"I like crap."
My cheeks heated. "I didn't mean-- I'm more a mystery buff, but I've read my share of romances, too. Mostly historical, including a few gothics. The crap comment was directed at the author."
"Patrice Rhys? As I said, she's actually very good. I read most of her work as a teen. She stopped writing in the late seventies."
"Umm, no, actually he hasn't." I sat in a chair across her desk.
"He?" She paused and glanced toward the door. "Gabriel said you were at Patrick's. That's...?"
"Yep."
She sighed. "Wonderful. Now I'll have to decide whether to tell him I enjoyed his work and risk inflating his ego."
"You'll get free books if you tell him, and his new series apparently has lots of sex."
"Which is why, despite knowing he writes those, I've never tried them. I have no issue with the concept. Done right, it can get you through many a cold night. But knowing who wrote those scenes..."
"Yep. Kinda what I said."
She headed for the kitchen. "If he's also Patrice Rhys, though, I might have to check them out now. I'll just skip the sex."
I stopped on my way to the desk and walked to a table bearing a bottle and a pair of very old socks with the toes cut out.
"Okay," I called. "I'm not sure about the bottle, but these socks are definitely new."
"They are," she called back. "Both belonged to Daniel Dunglas Home."
"Oh, I know this one. Mr. Sludge the Medium. Now, don't, sir! Don't expose me! Just this once! This was the first and only time, I'll swear."
"You know your Browning."
"I'd be a poor Victorian lit major if I didn't."
Admittedly, Home's connection to Conan Doyle was what made me remember it. He was one of the writer's favorite spiritualists. Browning had not been nearly so impressed, as the poem suggested. It seems Home materialized a blob of flesh that he said was Browning's son who died in infancy. Not having had a son die in infancy, Browning called foul, reached over, and discovered the fleshy blob was Home's foot. He'd wear shoes he could easily take off and then socks with the toes cut out so he could ring bells and tug clothing under the table.
I picked up the tiny bottle. "But this bottle..."
"Open it," she called from the kitchen, her words barely audible over a clatter of dishes.
I did. The inside glowed. Phosphorus, to make glowing, ghostly hands. I smiled and took my seat as Rose came in with the tea and cookies.
"I want to do a reading for you. And don't give me that look, Liv. I know you don't like glimpses into your future."
"You've said the cards only reveal the consequences of the path I'm on, so I can change it, but I still don't like..." I shifted in my seat. "Isn't it tempting? To keep peeking?"
"I don't see my future."
"But it could be tempting for someone like me. Every time there's a fork in the road, come to you to see which prong I should take."
A faint smile, not unlike her great-nephew's. "You have a hard-enough time asking the advice of a friend before choosing a path. You certainly aren't going to get hooked on consulting the cards. But yes, people do. I recognize the addicts, and I fleece them only as much as they can afford to be fleeced, while teaching them a valuable lesson."
"Good of you."
"I think so. Now, the cards?"
"There's a point to this, isn't there? You didn't just randomly decide you want to foretell my fortune."
She took a cookie, her voice casual as she said, "I had a premonition."