Page 47 of A Winding Wave of Magic
My mouth fell even further. “You…know?”
I’d suspected as much, but I hadn’t realizedhehad known what was happening. To start, it was unheard of for adallto be able to See that way. Secondly, even other seers weren’t affected by my touch the way I was. They Saw in their own ways—not through mine.
Lynch only shrugged, though he did look slightly uncomfortable. “We could do it another way, but based on our interactions, this will be simplest, I believe. You’ll see.”
“But I’m not—how could I—are you suggesting I’m some kind of shifter? Someone pretending to be Cassandra Whelan?” I’d heard of such things, though I’d never met anyone with that kind of ability.
He shook his head. “I know you’re not. But one can’t be too certain. Look, there are other more invasive methods I can use to get the information, but a simple touch and a brief spell will suffice. All you need to do is grant me permission. Now, shall we waste any more time arguing or will you answer a few questions?”
Perhaps this was why my grandmother had put her estate into the hands of a sorcerer instead of one of us. Because they were generally so cold and calculating, maybe she had thought their objectivity would be an asset. But for her to be so upfront about our identities with another being was a shock—secrecy wasthepremier virtue she had touted my entire life.
In that case, I realized I couldn’t simply allow him to search my identity by whatever magic Jonathan Lynch possessed in his elegant fingers. Nor could I allow him to plumb through my talents either if that was indeed what he could do.
“I don’t think so,” I said, regaining my voice. “You may be the executor, but my grandmother would never have wanted me to divulge my identity and memories to a complete stranger. You’ll have to accept some other form of identification.”
To my surprise, Lynch smiled and withdrew his hand. Once again, the expression changed his entire face from attractively stern to outright gorgeous. Full-on, it was blinding.
I looked away. Gran knew how to pick them.
“Good girl,” he murmured and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “That’s one.”
I frowned. “That was a test?”
“Which you passed. And just so you know, I can’t actually See anything without your…desire.” His eyes flickered to mine. And, unless I imagined it, to my mouth.
I shivered. What was that supposed to mean?
“All right, then. Place your hand on the will.”
I looked down at the document in front of me, only then noticing that the letters on the pages were quickly fading away into nothing. “Why? What’s going to happen?”
“It’s memory-locked,” Lynch said. “You were able to See there was a will, but not long enough to read it. Penny bound it with a spell that requires the beneficiary—that’s you—to share the exact same memory with her. When you touch it, the memories in the document should reach your own and verify the truth of what you See to everyone present. It’s a complicated spell that needs both a seer and a sorcerer to work. That would be me.”
“I see now why you wanted to go somewhere private.” I eyed the now-blank paper suspiciously.
“Yes. Now, if it’s not precisely the same thing she invested in the spell, you’ll See nothing—not the memory nor the will.”
“But how can we share the same memory? Even if we were both looking at the ocean, we would have seen it from slightly different angles.”
“It’ll be a memory of your own you’ve shared with her,” Lynch clarified. “Or perhaps one she shared with you. Penny was uncommonly good at extracting, if you recall. A gift you appear to have inherited.” He didn’t seem to want to admit it.
“Yes, I do recall.” I couldn’t have hidden anything from her if I tried. It made it nearly impossible to get away with anything.
“So, then. Set your hand on the paper to unlock it.”
Somewhat reluctantly, I hovered my palm over the blank document. Part of me still wondered if this was all an elaborate trap. Was he actually working for Gran, or in league with that terrible shadowed man, perhaps sent to finish me off? The thought of her murder set my teeth together. There was no real choice here. I needed to find out more, and Lynch was providing one way—maybe the only way—of doing it.
I set my hand on the paper and was transported to another time and place.
Lynchand I stood at the bus stop on the 101, where cars sped around the hairpin turn south toward Nehalem or north Seaside. There was a video rental shop and gas station next to a carved wooden sign that readWelcome to Manzanitaalongside painted white gulls, and we watched as a family walked to the small parking lot.
The family was one I knew well. A lithe, black-haired girl stood between a tall man in cammies and a bright eyed woman with curly red hair. The man smiled at the girl, and the memory struck a chord deep in my chest.
Jimmy Whelan, smiling at his daughter. Smiling at me, around twelve years old. Then turning to say goodbye to his wife. My mother, Sybil.
“Daddy,” I croaked, but my voice was stuck in my throat.
Jimmy Whelan looked just as I had last seen him: young and vibrant, with close-cropped blond hair and a wide, open smile tinged with knowledge far beyond his twenty-nine years. His bright blue eyes twinkled like a robin’s eggs with the kind of charisma that would make any woman, daughters included, fall completely in love with him.
