"I do like-"

"Shut up. The only reason you're here is because of your father. Don't get me wrong. I'd never have selected you because of your dad. You made it because you deserved a spot. You can be worthy of this team."

This time Rupert didn't say anything.

"You think getting onto this team is the best way to get your dad off your back. Well, not anymore." Bartlett retraced his steps to his seat. "I'm not kicking you off the team. You're too good for that. I need you." Relaxing in his chair, he steepled his fingers together. "I'm calling your father as soon as you leave. I'll tell him about your breach of the rules, and what he does to you after that is none of my business."

"It won't be necessary. I'll explain-"

"Oh yes, you're going to do a lot of explaining from now on. Every week until the end of the season, you'll send a report on your performances via email to your father, with a copy to me."

That wasn't the sanction Rupert had expected. The sacking hatch would have been more humane.

The expression on the coach's face softened. A very rare occurrence. "Besides, I think it's time for you and your father to bury the hatchet. It's been four years since Laura pa.s.sed away. She wouldn't want the two of you being at odds all the time."

Reporting to his father, interacting with him every week, was a version of purgatory custom-made for Rupert.

Chapter 17.

ON THE OTHER SIDE of his desk Jackson froze, his eyebrow arched, his eyes unblinking.

Madison's confession justified such reaction, she had to give him that. Throwing b.a.l.l.s of fire at cloaked figures, right in the middle of Oxford, didn't happen every day.

Leaving her tutor to get his head around the curiosities of her life, she took a sip from her mug of coffee. As her fingers encircled the warm cup and her tongue savored the syrupy, hazelnut flavor, she closed her eyes.

Her head was heavy from last night's one too many whiskey and c.o.kes, and wobbled on her neck. The music from the Christmas party still rang in her ears. Trying to relax, she slouched in her chair.

After finding Rupert in a saliva exchange with his b.i.t.c.hy girlfriend, Madison had escaped the party and run back through Jericho's narrow streets. Her instinct screamed at her to keep her skinny b.u.t.t as far as academically possible from Earl Boy's clutches.

Yes, she felt excited each time he towered over her, each time she tilted her chin upward and stared into his eyes. Even the scent of his clothes turned her on. But Rupert Vance was a male s.l.u.t, an elegant highborn s.l.u.t but a s.l.u.t nevertheless. She should not get close to him.

"This has never happened to you before?"

Jackson's East Coast accent brought Madison back to the present. Had it happened to her before? Euh, surely she would remember knocking off strangers by firing at them with her fingertips.

"Never."

Jackson made his comfy leather seat swivel and steepled his fingers together. "You realize that what happened takes the range of your powers"-he emphasized that last word- "to a brand-new level. We're not talking about just telepathic or psychic abilities here." He seemed pleased, as if she'd been his prized pupil in this venture as well as in her scholarly ones.

Madison gave him a hesitant nod. She wasn't sure she should be elated, as her tutor obviously was, or appalled by the new range of complications. "What do you think it means?" She feared his answer.

"We're leaving the sphere of parapsychology, the ability you have to connect with the thoughts of others, or at least the dead. We are moving into another domain entirely ..." He left his sentence unfinished.

"What kind of domain?"

"Telekinesis ... or something similar to it. You're able to mobilize fields of energy and direct them with a specific purpose. Has anyone else in your family mentioned having such ability?" He looked at her as if he were an entomologist examining a new type of bug.

Madison shook her head. She knew about her ancestors, about voodooism, about talking to the dead, concocting curses, prayers and potions. But the fireball-bowl thingie ... never heard of it.

"Does anything feel different? Do you feel different?"

His question took her aback. She shuffled on her seat and rubbed the back of her neck without meeting Jackson's eyes.

"Y-yes," she stuttered, "I notice things more." Like the music at last night's party, or the noises in the street. Even the coffee she had just drunk tasted stronger, deeper, fuller. "My senses are heightened. Maybe, I don't know, I'm making all this stuff up because I think about it too much. How do you know about all this magic madness anyway?"

He burst into laughter. "I've always been fascinated by the occult, witchcraft or magic, whatever you call it. When I was sixteen, my grandmother told me about an ancestor of ours, who was hung for being a witch. It was 1693, in Salem." He paused, maybe thinking of that poor woman and her final moments, then continued. "I'm from Boston. So I spent a lot of time researching the Salem witch trials, and from there I read a lot about all these things that can't be explained by science or reason."

