“Blue light,” Katherine said softly.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “We weren’t sure what you were saying at first—it sounded like ‘boo-lye.’ Even after you knew all of your colors, you still called this your ‘blue light.’ When your mom or I would correct you, you would get all serious and say, ‘No, Daddy, that’s a blue light.’ We finally gave up.” He tousled my dark hair, the way he’d always done when I was small. “You were such a cutie.”
He set the medallion back on the counter and I picked it up for a closer look. It was amazingly lightweight for its size. I could barely feel it in the palm of my hand. Curious, I brushed the glowing center with the fingers of my other hand and felt a sudden, intense pulse of energy. Small beams of light shot up at random angles from the circle and the room seemed to fade into the background. I could hear Dad and Katherine talking, but their conversation sounded like something on a radio or TV playing in a distant part of the house.
The kitchen was replaced by a swirl of images, sounds, and scents flashing through my head in rapid succession: the wind blowing through a field of wheat, large white buildings that hummed softly and seemed to be perched near the ocean, a dark hole that might have been a cave, the sound of someone—a child?—sobbing.
Then I was back in the wheat field and it was so real that I could smell the grain and see small insects and specks of dust suspended in the air. I saw my hands, reaching toward a young man’s face—dark, intense eyes staring down at me through long lashes, black hair brushing my fingers as I traced the contours of his tanned, muscular neck. I could feel a strong grip at my waist, pulling me toward his body, warm breath against my face, his lips nearly touching mine—
“Kate?” Dad’s voice cut through the fog surrounding my brain as he grabbed the hand holding the medallion. “Katie? Are you okay?” I took a deep breath and put the medallion down, clutching the counter to keep my balance.
“Um… yeah.” I could feel the blush rise to my cheeks. I was pretty sure that this was exactly how I would feel the first time Dad saw me kissing someone—which was very nearly what had happened, or so it seemed. “Just dizzy… a bit.”
Katherine pushed the medallion toward the back of the countertop. Her face was pale, and she shook her head once, almost imperceptibly, when I caught her eye. “I would imagine she just needs her breakfast, Harry.” She took my arm and led me toward the breakfast nook.
It was a good thing, too. I was feeling very shaky on my feet. I’d never had any sort of hallucination, and the sounds and images had seemed so real, like I was actually experiencing them firsthand.
Dad insisted that I stay seated while he brought me a bagel and some juice. He had just returned to the table and was starting another “Do you remember…” story, when a tall, red-haired man of indeterminate age appeared in the doorway.
“Good morning, Katherine.”
“Connor!” said Katherine. “I was just about to ring you to say our new housemates have arrived. This gentleman is Harry Keller. And this is my granddaughter, Kate.”
“Connor Dunne. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook Dad’s hand briskly and then turned to me. “And Kate—I’m glad you’re here. We have a lot to do.”
“You need help with unpacking?” I asked.
Connor cast a quizzical glance at me and then looked back at my grandmother.
“Connor,” she said. “Relax. We’ll have plenty of time to discuss arranging the library once Kate and Harry have settled in. Have a bagel and enjoy the morning sunshine. You’ll be happy to know they actually had the pumpernickel this time.”
She turned to Dad. “Connor has worked with me for the past two years and I simply couldn’t manage without him. He was helping me digitize the collection, but we were only about halfway through when…” She paused, as though searching for the right word. “When we decided to move.”
“Do you have a lot of books?” I asked.
Dad snorted as he slathered some cream cheese on his bagel. “Katherine’s collection puts Amazon to shame.”
Katherine laughed and shook her head. “I don’t have nearly as many books as that—but I do have a lot of volumes that you won’t find there or much of anywhere else.”
“What kind of books?” I asked. “Come to think of it, I don’t really know what you do…”
“I’m a historian, like your mother.” She paused. “You’re surprised that Deborah would go into the same field that I did, aren’t you?” I was surprised, but I didn’t think that would be a very polite thing to say. “Deborah fought it, but I’m afraid it’s genetic. She had no choice. She studies contemporary history, however. Most of my research deals with more distant eras…”