Visions (Cainsville #2)(48)

Rose continued, “The reason I recognize the house is these.” She pointed at the photos I’d taken of the friezes. “I remember going there as a very young girl. My mother would take me for readings.”

“The owner was a psychic?”

“Not . . . exactly.” Rose’s gaze rose to meet my eyes. “She could read omens.”

I opened my mouth to say, “What?,” but nothing came out and I sat there, goose bumps rising on my arms.

“You knew someone who could read omens?” That was Gabriel, a chill creeping into his gaze. “I think Olivia could have used this information sooner.”

“There wasn’t any information to give her. I vaguely recalled a woman in Cainsville with the same gift. I’ve been going through my old diaries, trying to remember details. I also wanted to speak to the elders, see if someone remembered her. When I had more, I planned to tell Olivia.”

“That’s fine,” I said, ignoring the look on Gabriel’s face that said otherwise. “This woman who lived there—she could do what I do?”

“I believe so. From what I recall, my mother would go to her for guidance. The woman would ask questions, interpreting omens that my mother had seen, and suggest a course of action. A variation on what I do. She died before I came into my own power. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have had more dealings with her.”

“Then she’s not the woman who lived there last.”

“Oh, no. The one I knew was at least ninety, and I wasn’t even school age yet. As I recall, her husband built the house for her, which explains the friezes. I vaguely remember a grandson and his wife who lived there when I was growing up. At some point it was bought by the last owner.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “The point is that this house was owned by someone with the same ability as Olivia. That is worth looking into, as someone using that house is threatening Olivia. Show Rose the triskelion.”

I did, and I told her about the vision.

“Bean nighe,” she said as she rose. “The washerwoman.”

“So not a banshee?”

Rose took a book from her shelf, flipped through it, and laid it open for me at a folklore encyclopedia entry on bean sidhe.

“Banshees,” she said. “Bean sidhe is the Irish Gaelic spelling of the word. It’s been anglicized as banshee.”

“And a bean nighe is a form of bean sidhe,” I said as I read. “It’s an old woman who washes the clothing of the dead. Which isn’t quite what I saw—No, here it is. Gwrach y Rhibyn. Is that how it’s spelled? That’s worse than bean sidhe. It’s the word from the vision, though, and the description matches. Ugly old woman washing in a stream while wailing death warnings. A Welsh cross between the bean nighe and the traditional bean sidhe. It’s not a fetch, though. She’s warning me of death in general. I’m guessing it was an omen telling me Ciara’s body was upstairs. As for why I saw it when I stepped onto the triskelion . . .”

“I’m presuming it has something to do with the original owner,” Rose said. “It seems to be some sort of conduit, possibly activated by those three lights. I’ll look into it. Now, tea?”

“Olivia was hoping for—” Gabriel began.

“I’m fine. I should get back home.”

“Not tonight, after what happened,” Rose said. “You’ll go back with Gabriel and pack an overnight bag while I make tea.”

I argued. It didn’t help. So I shut up and got my bag.

—

Gabriel left at midnight. I stood in the front room window as the taillights of his Jag vanished into the darkness. When I turned, Rose was there, watching me.

“He should have left when I got my bag,” I said. “He really didn’t need another late night like this. He’s tired. Overworked.”

“You’ll be helping with that.”

“With his workload, yes. But I’m the reason he’ll be getting home at one this morning when he has a court appearance at nine.”

“He’ll be fine. I don’t think he sleeps more than five hours under the best of circumstances. What you’re seeing isn’t exhaustion. It’s strain. The situation with you is part of it. Gabriel isn’t accustomed to personal drama. It’s untidy and it confuses him.”

“Uh-huh.” I turned back to the window.

“I’m serious, Olivia. He is accustomed to clients being angry with him. Furious, even. It’s part of the process—they’re fighting for their freedom and they never think their lawyer is doing enough. Gabriel knows he will be vindicated at trial, when they see him perform miracles. If they do remain angry—and I’m sure some do—he doesn’t care. It’s a business relationship. Yours is more than business. Your opinion of him—and your continuing relationship with him—matters. My nephew is not accustomed to that, and he’s struggling with it.”

Be patient with him. That’s what she meant. Except that, with Gabriel, excuses felt dangerous. Cut him slack and he’d haul in as much rope as he could, then think you a fool for letting him.

I thought of another reason he might be exhausted, another source of stress. One I was much more comfortable with, because it had nothing to do with me.

I turned from the window. “Has he identified the photos of his mother yet?”