Whose Ghost There?

Whose Ghost There?

Christopher Stasheff

England

Anno Domini 1807 —1815

Perhaps there is something about having the Talent that attracts situations where it is needed. Today we would call that coincidence. In an earlier age: fate or the Hand of God. Whatever the reason, it makes life for most Crafters quite exciting, and can have other benefits as well.

Anthea was ten years old when she met the ghost.

He was really a very nice ghost, everything considered—but Anthea wasn’t in the mood to consider very much. She had just fled into the library to have a good cry, for Nanny had told her, rather sharply, that Mama had no time to listen to Anthea’s whining just then. Poor Anthea positively dissolved, but Nanny scolded her sharply. “Away with you, aggravating child! When I’ve such a headache! You mustn’t make such a noise!” So Anthea had run out and down the long, creaking stairs to the first room that had a door to it, which was of course the library, crying as though her heart would burst. She threw herself in among the cushions on the window seat, though they reeked of damp, and wept and wept and wept. With all her heart, she wished that her real Nanny hadn’t died, and left her to the mercy of this ... this stranger, this rude country girl who knew nothing of the proper behavior of a nanny, and cared nothing for Anthea’s feelings. She wept on and on as the gloaming faded into a gloomy dusk, not caring that there wasn’t a single candle lighted.

“Such a fuss,” rumbled a hollow voice. “Why, it’s enough to wake the dead.”

Anthea gasped and sat bolt upright, instantly furious that anyone should intrude on her grief, blinking her tears away, or trying to—then gasping again as she saw the glimmering old suit of armor where surely there had been none before. And it lacked a helmet! Nothing there but its bare shoulders.

“Who are you?” she cried, looking about. “Why have you brought this pile of tin here?”

“This pile of tin, little mademoiselle, is myself,” said the hollow voice—and so help her, the suit of armor stepped away from the wall and clanked over to the tall wing chair, where it sat!

Well, actually, it didn’t clank, really. In fact, it didn’t make a sound. It only seemed that it should have.

“Well, that’s better,” the hollow voice said. “I’ve little use for a watering pot. Tears increase the damp so, and my armor’s apt enough to rust as it is.”

“Why, how rude!” Anthea cried, anger drowning fear. “And how cruel of you, sir, to play such a trick upon a poor girl in her misery! Take yourself out of that suit of armor on the instant!”

“That I fear I cannot do, little mademoiselle,” said the armor. “I died in it, so I’m stuck in it, if you follow my meaning at least, until I find my head.”

“Your head?” Anthea could only stare. Well, actually, no, she could have screamed, too—but at the moment, she was far too confused for that. “Why have you lost your head? Over what?”

“Over a battle, actually—though I could say, over a young lady.”

“I knew it!” Anthea clapped her hands. “Whenever a proper gentleman has lost his head, there’s romance in it! Poor fellow, did she not requite you?” Then she came to her senses, and indignation rose. “Why, this is quite unkind! Who are you, sir, and how dare you play such a prank upon a grieving maiden?” She was rather proud of that “grieving maiden” she had thought it up herself, without any help from Mrs. Radcliffe or her books. “Come out of that suit of armor, and be done with this deception!”

“I fear it is no prank,” said the hollow voice, “and as to who I am, why, I am Sir Roderick le Gos, Knight Bachelor, sworn to the service of the Duke of Kent.”

“Le Gos?” Anthea frowned; the name tugged at her memory. Hadn’t Father mentioned ...

“Yes, little mademoiselle, le Gos is the old form of your own name, Gosling. It has transformed itself down through the centuries, but you and I are Gosses still.”

“Centuries?” For the first time, a thrill of fear touched Anthea’s heart. She quelled it sternly—after all, the chap seemed nice enough. “You can’t mean ... you aren’t ...”

“The family ghost? Yes, I am, actually. Not all that many can see me, though—your mama can’t at all, of course, but she’s not a Gos by blood. Even you will probably find that you can’t see me in ten years or so. But for the moment, we can chat quite companionably—if you don’t find my aspect too horrifying.”

“Not a bit, for I can’t find your aspect at all.” Anthea frowned. “Where is it?”

“I carelessly misplaced it some centuries ago, a hundred miles or so to the north and west. It was during a battle against some border raiders, you see—Scots who had the audacity to object to being ruled by King Edward, don’t you know, and thought to make his subjects suffer in his stead. It wasn’t generally known, but a band of them had managed to catfoot it down from the North Country, bravely resisting temptation all along the way, so they could set up a broil entirely too close to London. They raided and retreated into the forest, where they seem to have made common cause with a band of outlaws, and came surging back out at the oddest moments to wreak havoc and plunder.”

“And you had to go chastise them?” Anthea asked, her eyes round.

“Not ‘had to,’ I suppose—but Lady Dulcie wouldn’t think of having me offer for her, if I hadn’t some bit of land and rank to my name. I suppose it’s my own fault, in a way—I ignored a feud of long standing, between her family and mine. But the lady was beautiful, and our estates did border one another, and ancestral grievances seemed far less important to me than the luster of her eyes. Still, there must have been in her some trace of the old malice that bred the ancestral quarrel, for she challenged me to prove my love by joining the expedition against these raiders. I went in the train of my lord the Duke. The Scots fell on us at dawn, and we fought briskly, I assure you.”

“Who won?” Anthea asked, her eyes widening again.

“I can’t say, actually—I was killed in the thick of the fighting. A scoundrel tripped my horse with the butt of his pike. I fell quite hard, but their blows were only heavy enough to dent and mar my armor. I lugged out my sword and forced my way up to my feet, but just then a great rawboned chap in a kilt swung a huge claymore at me, and the blasted sword rang on my helmet as though on a bell. The straps burst, and off it came. I cut back at him, of course, but he only stepped back till my blade had passed, then leaped in and swung again—and, well, there went my head. I don’t really remember much of the rest of the battle, you’ll understand—only a dazed sort of feeling that I wasn’t all there, quite. There was a confused business of winding through the countryside on a cart, and of some doleful chanting in Latin. Then, finally, my mind cleared, and I found myself looking down at my own tombstone—out there, in the churchyard.” Sir Roderick gestured toward the window.

“Why, how horrible!” Anthea exclaimed.

“No, not really—except for those few horrible seconds of blinding pain, but that was over soon enough. And I haven’t been troubled with a sore throat since.”

“I should think not,” Anthea said.

“It is deucedly boring,” Sir Roderick confessed, “and one can’t really see too well, without a head.”

“Can’t you get it back?” Anthea asked.

“I suppose I can, though I haven’t had much luck thus far. You see, they brought my body back for burial in the family plot, but my head was lost amidst the carnage on the field of battle. I’m still searching for it, of course, but I can’t leave the house unless I’m haunting a member of the family—bound by ties of blood and land, you see, and none of my kinfolk have ever gone far enough north for me to come near the scene of that battle.”

Moved, Anthea cried, “I promise to go there, as soon as I’m old enough! Only you’ll have to tell me where it is.”

