Page 12 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

“Well, some of us see the past, and some the future, but a few of us Garvies see both. My Gran has the best Sight of them all; she can read intentions of those around ye, and she can see who ye will fall in love with! But she must lay hands on ye to do so. As ye can imagine, she’s verra popular around here with the young lasses. ”

Evie’s face was full of pride as she continued, her words tumbling out even faster.

“I was engaged to Jackson Fitzsimmons. I went to secondary school with him, ye know—his family lives right here in the village. But then Gran laid hands on me one day and told me Jackson dinnae love me, said I’d be a better match for his older brother, Davey. ”

She barely paused to breathe. “I dinnae believe her at first. But then, last year, I burst my appendix—and Jackson went out drinking with his mates instead of coming to see me in the hospital. You know who did come? Davey.”

She shrugged, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did—for her. Still, the idea of calling off an engagement to one brother and getting engaged to the other felt like it deserved a bit more story. But I didn’t pry.

“I wish your granny could tell me something about the two men I keep seeing,” I said, a little wistful now, thinking about how even Evie had her love life sorted.

“Well, she lives down the village, we could go see her. Now, dinnae concern yourself when her eyes roll back in her head, she’s in no pain.

That’s her hint frae above, and it scares some people.

” Evie’s infectious enthusiasm quickly turned into action—she grabbed her phone and made a rapid-fire call to her grandmother to let her know we were on our way for a “reading.” Moments later, we piled into the old station wagon parked beside the barn.

Morag drove the short two miles back into the village, taking a left at the Catholic church and winding down a quiet lane. Granny Margaret lived in a small two-story terraced house at the end of the block, its stone facade softened by ivy and a crooked garden gate.

When we stepped inside, we were greeted by a plump woman of about seventy-five, dressed in a faded green housecoat, sagging stockings, and black orthopedic shoes.

Her white hair was pinned in a loose bun, and she had the kind of face that looked like it had seen—and survived—everything.

She smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth, and motioned us in with a warmth that made the tiny front room feel instantly welcoming.

Morag said in a booming voice, “Mam, this is the American Garvie lass I tol’ ye aboot.

She’s got the Sight too, Mam… She touched a wee painting of a Garvie woman named Agnes from the late 1700s.

She keeps seeing two men she thinks were associated with this Agnes from back th en.

She’s hoping you can shed some light on this for ’er. Can ye lay hands on her, Mam?”

“Tog dheth, Morag, I am nae dief!” she said with frustration, which I interpreted as stop yelling .

She turned to me. “I’ll nae harm ye…but I must touch ye face, lass.

” I approached her to get closer. She placed her gnarled, arthritic hands gently on either side of my face, her palms surprisingly warm against my cheeks.

As Evie had warned, Granny’s eyes did, in fact, roll back into her head, leaving mostly the whites visible as she slipped into her trance-like state.

It was unnerving, to say the least. The room seemed to hold its breath.

Time felt elastic—stretching and warping—what was probably less than five minutes felt like ten.

I stood frozen, unsure whether to pull away or lean in.

Then, just as suddenly, her eyelids fluttered. She blinked several times, her gaze slowly focusing, and her eyes settled back into their natural position, and she frowned at me in confusion.

“Why de ye ken this was the past, lass? These men are near ye now, in the present! I see it clear as day,” Granny Margaret said, her voice low but certain.

“The dark one—he’s bitter, cruel. Was treated cruelly as a child and grew up twisted by it.

But his intentions toward ye…they’re clouded.

I can’t see them clearly, I’m sorry.” She gave a small shake of her head, a flicker of apology in her eyes.

Then she raised one bent finger, gnarled at the knuckle, and pointed it at me.

“Now, for the ither one—the man with the green eyes—he’ll nae hurt ye.

True, he carries a great sadness in his heart, and he won’t at first know what to do with ye.

Ye are a puzzle to him, ye know—but don’t miss him when ye find him lass, he’s the piece ye be lookin’ fer. ”

I nodded politely, but inside, my thoughts were stumbling over each other like drunks at closing time. God only knew what expression I had on my face—every word she said clashed violently with the narrative I’d been clinging to for weeks.

Now I was really confused.

Before I said my goodbyes back at Morag’s, I turned to Evie and asked why she thought the Garvies had these strange clairvoyant abilities. For once, her usual stream of chatter paused. She grew quiet, her brow furrowed as she searched for the right way to answer.

“Weel, ye ken with herds of animals,” Evie began, “they can kinda communicate things to each other—like when danger’s near, or it’s time to migrate, or not to pass up the last good berries before winter.

I think humans used to be the same. We had another way to connect before we invented language.

But once we learned to talk, most of us stopped relying on that other sense. ”

She paused, brushing a stray curl from her face.

“But some people were always better at it—and their kin, well, they still are. I think that’s what it is with the Garvies.

We’re nae the only ones—there’s others out there with gifts like ours.

You just hear about us more because we don’t pretend we’re normal. ”

She looked at me kindly. “You seem troubled by your Sight, Mira. Don’t be. It’s there to protect you, to help you understand people and the world around you. If you trust it, it can be a superpower.”

The afternoon sun peeked through the misty sky as I hugged Morag and Evie one last time, promising to keep them updated if I discovered anything new about the portrait of Agnes. Then I climbed back into my rental and began the winding drive south to Edinburgh .

Granny Margaret’s words looped in my head like a song I couldn’t shake. I kept trying to make sense of the reading—cryptic, strange, a little too reminiscent of a visit to a fortune teller. The dreams of the dark man still haunted me, and now this mysterious green-eyed man had entered the picture.

I hadn’t seen anyone with green eyes since I’d landed. Who was he supposed to be? And what did she mean by “ he’s the piece ye be lookin’ fer ”? Did he somehow hold the key to all of this? To Agnes? To the visions?

And if these men existed now, in the present, why did everything I saw—dreams, visions—feel like I’d stepped into the pages of a period novel?

The corsets, the cravats, the heavy velvet drapes…

Maybe it really was just too much Bronte and not enough reality.

Still, the questions trailed me like the fog that had begun to encroach upon the road ahead.

Back at the hotel, I shot off a quick text to Anne, filling her in on my visit with Evie, Morag, and Granny Margaret.

When I checked my email, I let out a small squeal of joy—someone had dropped out of the workshop at the Goldsmiths’ Guild.

A spot had opened up, and I was in. Class started next week.