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while Miss Dubois and I investigated Mrs. Harding’s bedroom.
    Mrs. Harding kept a room separate from her new husband, which I knew was the custom for many couples, but Michael and I had shared a room as often as possible. Then again, we had known that our time together was limited, where this young couple had not. Mrs. Harding had been seventeen when she married and eighteen when she died, and her room had a girlish energy to it. I almost expected to see dolls lined up along her pillows, and though there were none she did have a collection of figurines of dogs, mostly poodles.
    I removed my gloves and handed them to Miss Dubois, who was watching me with great interest. So much so that her focus was distracting as I began reading the room, but I tuned her out with some additional concentration. The room was doused in drab colors. Mrs. Harding had been missing for several days before her body had been found, and as such the energy had faded to an alarmingly low level. Only the strongest emotions remained, concentrated around her pillows and her dressing table. I trailed my fingers across the crisp bed linens—no doubt a wedding present from a relative—and a flurry of images danced through my mind. The pleasant dreams of a new bride, excited about her future…with a man who was not her husband. Startled, I snatched my hand back and blinked. The man’s visage was blurry, but it was clearly not Mr. Harding, for even the hazy image did not resemble him in the slightest. Mrs. Harding’s lover was much fairer in face and hair, and perhaps a bit older.
    Intrigued, I moved my attention to the dressing table. I picked up Mrs. Harding’s hairbrush, and heard the sound of her humming as she drew the object through her long, lustrous hair. The impression of her as young and alive tugged at my heartstrings, and I felt sorry for her, even if she was an adulteress. It made little sense to me—Mr. Harding was quite compatible with her, and he obviously loved his wife a great deal.
    When I set the brush down a sparkle in the mirror caught my eye, and I placed my palm against the glass as I had against the wall in the alley where Mrs. Harding’s body had been discovered. Thankfully this contact did not cause another incapacitating vision, but it did send a strange ripple across the mirror’s surface, like rings created when skipping a stone across a pond.
    “How remarkable,” I murmured.
    “What do you see?” Miss Dubois prompted. I was suddenly beset with the feeling that I would be hearing that phrase from the guardian quite often.
    “You did not see that?”
    “See what?”
    “The mirror. The glass moved like water.”
    Her pale brow rose, and she joined me at the dressing table, examining the mirror. She ran her fingers across it, and the glass rippled again.
    “Oh! Do you see?” I asked.
    Miss Dubois frowned. “No, unfortunately not. Are you faerie-blooded?”
    “I don’t believe so. Not that my family is aware of.”
    “Faerie-blooded individuals often use mirrors as portals into Faerie to visit their kin there. I will ask Mr. Harding if he knows whether or not his wife had faerie relatives… Is there anything else?”
    “Yes.” I glanced at the door and lowered my voice to a whisper. “I believe Mrs. Harding was having an illicit love affair. Do we know if she was displeased with the match that was made for her?”
    “Not to my knowledge. I will ask about that as well,” she replied, and I winced.
    “Perhaps you should allow me to handle that area of questioning. I could monitor his responses to see if he is being evasive in his answers.”
    Miss Dubois considered the offer and then nodded. “Very well.”
    “I should note that there is no sense of violence in this room, or in the areas of the house we’ve seen. She must have gone willingly with her abductor.”
    “Or she was drugged. Any number of alchemist’s potions can dull the senses enough to allow someone to be led away without a fight.”
    True,