“Would you really? Why, how good of you!” Sir Roderick didn’t mention that she probably wouldn’t have enough money to go to London, let alone to the battlefield, unless she married—in which case, she wasn’t likely to have the freedom. “Don’t go without an escort, though—these Scots are great rough hairy brutes, you know.”

“Oh, I understand they’ve improved recently—quite civilized, Papa says.” The reminder of her parents clouded her brow.

Sir Roderick noticed. “Bit of a rum show, eh? To have to leave London and come to this rambling old manor.”

“Yes, it’s really quite unpleasant! ... Oh, forgive me! I hadn’t meant any disrespect for your family home.”

“Yours, too, my dear, though you’ve only just found it—and it’s really quite all right. Windhaven is quite thoroughly run-down, I assure you—not what it used to be at all. Even at its best, though, I confess it did become a bit tedious after the first hundred years. I’ve taken the opportunity to travel to London with the family, you see, not to mention Bath and ...”

“London?” Anthea stared. “Was it really you, then, who made those odd noises in the night?”

“Quite so, and I’ve known you since you were an infant—charming, perfectly charming. I could have stayed with Trudy—your Aunt Gertrude, don’t you know—but I thought I’d better come along to the old manor, and see that you were well enough cared for.”

“Oh, but I’m not at all! Nanny died, and they hired this horrible, ignorant stranger in her stead, and the housekeeper and the rest of the staff are so tiresome, I could swear they hate children, and ... Her griefs came to mind again, and Anthea’s eyes swam in tears.

“Now, now, it’s not quite so bad as it might seem,” Sir Roderick murmured, reaching out an armored hand—but all Anthea felt was a chill on her cheek. “Life’s always worth living, don’t you know, if only because it might go better in times to come. There will be a troupe of young men dancing attendance on you some day, though you may feel no one pays attention to you now.”

“They don’t, they truly don’t!” Anthea cried. “Mama cares nothing for my feelings, and hardly ever sees me—indeed, at times I think she wishes I weren’t there!”

“Painful, bitterly painful,” the knight agreed. “Still, you mustn’t be too hard on your mother, little mademoiselle—she’s had a dreadful disappointment, you know.”

“Well, yes,” Anthea admitted, “but she doesn’t seem to have much time for anyone or anything except melancholy, at the moment.”

“Quite so,” Sir Roderick agreed, “though I thought she made it quite clear she cares inordinately about her social circle.”

“Oh yes, she does carry on so about the loss of her wonderful friends and gay parties!” They had been lost with the Goslings’ London house.

“She has cause to rail against the bitter fortune that has consigned her to the country life,” Sir Roderick pointed out.

“She would, if her own extravagances hadn’t been so great a part of that misfortune!” Anthea returned. She had come rather early to that age at which a girl can find any number of things wrong with her mother, especially one who had been so distant as her own. “And really, she shouldn’t call this wonderful house a ‘decaying old manse,’ or go on about its being so far from the lights and salons of London!”

It was in Kent, actually.

“Decaying old manse!” huffed Sir Roderick, offended. “Does she really? Well, well, it has been let go of recent years. Your father hasn’t truly cared very much about it.”

“Papa has taken it very badly,” Anthea stated. Indeed, Papa seemed to blame himself for Mama’s loss. Not that he needed to—she was blaming him quite enough for them both already.

“But it was he who paid all that money, and promised all those sums that he didn’t have,” Sir Roderick pointed out.

“Never mind that it was Mama who ran up all the bills with her modiste, and insisted on so many servants, and on redecorating the town house, and holding their share of parties and soirees!”

“Don’t mind it at all,” Sir Roderick returned, “for your father called in the tailor every month in his own right.”

“Yes, because Mama kept after him to keep his wardrobe up to the latest fashion, of course, and carried on so about being ashamed to be seen with him, if he didn’t.”

“There’s some truth in that,” Sir Roderick admitted, “but certainly no one had to urge your father to run up such enormous gambling debts, least of all your mother.”

“That is true,” Anthea conceded.

“True? The truth of it is that neither of them cared a fig for keeping an eye on their expenses, or to trouble themselves with concern that their expenditures might outstrip their income,” Sir Roderick said. “Not that I’m blaming them, mind you—I never much thought to look at the money myself. More concerned with honor and chivalry, don’t you know—but it’s for a man to provide for his wife and babes, eh wot?”

“The land does that,” Anthea muttered, but somewhat uncertainly.

“True enough, but you must take care of the land before it will take care of you—and not take out of it more than it has to give.”

Which was exactly what Papa had tried to do, of course—and the long and the short of it had been that they had had to sell the town house, and where could they live after that?

Only in the rambling old manor in which Grandpapa had grown up. And Papa hadn’t wished to be there for more than the occasional visit, and hadn’t tended to anything that fell into disrepair—so, now that they needed it, the big old house was dank and ramshackle.

“But the land has a great deal to give,” the ghost assured her. “Not just in corn and cabbage and tenants’ rents, but in the beauty of field and hill and woodlot.”

“I haven’t seen it,” Anthea said shortly.

“But you must!” the ghost said. “Not tonight, of course, for it’s raining, but on a bright and sunny morning, or in the glow of a summer’s evening. When you step into budding woods and find it thronged with birdsong, when you spy a fox peeking out from a covert, when you come upon a meadow filled with wildflowers, you will find the country is not so bad a place to be.”

“It sounds lovely,” Anthea said, caught up in his enthusiasm.

“That it is—but not on a gloomy day of rain and wind. Though that too has its charms, if you’re snug and dry, before a warm fire.”

Anthea made a face and gestured at the cold hearth. “Would I dare to light a fire there?”

“Of course, for the flue still draws well, and is reasonably clean for want of use—and the birds’ nests have fallen for the season, so there’s little chance of a chimney fire. If you’d set a log on, I’ll show you.”

Anthea was somewhat puzzled, but she did as Sir Roderick asked, slipping off the window seat and crossing to place a log between the andirons. The bark crumbled in her hands. “I wonder how long this has been here.”

“Well, if it’s a bit gone to rot, it will light all the sooner.”

The ghost clanked up beside her and knelt, holding its hands out over the logs.

Anthea followed its movements with her eyes. “How is it that you clank now, when you didn’t before? I thought ghosts had no substance.”

“We don’t, but I wouldn’t wish to startle you by coming up in total silence, then speaking at your shoulder.” A silver glow appeared around Sir Roderick’s gauntlets and spread out to envelop the log. It turned golden; then flames began to dance. Sir Roderick withdrew his hands, and the glow died—but the flicker of a burning log remained.

“Oh!” Anthea clapped her hands. “How marvelous! Are you truly magical?”

“Truly, though limited—I’d no teacher, you see, so it was rather hard to make use of the Talent. Took me sixty years to learn that little trick, though rattling chains and slamming doors came somewhat more easily.”

Anthea leaned toward him, but felt only a chill and shivered.

“The fire’s glow does make the room more pleasant.” Then she shook her head in irritation. “But there’s nothing to do!”

“Oh, there are games to pass the time.” Sir Roderick stood and paced over to a table nearby. “There’s backgammon here, you see, and chess.”

