“Oh, right,” I said. “Frankly, no, it didn’t occur to me. Sinclair hardly ever talks about his mother. And until this morning, I didn’t know you existed.”

As verbal slaps go, that was a pretty good one. Emmeline’s head jerked backward, her eyes widening.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Backing off, I went for a conciliatory tone. “Obviously, there are some serious family dynamics going on here that I know nothing about. But Sinclair’s a grown man. He makes his own choices. Also obviously, I can’t do anything about my father, but I’m a good person, or at least I try to be. That’s how my mother raised me.” I lowered my voice. “Does my aura say otherwise?”

Her face was impassive. “Not yet.”

“I have no intention of claiming my birthright!” That would probably have sounded more convincing if the words hadn’t come out in sort of a hiss.

Emmeline raised her eyebrows. “Not yet.”

I glanced around to check on Sinclair’s whereabouts. He’d gotten sidetracked on his way back to the table, shaking hands with an older couple I didn’t recognize. Summer people, I’d bet. They’d probably taken the grandkids on the tour at some point, probably packed up the rest of the family and sent them home to their wealthy Chicago suburb earlier today. “Is that really what this is all about?”

“No.” She leaned across the table, a cowry shell strung on a gold chain dangling from her throat. “This is about a great many things, none of which I expect you to understand. The path of obeah is a path of balance, a path between light and dark. You are one step too far into the darkness.”

I opened my mouth to deny it.

“Wait!” Emmeline held up one hand. “This is about Sinny. This is about my brother. And I am telling you, he doesn’t belong here.” Her voice was low and fierce. “Look at him. Look!” She jerked her chin in his direction. Sinclair was posing with the couple, his arms slung amiably around their necks while an obliging member of the waitstaff took a photo. “I rode on that bus today,” she said in a contemptuous tone. “I watched him play the part of a fool for the benefit of dull-witted American tourists, japing like a mountebank.”

“He likes his job!” I protested. “Hell, he invented that job! And look, he’s making people happy. What’s wrong with that?”

She shot me a withering glance. “My brother is meant to be a young lion of Judah, not a neutered American house cat. He belongs at home with his own people.”

“Again,” I said, “may I point out that your brother is a grown-ass man who makes his own choices?”