Storm of Shadows by Christina Dodd Page A

didn’t tell me that.”

    “I . . . didn’t know it mattered.” He had a twist on his lips that looked like pained amusement.

    She didn’t have time for pained amusement. “Of course it matters. If the prophet is a woman, that greatly cuts down on the research. Traditionally, female prophets don’t get as much respect as male prophets, for in the great span of history they were frequently illiterate, so their prophecies are mentioned as mere footnotes by the men who recorded the divinations. Even if they were literate, they were usually a lot less verbose than men. The men always had to brag about themselves and give their credentials. The women said what they had to say and shut up.”

    Jacqueline listened, still watching Rosamund as if she were the most interesting woman in the world. “That’s all true. The prophetess knew what she wanted to say, but she refused to say it until she was free.”

    “Until she was free? What does that mean?” Caleb moved closer, standing behind Jacqueline with an air of protectiveness Rosamund found endearing in such a tough-looking guy.

    “The prophetess was black, a slave, and there’s a”—Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed—“there’s a white house.”

    “A white house? Like the White House?” Aaron asked.

    “I don’t know.” Jacqueline looked back at Caleb and shrugged.

    “George Washington owned slaves. Maybe she lived in his household?” Aaron looked between the women.

    “George Washington didn’t live in the White House. It wasn’t yet built when he was president,” Irving told him.

    “The facts of history trip me up again.” Aaron’s mouth quirked in self-mockery.

    Rosamund remembered what he had told her. He hadn’t even finished high school. For all his obvious wealth and sophistication, he would of course have gaps in his education. “A southern plantation house, perhaps?” she asked.

    “I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I was told. We’ll have to discover the rest ourselves.” Taking her hand off the crystal ball, Jacqueline gave Rosamund’s hand a final, kind squeeze, then released it.

    Rosamund looked at her hand, then at Jacqueline. Either this woman had an odd way of being kind, or Rosamund just didn’t understand human relationships. Ruefully, she admitted it was probably the latter.

    Caleb gave a sigh that sounded like relief. Wrapping his arms around Jacqueline, he pulled her against him, her back to his front, and held her loosely.

    She relaxed against him with a weary smile, and pulled on her gloves.

    “Who told you ? Perhaps I could trace their sources and discover more,” Rosamund said.

    “My mother helps me with my . . . research.” Jacqueline closed her eyes in pain. “And I’m afraid she has recently died.”

    “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Rosamund remembered her own scorching grief of losing her mother, and touched Jacqueline’s arm.

    Jacqueline’s eyes sprang open. “I am sorry for your losses, too. Please. Consider us your family now.”

    Rosamund felt the warmth, muted this time, and a concern that made her want to relax and just be in this world at this time.

    But she couldn’t. If she stopped working and thinking and seeking the truths of other times, she would have to face the truths her emotions had presented her. And she didn’t dare do that.

    So she turned to Aaron. “Why didn’t you tell me the details about the prophetess? That narrows the search parameters.”

    He spread his hands. “Silly me.”

    “I can help. I have some texts that I believe would greatly interest you,” Irving said eagerly.

    She looked hungrily at the books he stacked at her elbow. “I would love to.” She glanced at her watch and half rose. “But I have to get ready for my date.”

    “Of course you do.” Irving was everything that was amiable. “But first, here’s Martha with a special afternoon tea she made just for you.”

    A woman, dressed all in black, pushed a laden tea cart