Anthea made a face. “Chess is boring. Besides, I don’t know how to play it.”

“Really? I assure you, you’ll find it exciting enough once you’ve learned.”

“I’ve no desire to.”

“Oh, come now! Just to indulge a new friend, eh? It’s been years since I’ve had a game—decades, in fact.”

With surprise, Anthea realized that she really had made a friend, though a very unlikely one. Hard on that came fright that she might lose him and be completely alone again—except for Mama and Papa, who scarcely noticed her, and that poisonous Nanny and the chilly staff. She rose with a theatrical sigh and came over to the table. “Oh, well, just to please you, then.”

“Truly? I’m ever so grateful!” Sir Roderick pointed at the table, and a drawer slid open. A chess piece floated out of it to settle on the checkerboard inlaid in the wood.

Anthea stared, amazed, and feeling just the slightest frisson of fear.

“Dreadfully sorry,” Sir Roderick apologized, “but I can’t really grasp them, you know. Can’t handle anything much over a pound, either. Well, then, this piece is called a pawn, and there are eight of them to a side ... .”

“How lovely!” Anthea picked up the miniature carving, delighted at the warm darkness of the rosewood. “Is it a medieval soldier, then?”

“Yes, and quite authentic, too, which is why it’s just the teeniest bit battered. It can only move forward one pace at a time, unless it’s fighting another pawn, in which case it moves diagonally ahead.” Sir Roderick pointed again, and another warrior floated out of the drawer, armored like the ghost himself, though with a visored helm. It sat astride a rearing horse. “This one is a knight, and he’s the hardest of all, because his horse can jump over anything in front of him—but it always lands to the side, you see.”

The miniature knight leaped off the board, sailed two spaces forward, then swerved to the side and settled again. “Like a capital L,” Sir Roderick explained. “And this is a bishop ...”

Anthea listened, enthralled. It made so much more sense when he explained it! Though it helped that the pieces looked like what they really were, not just little knobs and rods. She settled down to make a pleasant evening of it, after all.

They played every day after that, with the ghost carefully coaching Anthea in tactics and gambits. Finally she realized that he was deliberately letting her win two games out of three, and demanded he start playing to win. He claimed that he did, but she was still suspicious of how often she came up victorious.

For Sir Roderick became her great friend, of course. In winter, he strolled out with her in the very earliest morning, as visible by day as by night (though only to her), and showed her the beauties of newly fallen snow and the lacework it made of the branches in the woodlot. She would have thought it a dreary waste otherwise, but with him she was able to see beauties that she never would have discovered otherwise. And she had need of it, for Mama, in despair at having missed a London Christmas, pined away and succumbed to pneumonia, dying between New Year’s and Twelfth Night. When Anthea saw her eyes close for the last time, and Nanny managed to pry her away from the lifeless clay, she dashed out of the room and ran pell-mell down the stairs and into the library, where she threw herself down among the cushions on the window seat and wept and wept. She must have cried herself to sleep, for of a sudden, she woke with a start and found herself in darkness. For a moment, the fear was so sharp as almost to make her cry out; then she was able to make out the familiar shapes of tables and chairs, and the racks of dusty old volumes on the walls, by a faint glow that somehow permeated the room. Then that glow brightened and coalesced, drawing in on itself till it assumed the familiar form of her armored and headless friend. “I had to watch over you, you see,” Sir Roderick said, almost apologetically. “I couldn’t have you waking alone in the dark.”

“Oh, Sir Roderick! Oh, thank you!” Anthea leaped up and dashed to her friend, throwing her arms about him—and right through him, and the chill bit into her. She drew back, and the tears started afresh. “Or, Sir Roderick, it’s terrible! Mama has quite pined away—and has died!”

“Yes, Anthea,” the ghost said quietly, “I know.”

“You know? But how ...” Then Anthea’s eyes widened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth-but her thoughts fairly shouted, Of course! You knew the moment she came forth from her body—for she’s a ghost now, too, isn’t she?

“She is,” Sir Roderick confirmed.

Anthea was so agitated that she didn’t even notice that the ghost had read her thoughts.

“But she hasn’t lingered, I’m afraid,” Sir Roderick said.

“She was a good woman underneath it all, and departed almost immediately for Heaven. She hadn’t a fallen head to hold her here, you see.”

“No, she had ... Oh, I mustn’t say it!”

“No, you must,” Sir Roderick said gently. “ ‘A child who needed her,’ is that what you were going to say? Yes, she had, little lady, and she misses you quite sorely—I know, for she’s telling me that now, even as we speak.”

“Oh, is she truly?” Anthea cried.

“Yes, though she won’t be able to do it for long, and not very often—and only another ghost can hear her. When she realized she was about to die, she repented of her silliness in mourning her London life, for then she discovered how precious life had been, even though it wasn’t exactly to her taste.” The ghost sighed, and Anthea somehow knew he would have been shaking his head, if he’d had one. “Of course, it was too late then, for she’d let the sickness take far too firm a hold on her. She never knew how much you meant to her, Anthea, until suddenly she found you beyond her reach. Now she aches for you, child, and will surely do all she can to comfort and reassure you from where she is.”

“Oh, Sir Roderick!” Anthea threw herself into his arms, not minding the chill, snuggling down against the upholstery of the big old wing chair which was all she could feel, and she wept and wept again, in the insubstantial embrace of a ghost.

Papa almost turned into a specter himself, after that. He became wan and melancholy, and seemed to take very little notice of the life about him. Alarmed, Anthea took every chance she could to evade Nanny—not hard, for the woman ignored her as much as possible—and crept in to be with Papa, and pay what attentions she could, for fear that he, too, might leave her for the buffering of death—and she must have succeeded to some extent, for, though he didn’t seem to take much interest in life, he didn’t die, either.

It was a strain on her, and she probably couldn’t have borne it if it hadn’t been for the attentions of Sir Roderick. She had a great deal of lost and lonely time, for Nanny seemed to feel that if she wasn’t causing trouble, there was no need to bother with her—she’d far rather drink Father’s port with the cook—and Papa wouldn’t take much cosseting before he would send her away, so that he might be alone to wallow in self-pity. Hurt, Anthea would wander off to the library and try to nap. There she whiled away the time till evening with napping and reading, for there were a great many books in the library. It was fortunate she did, for Papa either wasn’t willing to spend money on a governess, or never thought of it—and in the evenings, Sir Roderick would guide her studies, suggesting books to her, and discussing them after she’d read them. He insisted on a half-hour of mathematics every night, and a deal of science and history and geography, too—but he made it all so interesting that it was almost fun. It never occurred to Anthea to wonder how he knew so much that hadn’t been discovered until after he had died, or even that he knew so much of books, when most medieval knights had never learned to read.

