“I told you—there’s no reason anybody would want to hurt me.”

“And yet you predict your own death—at the hands of some mysterious them you can’t identify.” His voice was not in the least sarcastic.

It had not occurred to Sarah either to connect Margo’s death with her own future or to consider her shadowy enemies apart from the ending she felt sure they planned for her. But now, thinking about it, she had to admit that Tucker had made a number of points. Looked at objectively, as he clearly could, it was obvious that Sarah was the target of whatever was happening.

“But why?” Like any human being, she found it extremely difficult to even imagine that someone else might want to put a period to her existence, despite her own predictions. “I don’t understand why anyone would want me dead.”

“The reasons people kill are usually simple,” Tucker offered. “Desperation. Greed. Jealousy. Rage. Fear.”

Sarah shook her head, unable to connect any of those powerful emotions to her life. “I’m not…I’m not even close enough to anyone to inspire anything like that. My friends are casual—except for Margo; I have no family to speak of, just cousins who aren’t even a part of my life. How could I have roused those kinds of emotions in someone without knowing it?”

“Even fear?” He looked at her steadily. “Sarah, your life changed dramatically six months ago. You became psychic. And as you said yourself, there are people out there who are terrified of the very idea of precognition. People very afraid of psychics—maybe even to the point of trying to start a witch hunt.”

They burned my house. Witches were burned.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone perceived as different became a target of intimidation tactics,” he reminded her, and echoed her own thoughts when he added, “Suspected witches were burned; nearly the first thing you said to me was that you were the neighborhood witch.”

“But there would have been warnings, wouldn’t there? Nasty phone calls, notes—or something worse—left in my mailbox. Isn’t that how it works? They wouldn’t have started by setting my house on fire. Would they?”

Tucker shrugged. “I wouldn’t have said so. But in these days of stalkers and serial killers, the extreme gets more common every day.”

Sarah accepted that reluctantly. “So it’s possible somebody wants me dead because I’m psychic.” She shied away from anyone hating and fearing that much to focus on her friend’s safety. “Then…then if I’m the target, Margo should be out of danger if I send her away. Right? If she’s nowhere near me, she won’t be an accidental target.”

“That seems reasonable to suppose,” Tucker agreed.

Sarah looked at her watch. “It’s after ten. I should go downstairs and try to talk her into leaving Richmond before lunch. Will…will you help me convince her?”

“I’ll try.” He hesitated, then added, “If you’ll take my advice, I think you should tell her the truth. She knows you’ve seen something, Sarah. It’s worrying her.”

“Yes, I know.” Sarah turned the coffeepot off, then looked around in sudden awareness. “Where’s Pendragon?”

“Margo fed him his breakfast and let him out, she said.” He hesitated, then said, “I never did let him out last night; he disappeared on me. Was he with you?”

“No, not unless he decided to sleep under the bed.” She shrugged. “Which he might have done. This is the first time I’ve spent the night here over the shop since he showed up, so I’m not sure about his nighttime habits.”

“He’s been altered, right? So not as likely to want to wander at night like intact toms do.”

Absently, Sarah said, “I thought you didn’t know much about cats.”

There was a brief silence, and then Tucker said, “I guess most people know that much.”

“I guess. Yeah, I made sure he’d been neutered, otherwise I would have taken him to a vet. Too many stray cats around for my peace of mind. They live dangerous lives, poor things.” With a shrug, she added, “He probably belongs to someone in the area, given his condition and that collar. He’s been somebody’s cat, obviously cared for.”

“Then maybe he went home after his breakfast.”

“Maybe so.”

“Ready to go down to the shop?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They left the apartment and went downstairs to the shop, finding Margo occupied with a customer.

“I had something a little more…economical in mind,” the attractive young woman was saying somewhat wryly as she studied the price tag of a beautiful early Victorian writing desk.

Margo chuckled. “Antiques are always economical, especially if you’re looking at long-term investment, Miss Desmond. Just think of having something this beautiful to pass down to your children.”

“You mean instead of the cash?” Miss Desmond grinned.

Sarah recognized from Margo’s happy expression that she expected to make a sale, so she didn’t try to interrupt. Instead, she led Tucker through the maze of gleaming furniture to a back corner, where a stunning ormolu-mounted boulle bureau plat of Regency design acted as a desk where Sarah and Margo did the necessary paperwork for the shop.

“Nice place,” Tucker commented.

“Thanks. It’s taken us almost eight years to get the kind of stock and clientele we dreamed about when we started. A lot of long hours and hard work went into Old Things, to say nothing of every penny Margo and I could come up with.” She said it matter-of-factly but with a trace of wistfulness, filled with the conviction that this part of her life was ending. She didn’t know whether her prediction of a bleak future would be fulfilled, but she was sure, utterly sure, that her partnership with Margo was ending.

One way or another.

Sarah glanced back across the shop at Margo and the customer, then looked at her watch uneasily. It was still well before noon, but she wouldn’t feel that her friend was out of danger until she was out of Richmond and far away from this shop.

“I think I’ll wander around a bit,” Tucker told her. “I’ve always been interested in antiques.” He nodded toward Margo, adding, “Sing out when you need me.”

“Okay.” Sarah sat down at the chair behind the desk and opened a file to go over several shipping invoices. It was busywork and nothing more; the clock in her head was ticking away minutes, and all she could think about was talking to Margo and getting her out of here.

With that tense part of her awareness, she was conscious of Margo talking to the customer, leading her from piece to piece but always returning to that Victorian writing desk she clearly intended to sell the woman.

“Let me just sit here and think about it,” the customer finally said, sitting down somewhat gingerly in a George III mahogany-framed dining chair.

“It’s a tough decision, I know,” Margo said sympathetically.

“I’ll say. I do love that desk, though.”

“We have a layaway plan. Ten percent down, and you can take a year or more to pay the balance.”

The customer groaned. “You’re an evil woman. Tempting me.”

Margo laughed. “It’s something I’ve been accused of before. But what can I say? I like people to have beautiful things.”

That, Sarah reflected absently, was true. Sales techniques aside, Margo did genuinely enjoy the thought of the beautiful things she valued giving pleasure to others.

“My husband will shoot me,” the customer said with another groan. “He expects me to come home with a plain old desk, not an antique. I just stopped by here on impulse.”

“Sometimes,” Margo said, “impulse is the best way to find the nice surprises in life.”

“Yeah.” The customer frowned. “Look, give me a few minutes, will you, please? I want to think about this.”

Her meaning was clear, and Margo smiled brightly. “No problem. Just call me when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Margo turned and headed toward the back of the shop where Sarah waited.