He stood and walked around his desk. From one of the shelves covering the wall he grabbed a thick, glossy book. He dropped it on his desk to land with a woompf in front of Madison.

"Move the book," he ordered her.

Madison tried to swallow, but she choked. She didn't have to articulate her shock because her puzzled face must have conveyed the message.

"If you can control and gather enough energy to throw fire, you should be able to move objects around with the power of your mind. Why not?"

Why the freakin' h.e.l.l not?

Jackson challenged her with his stare. And she was curious, intrigued by all the new possibilities.

She stood and planted her feet wide apart, as if to anchor and strengthen her body. Slowly she waved her right hand, the palm wide open. She shut her eyes, visualized the book and her hand, and imagined a stream of energy flowing from one to the other.

Her breathing stopped. She kept her eyes shut, blocking everything else around her. The lack of oxygen started making her dizzy. She exhaled loudly and drank more air back into her lungs.

"It's not working."

Jackson wasn't satisfied with her answer. He replaced the book on the shelf and took out a smaller, lighter volume.

Placing the book on the desk, he said, "Try again."

As much as she was grateful for Jackson's help, she wanted to tell him that he was pushing the experiment too far. But she was the one who had come to see him, and made the confession about what she'd done. The dude hadn't called the police or the medics. She owed him big time.

Her eyes refocused on the book. She shook out her hands, like an athlete before a race, and rolled her shoulders. This time she took a deep, long breath. She didn't try to think, didn't try to focus.

She waved her hand again, but the experience was now different. Her fingertips tingled and waves of electricity p.r.i.c.kled across her skin.

She arched her arm, and the book started a slow ascent, mimicking her movement. The shock at her accomplishment forced Madison to shout, "What the h.e.l.l!"

Her interruption broke off the stream of energy linking her to the book and caused the volume to crash back to the desk.

"Amazing." Jackson's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"I can't believe I did that. I would never have thought, Mamie never mentioned ..." she babbled, restraining herself from bouncing from one foot to the other. Not even her grandmother could do that.

Jackson had now started pacing the small width of his office. After a minute of striding back and forth, he stopped in front of the French window that overlooked George Street and stared through the morning haze. He stepped back to stand in front of her.

"You can't keep on ignoring these powers of yours," he murmured, an intent look on his face.

Madison ran a jerky hand through her hair and rubbed her cheeks. "Why not? I've managed to live without them until now. Actually, I've done everything I could to be able to live without them."

"Yes, but the painting changed everything," He gazed at her, again in a way that made her feel like an object at the wrong end of the microscope.

"How so?"

"You told me that the visions had never been so powerful or your connection so strong. The painting means something to you, not just because you can talk to the dead. Through Burton's painting, you're revealing yourself to yourself." The *scientist's' thesis posed and validated, Jackson took his seat again and swirled around on the chair in triumph.

Madison felt her posture stoop. None of what he'd said made sense to her. "I've never seen that painting before," she denied. "Never heard of it. Burton lived in England more than a century ago. The characters in the painting died more than two hundred years before that. How could all this mean something to me?"

"I don't know, but we have to find out. What do you know so far?"

She turned away from him and said, "I went back to the Bodleian, and there's nothing about Robert Dallembert, apart from some snippets of his soldiering during the Civil War. Right now, I just know that the Puritan was named Peter, the maiden Sarah, and the Cavalier Robert. Robert and Sarah loved each other, but they didn't marry, either because she died, or because Robert dumped her b.u.t.t and chose someone as wealthy and t.i.tled as he was."

"So you don't know much more than when we talked at the Ashmolean?"

Madison heard reproach in his tone.

"I'm meeting the Vances' genealogist after the Christmas break. He should be able to tell me more about Rupert's ancestor," she defended herself.

"Why can't you meet him earlier?"

"He's abroad for the whole of December."

Jackson shook his head, not satisfied with her answer. "Madison, you won't resolve this mystery by playing sleuth, or by being a historian, as much as it hurts me to tell you that. The mystery of the painting lies beyond the strict realms of rationality, of science, of facts." He paused. "It lies in magic."

This was exactly what Madison did not want to hear.

