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were giggling as they called for the elevator.
    "Lucy?" my father said. "A moment?"
    I stepped back inside and had another pang of guilt as I saw Raphael ladling cacciatore into Tupperware. "Something wrong?"
    "Depends."
    "On?"
    "Em? She's due to be married soon, correct?"
    Dad had yet to meet the elusive Joseph. "Not if Marisol has her way."
    "Ah. She still doesn't care for him?"
    I shook my head.
    He retrieved a long coat and a silk scarf from the closet. "Well, Lucy, she may be on to something."
    "Why do you say that?"
    "Your friend Aiden?" He looped the white scarf around his neck, making him look even more dashing.
    "Yeah?" Woozy, I leaned against the door frame.
    "And Em?"
    I was desperately trying to follow along. "Yeah?"
    "Their auras are a perfect match."

5
    It was late. By the time Em, Marisol, and I bought a tree and dragged it back to Em's place to decorate, I'd missed the last commuter train out of the city and had to take a very long, very expensive taxi ride to the train station in Cohasset. I'd had to scrape ice from my windshield in the parking lot, but thankfully home was only a few minutes away.
    My brand-new GPS unit glowed in the darkness of the car, its soft light comforting even though I didn't need the system right now--I knew these roads like the back of my hand. However, I foresaw a lot of traveling with Lost Loves, and the GPS would come in handy once business took off.
    I carefully navigated the narrow lanes leading to Aerie, Dovie's cliffside estate. Bare branches hovered over two copper mailboxes standing side by side along a small half-moon dirt turnoff just before Aerie's drive. I checked my rearview mirror to make sure I hadn't been followed (all clear), pulled up to the second box, reached in and scooped out a stack of mail.
    Setting the pile on the passenger seat, I cut the wheel sharply, turning between two stacked stonecolumns. To my right, a wooden sign that read AERIE in elegant script glowed from a hidden up-light. Graceful garden lanterns lined the sides of the lane, guiding me up the sloped, twisting gravel driveway. Around a bend, Dovie's house suddenly appeared as if by magic, a sprawling classic century-old New England estate, complete with weathered shingles, gorgeous slate roof, juts, jogs, angles, and utter elegance. It was decked out in sedate white Christmas lights, twinkling happily.
    Forgoing her three-car garage, I veered to the right, off the main drive. A crushed shell lane led down to home sweet home.
    The one-bedroom guest cottage, shingle style in design, was almost all windows, mostly arched. A narrow wraparound front porch with wooden archways curved around the foundation. Throw in the antique front door, stone steps, and attic dormer, and charm oozed from its rafters.
    Colorful Christmas lights dripped from the edges of the eaves, wrapped the columns on the front porch, and adorned the dormers, door frame, and windows.
    A brisk, icy breeze blew off the ocean, swept across the yard. A fieldstone path led to the porch, flanked on each side by a short boxwood hedge. In the warmer months, flowering annuals would color the way to my door. I turned up my collar, slipped the key in the lock, and turned the dead bolt.
    The circles on the alarm keypad blinked a bright red, blending well with the whole Christmas theme. I punched in my code as my cautious gaze swept the open layout, bouncing like a racquetball from thesmall Christmas tree near the fireplace, into the kitchen, over the breakfast bar into the tiny dining room, and beyond into my bedroom. Other than the fact that I'd forgotten to make my bed that morning, everything seemed just right.
    No intruders. No stalkers. No fanatic looking to snuff out the "Devil's Handmaiden."
    I set the mail on the table next to the door, reluctant to go through it. The first letter addressed to the "Devil's Handmaiden" had arrived two weeks ago. It had spewed about my sins, harping on the First Commandment, and how being psychic was