Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(100)

“I’m sorry,” Jilo said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s only the whole world has gone sideways lately.” Her agitated laughter turned as quick as a breath to an unwanted spray of tears. Ginny dug into her purse, then offered Jilo a crisp white handkerchief. Jilo noticed the monogram, VKT, embroidered on its exposed corner.

“Katherine,” Ginny said as she forced the linen into Jilo’s hand, somehow picking up on Jilo’s dim curiosity. “Virginia Katherine Taylor,” she said, closing the door behind her. Placing a hand on Jilo’s shoulder, she guided her into her own front room. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ginny said, adding, “Guy,” as if by some slim chance Jilo would not have understood. What this decorous woman didn’t understand was that it wasn’t just Guy that Jilo had lost. She had lost herself, too, and she was only now finding the misplaced pieces. “He was a great talent, a loss not only to you, but also to the art world.” Ginny stopped talking and bit her lip, evidently realizing that Jilo couldn’t give a damn about the art world. At least not today. Someday, maybe, someday the old news articles, the ones Guy had kept in a beat-up leather scrapbook, the cuttings that spoke of his genius, of his sense of composition and his use of color, perhaps she would be able to present these to Robinson, engender a sense of pride in her son. That kind of thing was important for a boy.

“I would have come sooner,” Ginny continued, bringing Jilo back to the current moment, “but my own life has undergone great changes since Uncle Finnian died.” Her gaze grew soft, falling away from Jilo. “I’ve inherited certain familial duties that once belonged to him.” She glanced back at Jilo. “Edwin felt quite fortunate to have dodged my fate,” she said, for a moment a bit of her old self shining through.

“You’ve spoken to Edwin?” Jilo asked. From what she’d gleaned from Binah’s letters, Edwin had been out of touch with all of the Taylors.

“Of course,” she said, “he was here in February, for the drawing of lots. He didn’t have a choice. Family schism or no, the line won’t be denied. Of course,” she continued, as if Jilo had the slightest clue what she meant, “he didn’t remain for the investment ceremony.” Again she turned inward, “I wish he would have. I could have used his support.”

“And Binah?” Jilo couldn’t believe her brother-in-law could have come and gone without even a word. And Binah hadn’t mentioned Edwin’s visit in any of her letters. It was almost like she had been ignorant of her husband’s travels.

Jilo didn’t care whether it was fair or not. She let herself wonder if a visit from Edwin might have somehow changed the course of events. Maybe her son wouldn’t have been left without a father if Edwin had popped by, even for an hour, to spend time with his great friend, Guy. Maybe he could have somehow anticipated that fool Maguire’s machinations.

Ginny seemed almost surprised at the mention of Binah’s name. “Oh, no, she remained abroad. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for her to come,” she said, not bothering to justify the claim. Binah was Edwin’s wife. How could her presence at this gathering be inappropriate? Inconvenient, that was more like it, Jilo reckoned. “Besides, Edwin was only here for the day, and he didn’t travel by . . .” She paused, seeming to search for the right word. “. . . conventional means. I’m sorry”—her tone suggested she wanted to change topics—“but I can’t stay long, and I do want to answer your questions, as best I can. May we sit?”

Jilo cast an eye to the sofa covered with the toys Tinker had insisted on bringing for Robinson, and the battered chair whose gravity she’d barely escaped. “Of course,” she said, “come through to the kitchen. I’ll make coffee . . .” She choked on the word. She hadn’t even considered brewing a pot since Guy’s passing. “If you’d like.”

“Yes,” Ginny said. “Let’s settle wherever you’re most comfortable. But no need to play hostess. Lead the way.” There wasn’t much way to lead, but Jilo directed Ginny down the hall to her kitchen. “Truth is,” Ginny said as they entered the room, “I’ve never been much of one for coffee. Always preferred chicory myself.”

For a moment, Jilo felt an odd and unexpected sense of comradery with this woman. “I could—” she began, but Ginny held up a hand.

“No, please, I don’t want to be a bother. And our time is short.”

Jilo motioned to a chair at the table. “Have a seat.” Tinker had offered to replace the furniture, but these battered pieces had once belonged to her nana, and Jilo found it too difficult to part with them, even though she was tormented by the knowledge of her nana’s deceptions. Willy had cleaned the soiled table set, scrubbing it with bleach water and a wire brush before painting it with a fresh coat of lime-green enamel. Jilo had told him he could choose the color. He’d been so proud of his efforts, Jilo found herself proud of them, too.

Ginny placed her hand on the back of a chair and froze. “I’m sorry.” She jerked her hand away. “I can’t.” She traced a finger along the top of the backrest. “I can still sense them.” She looked up. “Yes, the bodies, but the forces that were connected to them, too. I can’t risk letting myself come under their influence.”