But there was leisure aplenty, too, and her grief slackened and sank beneath a rising tide of delight in the brave new world about her. In spring, Sir Roderick showed her the new foals and calves, and pointed out hidden nests with half-a-dozen gaping beaks for mother birds to feed. He showed her a precious little meadow filled with wildflowers, which she would never have found by herself. It was almost as beautiful by moonlight as by day—and she knew, for she came out there herself the next morning, and found it even more enchanting with the day flowers opening their faces to the sun. In summer, he taught her to lie lazily on a hillside making fanciful images of the cloud-shapes above her, to rejoice in the fury of the lightning and the thunder (provided she was safe indoors), and to watch for the Wee Folk to dance beneath the moon. (She never saw them, of course, but he did point out the rings where they’d been dancing.) Then, in autumn, he showed her the glory of the golden wood and the rustling leaves, the cleverness and prudence of the squirrels as they hoarded nuts, the peaceful vista of fields after reaping, and finally, the tucking-down as the little creatures composed themselves for the long winter’s sleep, and the geese passed overhead with distant honking in their pointed formation, going south to fabled lands of wonder for the winter.

And always, there was chess—in the evenings, in the boring afternoons of rainy days, and by the fire in the winter. She became so adept at the game that she could handily beat him—thought she was never sure he hadn’t let her, and forced him to win a few out of spite. She did wonder how he could see the pieces without a head—but then, she wondered how he could see her, too.

There was less time for that as she grew older, though, for Papa didn’t tend to the estate, but let it go as it would, so the land yielded less and less as the years went by, for want of proper management, and the tenants had less money to pay. He wouldn’t lower the rents, of course, so those who could left for better conditions, or for fancied jobs in London—and those who stayed were always fearfully behind in their rents.

Then Papa remarried, a horrible woman, and Anthea’s world came crashing down, what was left of it.

She couldn’t understand what Papa saw in her, aside from money—though there did seem to be plenty of that. He called in a tailor and was soon resplendent in new clothes—and off to London with his new wife. The woman made it clear from the first (after the wedding) that she wanted nothing to do with her stepdaughter—so Anthea stayed behind at Windhaven, heartsick and lonely. Sir Roderick consoled her and managed to boost her spirits to the point at which she began to take an active interest in the estate. Within a few months she wished she hadn’t, for Papa paid it no more attention than before, merely sending one of his wife’s men to oversee the farm—and Anthea became certain the steward was skimming most of what little profit remained. Sir Roderick confirmed this, though he could bring her no proof but his own witness, which wouldn’t have been much use in court, so she had to let it pass, and do without a new dress, or new curtains, or repairs to the roof. The servants left as the income ran out, and neither Papa nor his wife showed the slightest interest in putting money into Windhaven, so more and more, she took care of the house by herself, cooking and straightening up as much as she could, though she knew better than to try to clean more than a few rooms by herself. It would have been intolerably lonely without Sir Roderick.

Then Papa had some sort of horrible argument with That Woman, perhaps occasioned by the size of his gambling debts and her extravagances—but the long and the short of it was that he came back to Windhaven, chastised and beaten, and lapsed instantly into melancholy.

Anthea wasn’t disposed toward any but the most chilly conduct toward him, but by and by began to pity him, for he was so very doleful. Her old fear of having both parents pine away reasserted itself, and she took to showing him some slight kindness, attempting to chat with him over tea—a very new ceremony, but one which served nicely. He reacted little, or not at all, at first, but she persevered, and gradually he emerged from his dejection and began to respond. Little by little, with Sir Roderick’s advice, she managed to coax him into showing some sort of interest in life again, and Papa repaid her attentions with growing fondness and eventually came out of his grief enough to value her company. They played long games of chess in the evenings, and he taught her to play whist, piquet and several other card games, though never very well, and began to enjoy her conversation as she grew older and more knowledgeable. She was amazed at the depth of her own reaction to his attention—she had thought she would never even be able to forgive his neglect, but actually found an almost pathetically eager surge of delight. She did her best to control it, but some of her warmth doubtless showed.

Anthea managed to come by the occasional newspaper, and brought it home to read to him, asking him to explain the bewildering variety of events—for example, who was this Napoleon, and why was everyone so concerned about him? Questions of this sort drew answers of surprising energy from her father, and slowly, little by little, he began to take an interest in the world around him again.

It was too late, though, for the damp and chill of the old house had settled into his bones, and he died when Anthea was only seventeen. Once again, Sir Roderick consoled her through her grief, and brought her out to life and light again—only to have her confronted with a heap of bills that she could not possibly pay. Papa’s wife, it seemed, had beaten him to the grave, but not by much, and had left her own stack of debts, which were added to his—so Anthea was sole heiress to a dearth of assets, and a mountain of debts.

In desperation, she turned to Sir Roderick, her only source of support, and he took a midnight flit about the neighborhood to discover an honest and capable solicitor. In the hands of that good man, Anthea discovered that, as a minor, she could not agree to anything legally binding, and therefore could not be held liable, as long as there was a relative to whom such decisions could be referred. It was then that she remembered Aunt Trudy.

Aunt Trudy was Papa’s sister, somewhat estranged by irritation with Mama, whom, she felt, should have taken far better care of Papa than she had. When Papa had moved to the country and lapsed into melancholy, he had broken contact with her completely—he had not even learned of her husband’s demise, or her sons’ and daughters’ marriages. Now, though, apprised of circumstances by the solicitor, Aunt Trudy, really Lady Broch, descended on Windhaven to weep buckets of tears at her brother’s grave, every one of them sincere, then to press Anthea to her matronly bosom, which was amazingly soft and warm—and something inside Anthea that had been knotted tight, loosened, and she found herself weeping like a watering pot in a real, flesh-and-blood embrace for the first time since she was ten, while Aunt Trudy made consoling noises and soothed her, then put her to bed.

Then Aunt Trudy and the solicitor, between them, tackled the pile of bills and the horror of Papa’s books, or lack of them, and called the steward to account. The long and the short of it was that he was let go and sued for monies owing. In his stead a reliable under-steward was appointed from Aunt Trudy’s estates, inherited from her husband, Lord Brock. Suddenly, the old manse was under repair, the fields were put in order, and Aunt Trudy was sweeping Anthea away with her to London, just in time for the Season.

London was a mad, exciting whirl as it appeared from the window of Aunt Trudy’s carriage. Brief as their acquaintance was, Anthea felt no hesitation at letting her aunt see just how delighted she was with the metropolis. “Oh, Auntie! The Tower itself! Oh, it seems an age since I saw it!”

“An age it has been,” her aunt returned. “You were only a child when you left, and you are a young woman now.”

‘A young woman’—no one had called her that before. The term was sobering—but not for long. Everything looked so much smaller than she remembered it.

“But of course,” Aunt Trudy said, “you were somewhat smaller then, yourself.”

The enthusiasm and gaiety of the return buoyed Anthea through her introduction to the staff, and particularly Hester, her very own lady’s maid—newly promoted for the occasion, and under the constant and unrelenting scrutiny of Aunt Trudy’s Abigail.

“Don’t fret,” Anthea assured her, glad to have someone as nervous as she herself. “If you do make any mistakes, I shan’t tell.”

Neophyte or not, Hester knew the proprieties, and Anthea had a hot bath to wash off the dust of travel, and a decent dress, not too far from her own size, appropriate for dinner. She felt awkward and gauche under the severe eyes of the butler, the footman, and the maid—but Aunt Trudy put her at ease in minutes, by making quite obvious her delight in having someone to share her meals with again. Anthea hoped she was sincere. It was terrible to think, but she hoped it wasn’t mere politeness.

