Page 10 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter ten

Mira

W hen we were done, Mr. Blackwell walked me over to the Portrait Gallery on Queen Street to see one of the unattributed portrait miniatures he mentioned back in his office, this one painted almost twenty years after the portrait of Agnes.

Sitting in a small glass case on a pedestal, the plaque next to the portrait said it was donated by a family from the Scottish Highlands, the subject believed to be an unnamed distant relation.

The style was so similar; another raven-haired beauty with deep amber eyes and flushed cheeks, her dress a muted blue in a diaphanous Renaissance style with an empire waist and a wide neckline with one shoulder slipping off.

Watercolor on ivory again, just like mine.

I said goodbye to Mr. Blackwell and headed over to the National Museum to catch the Scottish Renaissance jewelry exhibit.

The level of craftsmanship from that period floored me—especially considering the rudimentary tools and technology available at the time, not to mention the limited daylight hours they had to work with.

I snapped a few photos of standout pieces for inspiration back in the studio: the Fettercairn Jewel, an intricately enameled gold pendant housing a large garnet, believed to have been made between 1570 and 1600; and the Penicuik Jewels, a delicate pomander bead necklace crafted in gold.

I’d started designing my own line of jewelry a few years ago, always drawing from historical antiquity for inspiration.

That’s what led me to sign up for the workshop at the Goldsmiths’ Guild.

This was the kind of content my Instagram followers loved—showing how vintage and antique pieces could be mixed with modern designs.

The contrast between old and new made both feel fresher, more alive—less formal or stuffy.

I was completely exhausted by the time I stumbled back to my hotel and decided that tonight called for some serious self-care. And by self-care, I meant cabernet sauvignon from the mini-fridge and a slice of room service chocolate cake.

I climbed into bed early, snuggled under the covers, and picked up where I’d left off on my flight, reading a few more chapters of Wuthering Heights .

But even Emily Bronte couldn’t keep my eyes open for long.

With a yawn, I set my iPad aside and let sleep pull me under—knowing I needed the rest before the drive to Kirriemuir in the morning.

I was finally going to meet some Garvies.

I see myself on a terrace overlooking a formal garden, the night warm.

I’m dressed in a heavy silk gown, enveloped in yards of fabric, and under my skirt is a fine wool petticoat too heavy for the temperature this evening.

A glass of wine in my hand, I bring it to my lips and let the sweetness trickle down my throat.

I think I’ve had too much, not because I feel unsteady on my feet but because I feel an unfamiliar boldness.

A man walks up beside me and places his hands on the railing.

“I’d like to paint you. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

”The words take me by surprise, stealing my breath even as they ignite a slow heat beneath my skin.

His gaze doesn’t just flatter—it makes me feel wanted in a way I haven’t in so long.

There’s an ease to his attention, an intimacy, so unlike my husband’s distant presence, his long absences that have become the rule rather than the exception.

“You could give the portrait to the captain, to remember you while he is away,” and I wonder how this stranger seems to know my deepest fears.

Something in his voice now triggers a familiar terror that takes root in my body as he continues to speak, his words heavily accented.

I feel someone approaching behind me; from that direction, I feel safety and a familiar warmth, and I want to turn and run toward it.

As if I am cleaved in half, I feel the left side of my body, nearest to the dark-haired man, shiver with fear, but the right side of my body is relaxed as if under warm sunlight, knowing a safe embrace approaches, promising perfect peace.

The man on my left, the one with eyes of quicksilver, turns and looks past me and speaks to the man who approaches.

“You have a beautiful wife, Captain,” the dark-haired man says as he lifts my hand to his lips and places a cool kiss on it, never taking his eyes off the man who stands behind me, then walks back into the party.