When she stepped out of the Faculty of History, her mind was churning. She stared down at the cigarette b.u.t.ts that littered the ground and brought a shaky hand to her forehead.

Her legs felt weak, all her energy directed inward. What had happened in Jackson's study was more than she could take in. She hadn't given any serious consideration to the fireball incident before. In her good old see-no-evil way, she had delayed thinking about it.

What a lazy coward she was.

Now, she didn't know if she was excited or worried by what she discovered. Maybe a little bit of both.

The honking of a car and the screeching of its tires pulled her out of her thoughts. Her eyes darted around and caught sight of a familiar silhouette. Pippa had turned at the corner of George Street and Cornmarket Street. The memory of her friend with Ollie sprung to Madison's mind. For once, she wouldn't delay action.

She ran after Pippa, calling her name. After she reached Cornmarket Street, she shouted again, "Pippa, please wait."

The girl spun around and faced Madison, who noticed the dark circles under her eyes. The night had been long.

"Hey, I'm glad to see you," Madison managed to say, as she struggled to catch her breath.

Pippa gave her a tight smile and answered, "I'm on my way to cla.s.s, so I can't chitchat right now. Sorry, darling."

"Okay." Madison hesitated but decided to forge ahead, her concern for Ollie back at the forefront of her mind. "What happened last night with Ollie? I saw the two of you making out."

Pippa's head jerked upward and her cheeks flushed. "You're spying on me?" She spluttered out her words.

Cursing herself for her lack of tact, Madison waved her hands in a peacemaking gesture. "Harriet told me you weren't feeling well." A little lie there. "I wanted to check if you needed help." The truth.

Pippa flicked her gaze upward. "As you saw, nothing to worry about. Okay, now I have to rush."

Madison grabbed her friend's hand and when Pippa tried to turn away, she squeezed it. "Please, Pippa, wait. Are you serious about him?"

Pippa's expression turned into a pinch. Her eyes narrowed. "It's none of your business."

True. Strictly speaking, they were both consenting adults and their s.e.xual inclinations weren't any of her concern. But Madison cared. While she liked Pippa, Ollie had become dear to her, precious. How many evenings had they shared together talking about life, reinventing the world?

"He doesn't have much experience. So maybe he's already serious about you. And if you're not ..."

Pippa sneered, "Really, Madison, do you think you're the right person to be talking to me about this? I saw you flirting with Rupert. You were all over him, even if he's already taken."

"I didn't-"

The girl cut her off. "Oh yes you did, and you weren't very good at it apparently." Oouch. "The guy spent the rest of the night with his girlfriend. And they weren't talking, if you know what I mean."

Pippa walked away, her posture perfect, shoulders back, chin held high. What had become of the bubbly Irish girl who had welcomed her in Oxford with open arms? Who had lent her her best clothes?

A van pa.s.sed Madison, its exhaust spoiling the air she breathed. The smell was so strong she could feel the taste in her mouth. Or maybe it was just the acrid savor of her friend's parting comment.

Chapter 18.

THE HOME RUPERT had grown up in had disappeared after another round of renovation projects, orchestrated by Camilla, his father's girlfriend. And with the familiar, sometimes rickety, furniture now gone, his mum had died for the second time.

Even tonight's lounge music contrasted with the rhythmic Latino beats she'd played at full volume, all day long. He used to complain about it. Now he would listen to that music twenty-four/seven if it meant having her back alive.

Harriet and Camilla, ten-year-apart identical twins, filled the conversation with their empty words. His father and Camilla sat across from Rupert and Harriet on the cushioned furniture of the Vances' London townhouse.

Still, Rupert preferred the sound of their chitchat to any of his father's attacks. G.o.d knew Rupert had tried to redeem himself in Hugo's eyes, even choosing his girlfriend to make his father happier with him. But Rupert was kidding himself. His father had always loathed him, and Laura Vance's death had only intensified that feeling.

Keen not to interrupt the women, Rupert stood and stepped on the wooden floorboards toward the working fireplace. The flames made him feel welcome. Welcome inside his own family's home.

Hugo's silence was a bad omen. Leaning against the plush sofa, his father crossed one foot over the opposite knee, his powerful body scarcely contained within his suit. His relaxed posture threatened Rupert more than any shouting.