Then, finally, she was in her nightdress and alone in her darkened room, her chocolate cup empty beside her bed, the room shadowed by the flickering light of her candle—and the strangeness began to make itself felt. Surprising as it was, Anthea realized she was longing for Windhaven. “Oh, Sir Roderick,” she whispered, “if only I could speak with you now!”

“Why, then, do, Miss Anthea,” said the familiar old hollow voice.

Anthea started, nearly leaping out of her skin. “What ... ? Sir Roderick!”

The suit of armor gleamed in the shadows by her wardrobe.

“Why, poor child! I’ve frightened you. Forgive me—I thought that surely you would remember that I could travel to haunt the family wherever they went.”

“Of ... of course.” Anthea sat up a little straighter in bed. “Yes, how foolish of me! I should have remembered! Oh, Sir Roderick, it is so very good to see you!”

“And you, dear child. Surely you did not think I would lose your company if I could prevent it.”

“Oh, you are so good! But ... Sir Roderick, I am no longer a child.”

“Of course not, my dear.” The suit of armor came over to sit on her bed. “That is why I addressed you so. When you were a child, I called you ‘little mademoiselle’—so now, when you are grown, I feel free to call you ‘my child.’ After all, we are related.”

“And I was so grateful for the courtesy then,” Anthea laughed. “Shall I be grateful to be called ‘child’ soon?”

“Yes, and that day is not far off, I believe. Still, I’ll call you ‘Miss Anthea’ till then. May I advise, though, that you only think the words when you address me, rather than speaking aloud? I assure you, I’ll hear you just as easily, and the servants might wonder at hearing you speak with a man in your own chamber.”

“Oh yes, of course!” Anthea immediately shifted her conversation to thought only. I think I can sleep well now, knowing that you are near.

“Why, thank you, Miss Anthea. Are you sleepy, then?”

Well ... not very.

“Yes, I know—discovering my presence was a bit of a shock. Might I suggest a game of chess, then?”

The very thing! Anthea scrambled out of bed, careful to keep her nightdress down, and ran to take out the chess set she had brought with her. She scrambled back into bed and opened the board, laying out the pieces.

The candle burned down before she had him checkmated, but the glow from his armor was quite enough.

There followed a positive whirlwind of shopping, and Anthea came home in quite a giddy mood for the first three days. Aunt Trudy seemed to be enjoying herself just as much as Anthea was; she confided, over dinner, that the shops and modistes had all become new to her again, just by watching Anthea’s delight in them.

The next day, Aunt Trudy embarked on a round of visits, calling on friends with Anthea and seeing her properly introduced. She met a dozen girls of her own age or nearly, and if some of them were calculating in their assessment and attempted to patronize her, the others more than made up for it with their quick and ready warmth. Half a dozen of them came to Aunt Trudy’s to help celebrate Anthea’s birthday on the twentieth of April, just before the beginning of the Season—and the next day, the invitations began arriving. It seemed that Aunt Trudy’s friends included several of the patronesses of Almack’s, and Anthea had passed their inspection. She was about to be launched.

Her first ball was to be at Lady Fortrain’s. She spent hours with Hester, dressing and powdering and primping, and was too nervous to eat more than a few mouthfuls at dinner. Aunt Trudy was quite impossible, urging dish after dish upon her with a roguish twinkle in her eye. However, she more than made up for it by whisking her away wrapped in an ermine-trimmed cloak, into the carriage and off to the ball. Anthea felt quite like Cinderella, and had half a mind to accuse Aunt Trudy of being a fairy godmother. If she didn’t, it was half because she feared her aunt might confess to the truth of it. However, she did remember herself enough to say, “Oh, Aunt, how can I ever repay you for this!”

“You may reimburse me when your lands have begun to yield a profit again. For the present, you may gladden my heart with your own joy.”

Anthea looked stricken. “But, Aunt—to repay Papa’s debts, and undo the damage of neglect, will take eons!”

“Only decades, my dear, and I look forward to a weekend at your house, when it has been suitably restored.”

“Oh, of course, whenever you wish! But, Aunt ...”

“It is only a loan,” Aunt Trudy said firmly, “and you are not to trouble your head about it. Affairs of this sort are the privilege of ... maturity. Yours are flirting and laughing and filling a house with music. I pray you, do it well.”

Anthea gave up and flung her arms about her aunt, knowing her generosity for the charity it was, and loving her all the more for not admitting it. “But I will never, ever, be able to repay your kindness!”

“Then you will have to repay it to some other young thing who needs it.” Aunt Trudy whisked out a handkerchief and dabbed at Anthea’s cheeks. “There now, child.” And she gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Lady Fortrain’s mansion was lit up like Guy Fawkes’ Night.

The stream of carriages passing in front of the door was in almost constant motion, each pausing for a few minutes to discharge its passengers, then moving away to find a place to wait. Coming into that line was another matter, of course—drivers cracked whips and cursed at one another as they jockeyed for position. But inside the carriage, Aunt Trudy sat serenely and calmly, while Anthea fluttered back and forth from window to aunt, exclaiming, “Oh, how lovely! So many lights! So many beautiful dresses!”

“You don’t remark or seem to remark upon the people, Anthea,” she was corrected.

“Oh, how can I, Aunt? They’re too small to see!”

“Don’t fret yourself, you’ll soon be close enough to view their faces quite well, I assure you.”

She was indeed, close enough to face the redoubtable wall of respectability represented by Lord and Lady Fortrain, who greeted her formally and Aunt Trudy warmly. It was strange how their formidable aspects dropped when they began to chat with Trudy.

Freed from the constraint of her aunt’s presence, Anthea joined a gaggle of her new friends, to giggle and glance at the gentlemen.

“Oh, do look at young Lord Melchoir, Anthea! They say he has twenty thousand a year, and squanders it all in utter dissipation!”

Anthea stared. “One would never think it, to look at him. He looks quite the picture of health and virtue!”

Ermingarde gave a peal of laughter. “Virtue! The only virtue he may have is whatever he steals! Yet they say that Lord Delbert, who makes every attempt to appear the absolute rake, is actually quite honorable in private!”

“Oh?” Anthea smiled. “And how would they know of his private affairs?”

“My dear, affairs can never be truly private! Except, perhaps, for those of Mr. Crafter, there.”

“Oh, but he is not truly a gentleman!” Jane objected. “Truly, he may be quite wealthy—but not a cent of it was he born with—it is all come from trade!”

“Nevertheless,” Sophie said, “he comes of good family. His cousin is a baronet, after all.”

“But such a distant cousin, my dear! And this Crafter is actually from the Colonies! America, of all places! Really, one cannot but think he would be more at home in moccasins and a hat made of some small animal than in cutaway and breeches!”

Anthea eyed the young man in question, seeing blond hair with a surprisingly dark skin, standing by himself, quite self-contained, but with an air of interest that seemed somehow forced.

