Page 18 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter seventeen

Mira

B aird returned to the table by the fire with two pints of Stella and sat down, the warm glow of the hearth casting amber light across his face. Bunny snored contentedly a few feet away from us on the stone floor, utterly at home.

“You and Bunny must come here a lot,” I said, nodding toward the sleeping dog.

“Oh aye, Buns is a proper barfly—I couldn’t keep her away if I tried.” His eyes glinted with dry humor, but a shadow of tension lingered beneath the smile.

He reached to hand me my pint, then drew it back at the last second. “Ye’re not gonna pass out again, are ye?” A crease of worry tugged at his brow.

“I can assure you, sir,” I said, one brow arched, teasing as I tried to peel back another layer of the man. “Yesterday’s blackout was neither alcohol nor jet-lag induced.”

He chuckled softly and finally handed me the glass, but his voice shifted as he asked, “What was the cause then, if ye don’t mind me asking? ”

I took a deep breath, surprised the topic had even come up—but for some reason, I didn’t want to shy away from it.

“Well,” I began, “I expect you might find what I’m about to say hard to believe.

And if you think I’m crazy, I wouldn’t blame you.

” I offered a weak smile and shrugged, not sure how else to explain.

“Ever since I was thirteen, I’ve had what some might call…

visions. Or maybe it’s some kind of clairvoyance. ”

Baird didn’t flinch. Just listened.

“Sometimes I can touch objects and see people from the past—people connected to that object. And sometimes, when the emotions connected to the vision are really strong, I pass out.”

I glanced at my drink but didn’t touch it.

“When I found the portrait of Agnes Garvie—the one I told you about from my dad’s safe deposit box?

—I had the most intense vision I’ve ever experienced.

” My voice grew softer, tinged with wonder at the power of the memory.

“It was extraordinary. I was on a boat with a man—I couldn’t see all of his face, but I felt…

connected to him. I could feel the wind on my skin, the sunlight, his arms around me. He called me Agnes .”

I paused for a breath, surprised by my own candor—and how much the memory still stirred something inside me.

“And then at the gravesite…it happened again. I passed out and saw the same man. He was weeping at the grave. At her grave.” I swallowed, my voice faltering. “I never really see his face clearly…but I know it’s him. Always him.”

Baird looked down at his glass, unmoving, unreadable. His face was impassive—stone-still.

I shifted, suddenly self-conscious. “Ugh. I told you it sounded insane. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I’ve never told anyone—not even my therapist.” I let out a nervous laugh that didn’t quite land. “I have no idea why I told you , either…”

The silence stretched between us uncomfortably.

Baird set down his pint. “Mira, I believe ye—I do, truly.” His tone was grave, his eyes steady and intense.

“There are things in this world most people couldn’t begin to imagine…

not until it happens to them.” He turned away then, and I thought I saw it—the wall he used to hide whatever it was he didn’t want seen rising back into place.

“Can I ask ye a question?” He stared at the flames dancing in the hearth, hesitation in his voice.

“Of course,” I said, though a flicker of unease crept in. I wasn’t sure I liked where this conversation was headed.

A storm was brewing, something fierce stirring beneath his calm exterior—his body tense—as if sheer will could silence the wind.

“Why did ye come?” Baird asked, his face still turned toward the hearth.

His question felt like a challenge. I took a deep breath.

“To Scotland?” I asked, unsure that the explanation was even clear to me.

“Aye.”

“I told you…to try to learn more about Agnes Garvie, I suppose.”

“She died in 1785. What exactly do ye think ye can learn?” There was curiosity in his voice, not accusation, but my own self-doubt was surfacing, nagging at the back of my mind.

“I don’t know…” I said, my voice defensive, the same way I reacted while packing when Anne asked a similar question.

“Maybe to figure out why I have these stupid visions,” I spat out.

“My dad told me the Garvies are famous for it, but I’ve never understood why I’m cursed with this.

I met some relatives up near Dundee earlier this week, and it turns out mo st of them have some form of clairvoyance.

But they all act like it’s some kind of blessing. A superpower , one of them called it.”

Baird turned to me, his intense green eyes locking onto mine like a magnet. “When ye touch something and get a vision, what do ye think makes it happen for some objects but not others?”

I sat with the question for a moment, searching my memories for a pattern, realizing I’d never really tried to connect the dots before.

Finally, I spoke. “Love—I think it all starts with love—powerful love. Not just a passing fancy—but big love. I’ve felt the love between a man and a woman, the sorrow of love lost, the love of a parent for a child.

That’s the common thread. The object, I think, is just a conduit, or maybe a representation of that emotion. ”

The silence stretched, and I could almost see him turning the new information over in his mind.

“That makes ye sound like some sort of ‘diviner of love,’” Baird said, nodding slowly, as if it all made perfect sense to him. His eyes searched mine, though for what, I couldn’t say.

“Yer kin are right. ’Tis truly a gift you possess, Mira.”

I just rolled my eyes. These Scots are a romantic lot.