Somewhere in Time by Alyssa Richards

Author:Alyssa Richards [Richards, Alyssa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance mystery, romance adventure action, romance and ghosts, romance paranormal mystery, romance book series
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 31

I wiggled my fingers and found that I could. They were there—I could feel them rub against the soft white cotton of the glove. I just couldn’t see them. Which was quickly becoming the least of my problems.

There was a tingling, like low-grade electricity, that crawled up my arm and created a drag, a force that tugged evenly on everything it covered. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling, except for the fact that the drag was stronger than I could resist, and my arm now disappeared up to my elbow. Disappeared into the painting, that is.

My head spun with a dizzying sensation when I moved forward, though I was certain that my feet were firmly on the floor. Because at least I could see those.

Perhaps this was a new type of reading my gifts were morphing into. A deeper reading. Or maybe it was the painting itself that offered more information. No, not offered. Led. It guided me to new depths of information. Normally, when I read a painting, the information simply lifted to my touch. Its story presented itself to me like words on a page or stars in the sky. This information, however, was drawing me into it as if it wanted me to be a part of it.

I moved my hand back and forth inside the painting, and found a connection with several avenues of information. It seemed I could go in any direction I wanted with these different options, and I stepped forward so that I could see them better. All but my left foot buzzed with this electricity. Only a little bit of me remained in the house with Fowler and Blake.

Laid out before me were all the options this painting had to offer, like hallways that lead to unique, historic worlds. There was Monet, the artist, and his life experiences. When I moved my touch, my line of sight shifted onto another pathway that told the story of the painting—everywhere it had been, what it had seen, essentially the life it had lived. There were other portals as well, seemingly endless ones that could take me in an overwhelming number of directions as they related to Monet, his life, this painting. The possibilities were exciting and readily available to me with only a slight consideration of them.

As if the sun had ducked behind a cloud, a cool darkness fell on the painting and the interesting options were lost to an unexpected murkiness that blurred my vision. Sudden crosswinds blew through the area, the dark energies of Monet’s more difficult emotions—hopelessness, self-doubt, and depression—carried on these fierce winds and clung to me as if I could offer them salvation.

Gale-force currents of his insecurities, his indecision about his work, and the disappointments of his life sucked me deeper within its ominous grasp, and like a drowning victim I felt panic that I would not escape. With the more positive avenues gone, there was nothing left to reach for, nothing to hang on to and I

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