Page 7 of Memories of the Lost

She sensed something more. “What is it?”

He turned his hand over and grasped hers. “They found bones at the new housing estate.”

A chill ran down her body. “Bones?”

“An excavator dug them up, it seems, digging a cellar. A child’s bones. They don’t know if they’re ancient or recent. That’s all I’ve heard. I’m sure it’s an old grave.”

Clare felt the past open and howl. “Or it isn’t.”

CHAPTER THREE

New York City

The rain was still roaring down outside. Tillie wished for her umbrella, but Liam grabbed a big black one from the stand inside the door of the gallery and held it high enough to protect them both. She pointed to a diner down the block and shouted, “Coffee?”

He nodded.

They dashed for a red neon sign blinking “P-I-E.” Liam dove for the door and held it open for her. She ducked under his arm, catching an alluring whiff of pheromones replaced with the scent of something baking as they pushed inside. It wasn’t an old-school diner but a reasonable millennial imitation, with fresh red Naugahyde on the stools and booths, and pie safes on the counter. A young man came over to seat them. He was small and tidy, and Tillie thought of a cockatiel with a brush of white feathers on his head.

“Coffee, I assume?” he asked as they settled in a booth.

“Please,” Tillie said, rubbing her fingertips over the vague whisper of migraine below her temple.

“Let me ask you, bro,” Liam said, “can you get a pot of waterreallyhot?”

“I got you,” he said, pointing. “You want English style, with milk, am I right?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly right.”

His accent was not full New Zealand, with its pinched edges, or as deeply drawling as South African. Tillie decided he must have traveled a lot, and she wondered again what he did. Instead of probing, she bent her head to examine the menu. One side was burgers and eggs. The other was a list of pies and cakes. She felt a swift hunger and wondered when she’d last eaten.

The server returned with a fat steaming pot of water, a cup, a little metal pitcher of milk, and coffee for Tillie. “That looks amazing,” Liam said, and the server beamed.

“Pies today are pecan, apple, peach.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the glass-fronted fridge. “Mocha cream, banana cream, and everybody’s favorite, lemon meringue. We also have honey cake. You need a few minutes?”

“Honey cake,” Liam echoed. “Really?”

The server winked. “To capture the fairies.”

“I’m not ready to order,” Tillie said, taking a packet of sugar from the metal basket on the table.

“Nor I.” When the man hurried away, Liam lifted the lid of the metal teapot and stirred the tea bags. “Promising. Could be a contender for the best tea I’ve had in America.”

“You’re nearly always better off with coffee.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t like the coffee here. No offense.”

“None taken.” Stirring a dollop of cream into her cup, she asked, “Have you been here awhile, then, in the States?”

“Awhile this time. Twelve weeks. I leave Saturday for Europe.”

She inclined her head. “Work?”

He nodded but didn’t elaborate.

“Do you travel here often?”

“Sometimes.”