Free Wilderness of Mirrors by Ella Skye Page A

the piece’s surface. Tilting the ceramic upside down, he noted the maker’s mark. He’d need a magnifying glass to be sure, but he didn’t think it was authentic. An expensive reproduction?
    Which was when he noticed the blood seeping through the wound on his chest. He replaced the vase and headed shakily up the remaining stairs. What a stupid mistake. Anyone would think he’d just finished OPAL at Oxford and set a squeaky new shoe into Vauxhall HQ for an interview.
    He sucked a deep breath on the second story’s landing, his eyes wandering the dismal winterscape. Flowers and summer heat made the estate tolerable, but he preferred the chokehold of blistering sun and shimmering lizards.
    Africa was excruciatingly far from London today.
    The past tiptoed up behind him.
    What an odd lad you are, Nigel.
    “And nothing has changed, Lady Emily.” His whisper died as his eyes wandered the purple hills, and with trepidation, the foreground of manicured nothingness. Silken rhododendrons still gathered below whispering like hat-wearing matrons.
    Nigel flinched, his eyes snagging on a flash of black. Ghosts. Dogs he’d once cherished. Tails and tongues with which he had found solitude and peace.
    He rubbed his burning eyes.
    Did Kate even keep plasters in the upstairs loo? The dread of asking her for one overwhelmed him.
    Maybe he could leave unnoticed, call a cab and head for Heathrow via a chemist. There were enough workers buzzing around Barkley.
What had she said…a charity tea?
    Her words had come and gone. Irrelevant. She’d actually invited him to stay. Him, with a muster of Prada peacocks. It hadn’t been worth a response.
    Releasing his eyes, Nigel rounded up his fugitive thoughts. A visit to the washroom, a trip down the back stairwell. A call to the car service. And then Africa.
    It would upset Kate.
    It would scare Brad.
    He didn’t care about the first.
    The second?
Well, he’d deal with his friend another time.
    His sister’s voice, strident and sugary, cracked his concentration. “Nigel?”
    Her dark head marred the Venetian tiled foyer. “There you are. I hope you won’t feel underdressed today. If I’d known you’d be able to come, I would have changed the theme.”
    Two hits.
    “Don’t bother. As you said, I’ve jetlag. I should probably head back to Brad’s and sleep it off.”
    From here her wrinkled nose became his grandmother’s aged face. “This constant travel is destroying you. David wants you to give him your CV. He treats a fellow who’s high up at
Chettinham and Farrow
. It’s London based and you’d be able to see the boys more often. Please say you’ll go to Eton Saturday. I could order a hamper from Fortmans. It’ll be cold, but that’s what wool’s for.” The lines were gone, replaced by the joy of decisions regarding foie gras and Pimms.
    Nigel struggled to quell his unreasonable panic. Even his tongue felt awkward forming the words. “You and David are kind to think of me. I’m sorry though, I really do like my work.” He tried on a smile. “Besides, I’m certain Dylan and William would rather picnic with their girlfriends.”
    Her gaze retained little warmth. Her fingers found the pearls at her neck. “Fine. Just don’t expect anything to change if you don’t at least try.” With that, she turned and left him with a crash of silence.
    And a vision.
    On the lawn, the very portion from which he’d picked shattered bits of Ming, stood the blonde. He grabbed the banister, the heaving of his stomach terribly real.
    The goddamn painkillers. He’d taken them on an empty stomach and was obviously having an adverse reaction. There was little other means of explaining such an anomaly.
    He fought irrational thoughts and focused on the woman below. The wind blew across the patio, pulling her hair in the same direction as wayward leaves. Her dark jeans, heeled riding boots, and close-fitted down jacket were weather appropriate. A damn realistic vision. Trust his mind to