“American? Is he a spy, then? They favor Napoleon?”

“No, by some irony, he served in Her Majesty’s Navy, they say—but one never knows, does one? After all, it has been only years since we began the war with the French! If you can call the current situation a war,” Ermingarde said as an afterthought.

There was something vaguely sinister about the young man, Anthea thought. “Is he the only eligible bachelor who is not leading a secret life of dissipation?”

Her friends giggled, and the conversation turned to speculation as to who would dance with whom. It was short-lived, however, as one by one, the young men came over to bow and praise, and ask for the compliment of a dance. Before long, Anthea’s friends were whirling away to the music, each with several dances already bespoken. Anthea watched and smiled, and tried not to feel too envious.

“Miss Gosling.”

Anthea looked up, startled. “Lady Fortrain!”

The imposing dowager forced a slight smile. “May I present Mr. Roman Crafter, late of the exotic lands of the East.”

The young man bowed, and Anthea suppressed a slight shiver. So close, she found that he fairly exuded an air of worldliness which she found more repulsive than attractive.

“Your aunt has told me of your interest in geography,” Lady Fortrain went on, “so I thought you might wish to learn of Mr. Crafter’s experiences in India.”

“India! Oh yes, Lady Fortrain, thank you! Really, Mr. Crafter, how did you come to India?”

The grave young man gazed directly into her eyes with such a deep and probing look that Anthea had to suppress a shiver. “It was in the course of private curiosity, Miss Gosling, though it came to be on the King’s business.”

Lady Fortrain smiled benevolently and moved on. Anthea rather wished she hadn’t; there was something decidedly unsettling about Mr. Crafter. Perhaps the steady gaze of those large, surprisingly light gray eyes, so fitting beneath the mane of ash-blond hair—or perhaps it was his excessive leanness, or the bronze hue of his skin. All in all, he gave the impression of someone left out in the sun too long, which he may well have been. Most probably, though, it was the aura of almost fanatical intensity that seemed to surround him like a cloak.

But he was immaculately dressed, his neckcloth pristine and precisely folded, and she certainly had his undivided attention. “I confess to puzzlement, Mr. Crafter. How could private curiosity turn to royal affairs?”

“By the press of events, Miss Gosling. But really, may we dance while I tell you of it? I should very much like to.”

“Why, thank you.” Anthea took Crafter’s arm and stepped out onto the floor, repressing a shudder at his touch. As they began to move through the paces of the dance, his eyes never left hers, and to ward off his intensity, she pressed. “Do go on, Mr. Crafter. What were these events that took you to India?”

“That was a matter of trade, Miss Gosling, as much as of curiosity.”

She was surprised at his boldness in so openly admitting to being in trade. He seemed almost brazen, in fact. “Trade, Mr. Crafter? Has your family no land, then?”

“Why yes, a considerable amount, and they are ever acquiring more, I understand—though it’s rather inaccessible to me, being in America.”

Brazen indeed! Would he proceed to tell her to which spymaster he reported? And why did he make no mention of his English relations?

“I was chosen to serve in His Majesty’s Navy,” Crafter explained, “and given very little choice in the matter.”

“You mean you were—impressed?” She was shocked—and somewhat thrilled.

“My father was, actually—we were passengers aboard a ship bound for Jamaica. The captain of the man-of-war that overhauled us thought Father would do splendidly as an able-bodied seaman, never mind that he was en route to represent the Government of the United States in a Crown colony—and thought I would do as a powder monkey, being only ten at the time.”

“A common seaman?” Anthea gasped.

“Not willingly, I assure you. I was privileged to take part in the battle of Trafalgar, though I can’t claim to have seen anything but the powder supplies and tunnels, and the wounded. Through a rather unique set of circumstances, I was fortunate enough to be able to contact some relations of mine ... .”

“Not a baronet, by chance.”

“Ah, you have an ear for the gossip! Yes, I’ve a cousin of that rank, though it was the squire in Ireland who bought a commission for me. That protected me from the worst of the life of a foremast hand, and gave me a pittance to save in the bargain. I sold out when I attained my majority, repaid my cousin, and invested in the British East India Company.”

Anthea found it interesting to note that there was an Irish cousin that gossip did not speak of—but then, one frequently didn’t speak of the Irish. “How did this lead you to India, though?”

“I desired to be sure my money was being put to good use.”

“To be sure of it! Really, sir, if one cannot trust the East India Company to increase one’s money, whom can one trust?”

“No one, I begin to think—for the mismanagement and nest-feathering I witnessed were quite disheartening. I determined to take a hand in affairs, and managed to impose some discipline—but in the process, I became an informal envoy to a rajah’s court.”

“A rajah!” Anthea breathed, all agog.

“A small one,” Crafter temporized, “though his palace was large enough, and had the requisite peacocks to announce visitors—and if I can’t speak of piles of jewels to either hand, I can at least assert that his wives did seem to be entrusted with a substantial portion of his capital.”

Anthea laughed, almost in spite of herself, and Crafter responded with a smile of amusement. “The Rajah, it seemed, wished to forestall the incursions of the Company by treating directly with the governor-general, who is at least nominally in the service of Crown as well as commerce—so there I was, a subject of His Majesty and an emissary to him, one and the same.”

Anthea laughed again, and would have liked to ask him more, but the music ended, and Crafter stepped back, releasing her hand with a bow. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Gosling. May I look forward to repeating the pleasure?”

“I ... I think perhaps the third gavotte.” Anthea examined her programme carefully, which was rather difficult, as it was completely blank. However, she inscribed Mr. Crafter’s name, then curtseyed and said, “Thank you for your fascinating conversation, Mr. Crafter. I shall look forward to more accounts of your exotic adventures.”

Crafter smiled and bowed again, then left her—and her friends flocked around immediately.

“Really, the Man of Mystery himself, Anthea! Did he tell you of murderous deeds and mysterious doings?”

“Is he as ominous as they say, Anthea?”

“You laughed quite well, Anthea. Was he truly amusing?” Then everyone fell silent at the approach of three gentlemen, and someone drew breath rather sharply, for at their head came Lord Delbert, his eyes sparkling as brightly as the diamond in his neckcloth, crowned with a mane of raven hair, his bright blue eyes seeking out Anthea as he bowed. “Miss Gosling! May I have the pleasure?”

Her friends stared as Delbert led her out onto the floor, and Anthea thought he must surely hear the pounding of her heart.

“Where have you been hiding, Miss Gosling?” Lord Delbert asked. “You have never graced London before.”

Anthea gave a little laugh. “Not since I was ten, your lordship. We have been living in Kent in the interim.”

“How naughty of your parents, to hide away so dazzling a beauty!”

Anthea’s face flushed with pleasure, though she told herself it was only empty flattery. Still, she knew that she was pretty enough, and that the light of the massed candles showed the auburn glints in her hair to their best advantage. “But, sir! You must not speak so!”

“No, I must, for beauty deserves tribute. Do you remember much of the town, Miss Gosling?”

“Only Saint Paul’s and Saint James’s, Mr. Delbert.”

