Page 3 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter three

Mira

I opened my eyes to a blur of light and shadow, my head pounding.

The back of my skull ached sharply, and for a moment, nothing made sense.

Then the shapes around me clicked into place—I was in my own house.

On the floor. I must have fallen out of the dining room chair.

That would explain the throbbing lump forming at the base of my head.

I had no idea how long I’d been out, but long enough for the swelling to start.

As I sat up, the room slowly came back into focus. A faint whiff of cedar hit my nose, and for a bizarre second, I found myself wondering what kind of wood the dining table I’d been lying next to was made of—cedar? Oak, maybe? No, this was definitely walnut.

This vision was a wicked doozy.

Nestled against the silk lining inside the box, just beneath the portrait, was a small slip of yellowed parchment. Agnes Garvie Campbell, 1785 , it read in delicate script. I hadn’t noticed it when I first touched the portrait. So that was it. That’s why she looked so much like me.

Some distant relative—long dead, but unmistakably mine.

The visions—some form of clairvoyance I didn’t understand and couldn’t control—came without warning, always triggered by touch.

I’d pick something up, and suddenly I was somewhere else, seeing people, moments, emotions bound to the object.

Most of the time, it was manageable. But every now and then, if the emotional weight was heavy enough, I’d black out.

Working in the estate jewelry business, I’d had more than my share of encounters with pieces that carried history like a pulse.

Over the years, I’d learned to adapt—learned to spot the warning signs early, to brace myself when something felt off.

Only once did I lose consciousness in public, and thankfully, my parents were with me that time.

The first time it happened, I was thirteen, working in my parents’ shop over summer break. I was cleaning one of the display cabinets when I picked up a pearl necklace with a diamond clasp and fainted on the spot.

While I was out, I had my first vision. An older man sat alone at a desk, the necklace resting in its original box— the same one I’d just touched.

He stared at it in silence, tears slipping down his cheeks.

One by one, he ran his fingers over each pearl, and I could feel the sorrow in his chest like it was my own.

A grief so raw it clung to me even after I came to.

When I opened my eyes, both my parents were kneeling beside me. They exchanged a look—quiet, knowing—something I wasn’t meant to understand. My dad gently asked me what happened.

“When I touched the necklace, I got very dizzy, and it was hard to breathe, and then everything went black! I saw an old man who was so sad, and he had the necklace.” I shook my head, still trying to make sense of what happened.

“What did the man look like, Mira?” Dad asked gently as he helped me up off the floor to sit next to him.

“I don’t know, Dad—just some old guy, white hair—I think he had glasses on, maybe.” I shrugged, a little exasperated by the question—shouldn’t they be more worried about me passing out than about what I saw?

“I felt him more clearly than I saw him. He was just so sad. I still feel sad for him now.” I said, trying to shake off the black cloud of sorrow that threatened to swallow me up again.

“I bought that necklace from a gentleman out on the Cape last fall—Mr. English,” Dad said, his voice softening.

“His wife had passed not long before, and none of his children wanted the piece. He’d given it to her as an anniversary gift, years ago.

Sixty-two years they were married.” He paused, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory.

“Parting with it wasn’t easy. I think he was heartbroken it wouldn’t stay in the family.

White hair, glasses…kind eyes, if I remember right.

” He reached over and gently patted my hand, then glanced at Mom with a look that conveyed some shared secret.

“Well,” he said, turning back to me, his expression both serious and proud, “I’ve told you before—our family back in Scotland has a long history of clairvoyance, in one form or another. Mira…it seems you’ve inherited what we Garvies call the Sight .”