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seem beat.”
    â€œNo, I’m not tired,” she said.
    â€œNot tired. Beat. Worn out, in more ways than one. Maybe by your grandfather.” He examined a carved wooden pipe. It smelled like packed dirt. Perhaps that was where it had lain for years before being discovered. “These aren’t European.”
    â€œNative American. I have a particular interest in the subject.”
    â€œAnd not in the European historical objects that are a specialty of your house?”
    â€œI’m well versed in those as well, Mr. Genet.” She cleared her throat. “Please be careful with the pipe. It’s fragile.”
    â€œYou don’t like your family much, do you, Miss Doyle?”
    â€œWhat?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
    He pointed to the framed photo of Marian and the younger woman. “Okay, not all of your family. You at least like your sister, yes?”
    â€œMr. Genet, please stop—”
    â€œIt’s your grandfather who’s the problem. A true asshole.”
    â€œI was under the impression we would discuss business, not family relationships,” she snapped.
    Aha. He’d pushed her enough to get a real emotion out of her. Good.
    â€œCall me Richard.” He settled in one of the two chairs that faced her desk, stretching out his long legs, and gestured at her to take the seat across from him. This would go much better if they talked face to face rather than having her behind the desk.
    â€œRichard, then.” She took the chair, but slowly, wary of him now. “What would ever give you the idea that I hate my grandfather?”
    â€œHate might be too strong. Trapped by him and the family legacy is more accurate. For example, you office is different from everything else in this building. That’s because this room is your escape.”
    â€œIs it?”
    â€œMost certainly. You have considerable lighting in this office, making it open and airy, with no hint of the antiquarian atmosphere of the rest of the firm. Also, there isn’t one single thing of European origin in your office. Instead, it’s full of your personal interests, which seem to be the opposite of the rest of the Doyles. Whether you intend it or not, you’re making a clear statement to separate yourself from your family.”
    â€œAre you sure you’re not Sherlock Holmes?” she said. “Though you’re dressed a lot differently.”
    â€œSo I am.” He smiled and read the degrees hanging on the wall, above the artifacts. Yes, she had the credentials he needed. “So, here you are, dealing with European antiques and listening to the boring dronings of your grandfather.”
    â€œMy relationship with my grandfather has no bearing on my ability to help you.”
    â€œIf you wish out of this job, say so. Resentment makes for bad relations.”
    She glared. “I’ve said I would do what you required, and I will.”
    â€œFamily can warp a person, as I should know. I’ve been dealing with mine for over six hundred years.”
    Her eyes widened. “I can’t imagine dealing with my grandfather for six hundred years.”
    â€œHah!”
    â€œI have heard tales of the Court of Immortals since I was a child,” she added. “I thought they were just tales.”
    â€œYou don’t believe them?”
    â€œI’ve never met anyone with a psychic ability save myself and my great-aunt. And the stories about your court are pretty over the top.”
    â€œSomeone with your ability should be less skeptical of someone with mine, Marian. Besides, there are plenty of people gifted with psychic talent.”
    â€œPlenty? How many?”
    Aha. Now he’d caught her interest. Now he was more than just a job. “More numerous than you’d guess. All immortals are physics, possessed of a telekinetic ability to heal themselves of injuries. It’s a type of mental molecule manipulation, just as the