn’t?” Angela leaned in.

Prudence sighed. “Well … it’s just that other singers were auditioning for that role, and they had worked their entire lives honing their voices. These were singers with master’s degrees in music performance. Not to say Edgar didn’t work hard too. I mean, he must have. His singing was incredible, but he wouldn’t say where he learned or who trained him. I just found it odd, and I felt that the role should have gone to one of the credentialed singers.” 

“Should have? So he got the part then.”

“He did, and not one week later, an understudy told me Edgar wasn’t going to rehearsals on time, showing up in the late afternoon. I would have given him the boot, but Edgar persuaded the director to let him come and go as he pleased. I can’t even …” Prudence trailed off and pinched the bridge of her nose. “God, listen to me still grousing over it. Sorry, I don’t know why I told you all that.”

Angela knew the reason for Ezekiel’s unprofessionalism—daylight also impaired Corin—but she understood Prudence’s frustration. “My grandmother directed our church choir. If anyone had pulled that stunt with her, she would have hung their flayed skin on the pulpit.” This earned a laugh from Prudence. “I imagine his performance suffered.”

“On the contrary, Edgar’s performance was flawless. He was practicing at home, apparently.”

“But you were still put out with him?” Angela probed.

A wistful smile spread across Prudence’s face. “Well, yes, but after opening night, Edgar came up to me and apologized for his behavior. We got to talking, he treated me to dinner, and over the next few months, we became close friends.”

The affection radiating off Prudence bathed Angela in warmth. What Prudence felt for Ezekiel was near identical to the love Angela received from her uncle and grandmother growing up. Did Prudence regard Ezekiel as something like a son? “I’m glad you worked things ou—” She gasped in mid-sentence, her heart racing.

Prudence looked at Angela with concern. “Sweetie, are you okay? You’re shaking.”

The back of Angela’s neck grew hot with rage, except she wasn’t angry. What is this?

“You’re paranoid,” a woman groaned nearby.

“Hey, go ahead and chat with the prick if that’s what you want,” a man grumbled.

Angela looked in the direction the voices came from, her fists clenched at her sides. Stephen and Violette stood nearby, mere yards away, and Stephen’s hands were fisted just like Angela’s.

“Oh, for the love of …” Violette stopped and turned to face Stephen. “All I did was compliment his portraits.”

Prudence ignored the couple arguing nearby. “Honey, tell me what’s wrong. Should I get your uncle?”

Angela closed her eyes and hugged herself, bracing against Stephen’s rage. “I can’t … Oh, God.” She had fully opened herself to Prudence’s emotions, and Stephen’s seething fury had burst through that opening like a flash flood. Adrenaline raced through Angela’s system, sweat breaking out on her forehead. She struggled to raise her empathic barrier.

“Right, so it’s a problem if I talk to another girl,” Stephen snapped, “but I’m paranoid if I call you out for fawning over that bearded gasbag.”

“Keep your voice down,” Violette hissed. “What are you talking about? What girl?”

“Angie. You didn’t want me talking to her.”

“Are you serious?” Violette scoffed. “I called you back because I don’t know anyone here. You know I get nervous around new people, but you still ditched me.”

Stephen massaged his temples. “Oh, here we go again with that anxiety excuse. What, did you forget to take your damn Prozac?”

Angela had almost built up her empathic shield when a second wave of anger ripped through her, this time from Violette. Her rage shattered Angela’s partially raised barrier.

“You insufferable bastard!”

Violette’s fury flooded Angela’s senses, and searing heat tore through her mind. Her eyes were still closed, but she could smell the smoke and feel the heat nearby.

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