Lucas frowned. “We’re talking about a modern-day descendant of the original Oracle of Vortex?”

“I think so,” Harmony said. “Based on my own experience and the research I’ve been able to do, I can tell you that realizing you got stuck with the curse of being an oracle usually comes after you’re an adult. It’s not a talent you discover in your teens.”

“When did you realize you were an oracle?” Victor asked.

“When someone tried to murder me,” Harmony said. “You’d be surprised how that kind of trauma can awaken a talent you never knew you had.”

“Obviously the killer failed,” Lucas said. “What happened to him? Or was it a woman?”

“It was a man,” Harmony said. “He’s dead. And now I need a drink.”

She turned around, black cloak swirling out around her leather boots, and strode off into the crowd.

Victor watched her go. “Did you ever find out if Harmony has a last name?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” Lucas said. He drank some champagne and lowered the glass. “Her last name is Jones.”

CHAPTER 50

That night they made love in the room that had once served as the bridal suite of the hotel. The drapes were left open, allowing the glow of a full moon to pour through the window. It transformed the big four-poster bed into a place of silver mysteries and secret shadows.

Each caress elicited a sense of wonder. Each softly spoken word was a vow. They wrapped themselves around each other, using the physical connection to seal the promises they had made at the altar earlier that day. I love you. I will always love you.

When they finally fell into a damp tangle of arms and legs, North pulled her snugly against him. He folded one arm behind his head. His eyes were half-closed. A small smile edged his mouth.

“What?” Sierra asked, stroking his chest with her fingertips.

He caught her left hand and touched the gold band on her finger. “I was just thinking about the last lines of that poem your father sent to you. Something about a ring.”

She smiled and quoted the lines.

“The voice is patient, and will sing

The notes that help you close the ring.”

“I’ve never paid much attention to poetry, but when you think about it, that whole poem was pointing the way, not just for you but for me as well,” North said. “We closed a lot of rings. We discovered the truth about my grandfather. We solved some murders. We found our callings. And best of all, we found each other.”

“My father will tell you all poetry has a psychic vibe.”

North ran his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer. “Don’t know much about poetry, but I do know I love you, Sierra.”

“I love you, North.”

The bridal suite was illuminated in all the colors of night.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Somewhere in the middle of writing the first chapter of All the Colors of Night I knew the plot needed a psychic poet and a poem that would capture the soul of the story. As fate, luck or coincidence would have it—and we all know there are no coincidences—I happen to have a friend who is a poet: Jared Curtis, professor emeritus of English at Simon Fraser University. In the world of scholars he is known for his work editing the works and manuscript materials of William Wordsworth and W. B. Yeats. I asked Jared to write a poem for the book. At that point the only thing I could tell him about the story—the only thing I knew for sure—was that I was working with a hero and heroine who were at turning points in their lives, characters searching for the path forward.