“Then you must allow me to show you more of it! There are such brave sights, Miss Gosling. We must begin with the Park ...”

By the time the dance ended, he had claimed three more, and had cajoled her promise to allow him to call on the morrow and take her driving in his phaeton.

On the way home, Anthea chattered and exclaimed without pause. Aunt Trudy listened with a fond smile, prompting her with a question whenever she seemed to be slackening. She was only just beginning to run down as they came home. When they had come in, though, and the footmen had divested them of their cloaks and the maid had brought them Cambric tea, Anthea finally realized that Aunt Trudy had been much more quiet than was her wont. “Did some aspect of my evening trouble you, Aunt? My dances with Mr. Crafter, perhaps?”

“Crafter? Pooh!” Aunt Trudy waved him away. “A pleasant enough gentleman, certainly, though contaminated with the aroma of trade. There is some justification for him in the rumor that he enjoys it as other men enjoy their horses or cards, but it is nonetheless déclassé. Still, he is impeccable in his conduct, to the point of dullness.”

“Then is it ...” Anthea swallowed. “Lord Delbert?”

“Delbert has the face and form of an angel, and the tongue of a devil,” Aunt Trudy said, frowning. “There is nothing to be said against him, of course—he comes of excellent family, and has never been observed to be improper. Still ...”

Anthea’s heart plummeted at the “still.”

“There are rumors,” Aunt Trudy went on. “Nothing definite, you understand, all very vague, but there is some question as to why he is still a bachelor in his thirties.”

“No doubt the arrow of love has never found his heart!”

“Or has found it all too often,” Aunt Trudy said grimly. “I wouldn’t dream of denying you his company, Anthea—but I would urge caution.”

Aunt Trudy had good reason to recommend wariness. Nonetheless, Lord Delbert called the next day, and his conversation and bold gaze quite thrilled Anthea till her blood seemed to bubble in her veins. His visit was almost concluded, and he was just soliciting again her promise to drive in the Park with him that afternoon, when the butler brought in Mr. Crafter’s card. Aunt Trudy looked up and nodded, and the butler bowed and departed. Lord Delbert, however, seemed not to have noticed, so he was still chatting with Anthea quite amiably when Crafter appeared in the doorway. Lord Delbert looked up, and rose to his feet as Crafter presented himself with a smooth and somehow sinister grace that flowed into a bow. “Lady Brock, how good of you! Miss Anthea, a pleasure! And yourself, Delbert.”

“Bit out of your territory, ain’t you, Crafter?” Delbert said with a devilish grin. “Too far from the counting-house by half.”

“A distance which I would recommend to you, milord,” Crafter said, returning the smile.

Delbert flushed angrily, to Anthea’s surprise, and turned to bow to her. “Until this afternoon, Lady Anthea.”

“Until then, my lord,” she murmured, and he rather ostentatiously kissed her hand, then turned away.

Puzzled, she turned back, to see Mr. Crafter following Lord Delbert’s exit with amusement in those gray eyes.

“Please be seated, Mr. Crafter,” Aunt Trudy urged. Anthea drifted into a chair.

“Thank you, Lady Brock,” Mr. Crafter sat. “I fear I have clouded a bright afternoon.”

“Not at all,” Aunt Trudy said briskly. “I am sure Lord Delbert is far more entertaining in the phaeton than in the drawing room. Tea, Anthea?”

“Yes, thank you, Aunt.” Then Anthea fell silent, at a loss for a topic.

Mr. Crafter slid smoothly into the momentary silence. “Are you enjoying the Season, Miss Anthea?”

“Oh, yes! It is so gay, even festive! Really, I am so glad to be back in London!” The statement gave her the idea for a possible topic. “And yourself, Mr. Crafter? Did you find your return to London pleasant, or would you have preferred to remain in India?”

“I assure you, I blessed the cool breeze of England,” Mr. Crafter said, smiling. “India has its attractions and fascinations, but it is, when all is said and done, alien, and I found I’d no wish for it to be otherwise.”

“Did you tire of it, then?”

“For the moment,” Mr. Crafter said judiciously, “though I would not be loath to return at a later date. It is not one large country, you see, but a host of small ones. I saw only a tenth of it, perhaps not even that.”

“But their customs! Surely they don’t differ from one kingdom to the next?”

His eyes brightened; she realized, with a start, that he hadn’t expected her to know that many of the independent states in India were sovereign kingdoms. “There are small differences between neighboring countries, but there are great ones between the North and South ...”

And they were off into a discussion that was, in its own way, just as fascinating as Lord Delbert’s visit, though much less exciting. Anthea found, to her surprise, that Mr. Crafter listened to her opinions with respect, and never contradicted them—he only narrated such of his own experiences that confirmed or denied what she had read. Aunt Trudy finally had to call a halt to the conversation, though she confessed that she herself was loath to. Nonetheless, the ladies did need a few hours to prepare for the afternoon, so Mr. Crafter was dismissed. He did not, upon his going, kiss Anthea’s hand, or even try to—but he looked long and deeply into her eyes, and said that he hoped they would have occasion to chat again. Then he bowed to Aunt Trudy, and departed.

“A man with a somewhat checkered past,” Aunt Trudy sighed, “but a fascinating one! Though I fancy most your age would find his accounts boring, Anthea.”

Anthea was rather surprised to find that she hadn’t.

The drive in the Park was a scintillating pleasure, the more so since several women they passed looked rather nettled to see her in Delbert’s phaeton—but after the third such glance, Anthea did begin to wonder as to the nature of their envy. Was it only that they wished to be where she was—or that they already had been? Of course, a gentleman might drive with any number of young ladies, in fifteen Seasons—but had there been more to it than a drive? And there were the half-dozen who took one look at Delbert and turned their faces away, driving resolutely past him with stony gazes. That seemed to amuse Delbert, but he made no mention of it, only kept up with his stream of lively and amusing gossip, setting Anthea alternately to laughter and exclamations of disbelief.

But when they came home, he assisted her down from the carriage with both hands and did not let go, but stood looking down into her eyes, his own with such a glow as to set her heart a-flutter, then pressed his lips to her hand in such a way that she knew he aspired to higher things.

So it went for several weeks, Lord Delbert’s visits exciting and stimulating to the emotions, Mr. Crafter’s stimulating to the mind—and if Lord Delbert’s attentions aroused feelings that not only exalted Anthea but also somewhat frightened her, Mr. Crafter’s were oddly soothing and reassuring.

Her life was not a perfect whirlwind of suitors and gatherings, though—there was responsibility, too, as she found out when she noticed how pale and wan her maid, Hester, appeared to be one morning. “Are you ill, Hester?” she inquired.

“No, not at all, miss. Just too late arising this morning, it would seem.”

“Didn’t you sleep well?”

“Oh, well enough, I suppose, miss.” But Hester was growing more and more agitated, and now that Anthea looked, her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen—not terribly much; rather as though she had bathed them in cold water to reduce the swelling, but still noticeably. She caught her maid’s hand and softened her tone. “What is the matter, Hester? Truly, you may tell me without fear.”

Hester hesitated, irresolute.

