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and out of the kitchen. “You could say I’m always trying to check my less attractive impulses.” She shot him a look. “It doesn’t always work.”
    As she spoke, she led him down a wide hallway. The walls were decorated with faded tapestries depicting scenes from folklore and mythology, ornate sconces, and etched plates of silver and copper.
    She opted for what her grandmother had always called the drawing room. Its walls were painted a warm rose, and the tone was picked up in the pattern of the Bokhara rug tossed over the wide-planked chestnut floor. A lovely Adam mantel draped over the fireplace, which was stacked with wood ready to be put to flame should the night turn cool or should Morgana wish it.
    But for now a light breeze played through the open windows, billowing the sheer curtains and bringing with it the scents of her gardens.
    As in her shop, there were crystals and wands scattered around the room, along with a partial collection of her sculpture. Pewter wizards, bronze fairies, porcelain dragons.
    “Great stuff.” He ran his hand over the strings of a gold lap harp. The sound it made was soft and sweet. “Do you play?”
    “When I’m in the mood.” It amused her to watch him move around the room, toying with this, examining that. She appreciated honest curiosity. He picked up a scribed silver goblet and sniffed. “Smells like . . .”
    “Hellfire?” she suggested. He set it down again, preferring a slender amethyst wand crusted with stones and twined with silver threads. “Magic wand?”
    “Naturally. Be careful what you wish for,” she told him, taking it delicately from his hand.
    He shrugged and turned away, missing the way the wand glowed before Morgana put it aside. “I’ve collected a lot of this kind of thing myself. You might like to see.” He bent over a clear glass ball and saw his own reflection. “I picked up a shaman’s mask at an auction last month, and a—what do you call it?—a scrying mirror. Looks like we have something in common.”
    “A taste in art.” She sat on the arm of the couch.
    “And literature.” He was poking through a bookshelf. “Lovecraft, Bradbury. I’ve got this edition of
The Golden Dawn
. Stephen King, Hunter Brown, McCaffrey. Hey, is this—?” He pulled out the volume and opened it reverently. “It’s a first edition of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
.” He looked over at her. “Will you take my right armfor it?”
    “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
    “I always hoped he’d have approved of
Midnight Blood
.” As he slipped the book back into place, another caught his eyes. “
Four Golden Balls. The Faerie King
.” He skimmed a finger over the slim volumes. “
Whistle Up the Wind
. You’ve got her entire collection.” Envy stirred in his blood. “And in first editions.”
    “You read Bryna?”
    “Are you kidding?” It was too much like meeting an old friend. He had to touch, to look, even to sniff. “I’ve read everything she’s written a dozen times. Anyone who thinks they’re just for kids is nuts. It’s like poetry and magic and morality all rolled into one. And, of course, the illustrations are fabulous. I’d kill for a piece of the original artwork, but she just won’t sell.”
    Interested, Morgana tilted her head. “Have you asked?”
    “I’ve filtered some pitiful pleas through her agent. No dice. She lives in some castle in Ireland, and probably papers the walls with her sketches. I wish . . .” He turned at Morgana’s quiet laugh.
    “Actually, she keeps them in thick albums, waiting for the grandchildren she hopes for.”
    “Donovan.” He tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Bryna Donovan. That’s your mother.”
    “Yes, and she’d be delighted to know you approve of her work.” She lifted her glass. “From one storyteller to another. My parents lived in this house off and on for several years. Actually, she wrote her first published work upstairs while she was pregnant with me. She