“I swear I shan’t betray you,” Anthea pressed. “But if there is trouble, do tell me of it! Two may see a way through where one would not.”

Then the floodgates sprang open, and Anthea was alarmed to find herself the crying-pillow for her own maid. She consoled and comforted as best she could, and when the wave of tears had slackened, the story came out between sobs. It was a footman of another household who was the cause of the problem, it seemed. Hester had met him when the two households had joined for holiday festivities, and had fallen in love straightaway. He professed that he felt as she did, and pursued the matter with all the eloquence and soulful looks at his command. Swayed by passion as well as love, she had yielded to his pleading, then had been horrified to discover that she was with child. Her lover had been even more horrified, protesting that he could not wed her till he had gained the rank of butler, which was still several years away. When she had pointed out that the child would not wait so long and that she would lose her place because of it, he had retorted that he had no desire to lose his place, and had told her to “take care of the thing.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!” Anthea had cried, aghast even though she wasn’t quite certain of the meaning.

“I would never think of it, miss,” Hester replied, eyes dry but swollen thoroughly now. “I shall bear the babe if it is my last living act—but, oh! —how am I to manage? Your aunt would throw me out into the street if she knew! What am I to do?”

Anthea hesitated between fear and propriety for a moment, then clasped Hester’s hand firmly and said, “You must have faith in your mistress.”

“Oh, I do, miss! What do you bid me do?”

“Not just myself, Hester—Aunt Trudy.”

“Oh, no, miss!” Hester pulled her hand free, shrinking away. “She’d fly into a rage if I told her! She cast me out on the instant!”

“She would do no such thing,” Anthea said firmly. “You know her, Hester—she is a kind and understanding person, who would never condemn another woman for being swayed by love. Come, we must tell her.” And taking Hester by the hand, she swept her off, protesting, to Aunt Trudy, her confidence in her aunt so great as to surmount any doubt.

That confidence was not misplaced, though Aunt Trudy was saddened by the news, then lectured Hester on her folly. Hester, to her credit, only acknowledged the truth of her employer’s words and asked Aunt Trudy’s pardon, which was given instantly. “But what are we to do with you, girl? We can’t have you staying here to suffer the ridicule of your fellow servants, and have your shame known to the world.”

Hester’s eyes filled again. “I would never think of shaming you, milady.”

“Nor would you ever do so.” Aunt Trudy embraced the poor maid. “You are of my household, Hester, and it is not my custom to desert my people in their hour of need. But where shall we send you when your condition can no longer be hidden?”

“Aunt Trudy?” Anthea said diffidently.

“Yes, child?” Aunt Trudy looked up. “She is your maid, after all, and you must accept some measure of the responsibility for her well-being. What can you recommend?”

“Send her home. To my home, I mean—to Windhaven.”

“The very thing!” Aunt Trudy clapped her hands. “None know you there, Hester, and heaven knows there’s need of you. The housekeeper is compassionate and gentle, I’ve seen to that—though she’s stern about duty, mind! Your secret would be safe there, and we can legitimately send you to see to your mistress’s affairs for several months—really, there wasn’t a single room in the house fit for a young lady, and you’ve wit enough to see to the transforming of a suite, Hester. The babe will be safe there—”

“Oh, yes! It was a wonderful place to grow up!—Your pardon, Aunt,” Anthea said, lowering her eyes.

“Given gladly,” Aunt Trudy replied. “There are tenant families who would be glad enough to have one more if there were a little money to help feed it, and if you’re minded to have the child adopted. However, there are also wetnurses available to tend it, if you don’t wish to give it up but have it reared in the manor. For you know, Hester, that we’ll expect you back in London within the year.”

“I would want nothing more, milady! Oh, thank you, milady!” And the tears flowed again, but this time it was Aunt Trudy who took the maid into her arms and risked water-spotting her gown.

Life proceeded at its normal, and rather dizzying, pace; Hester remained in attendance on Anthea, for it would be a few months more before her condition was so pronounced as to require her removal. Anthea found that there was a bond of sympathy established between herself and her maid now, and she felt free to confide in Hester, especially in regard to her feelings about her two foremost suitors. She did not explain, though, that she rather hoped neither of them would encounter Sir Roderick, for she didn’t believe Hester would be reassured to learn of the family ghost of Windhaven Manor just now. Besides, Sir Roderick had assured her that only family, or those extremely gifted with that Talent the Celts termed “fey,” could see him. There seemed little danger of that, though, for Sir Roderick had been oddly absent since the Season’s beginning. To be fair, Anthea would have had to admit that she hadn’t had time to chat with him, and he apparently didn’t want her to slacken her breakneck course.

Lord Delbert’s attentions became more and more ardent; he began to steal a kiss in the garden, and in the drawing room, when Aunt Trudy was absent—kisses that became longer, his tongue dancing lightly over her lips in a pattern that sent thrills coursing through Anthea’s whole body. She knew she should have slapped him, told him to desist—but was afraid that he might.

Mr. Crafter, on the other hand, was unhappily the soul of propriety—Anthea could have wished for the opportunity to compare his kisses with Lord Delbert’s. He did, however, spend more and more time looking soulfully into her eyes, and once, when she protested that a man of such broad experience and depth of learning should find an unlettered chit like herself to be boring, he assured her, “Nothing could be farther off the mark, Miss Gosling. You are astonishingly well-read for so young a lady, and have a lively and inquiring mind that entrances me.” Then his gaze sharpened in that disconcerting intensity of his. “But more—there is some quality about you that attracts me mightily, as the steel to the lodestone. You have some element of empathy that far exceeds that of most people, and I suspect you have an inordinate sensitivity which you are at pains to hide.” Anthea felt alarmed, and her face must have shown it, for he broke the tension with a puckish smile. “Besides, you’re the best opponent at chess I’ve had in many a year. Will you play?”

She would, but she found herself wishing that it had been another game to which he had invited her. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she wished it.

It was Lord Delbert who named it, one night when Aunt Trudy was detained with the housekeeper. He pressed Anthea to him, kissed her far more passionately than ever before, then whispered, “I can no longer live without you—I must have all your favors at once, and for all my life! Run away with me tonight, to Gretna Green!”

And Anthea, to her shame, said yes.

Delbert swore her to silence, claiming that if Aunt Trudy knew of it she would prevent them for more months than he could stand—that he would positively wither away from unrequited love. Anthea doubted that, but she was as impatient as he for the wonders his presence promised, though she wasn’t certain what those wonders were; so she refrained from telling her aunt, though she felt dreadfully guilty in doing so.

But she had to tell Hester, of course. After all, she couldn’t have packed by herself.

Aunt Trudy had to attend the soiree, even though Anthea had a headache—it was, after all, a social obligation. As soon as she heard the carriage depart, Anthea was out of bed and changing into her travelling clothes. She felt horrible at deceiving Aunt Trudy, who had been so good and kind to her, but Love was master of all, and surely her aunt would understand when she came back wedded to one of the most eligible bachelors of the ton.

She and Hester dragged the portmanteaus down the back stairs. There, in the mews, was a carriage, with Lord Delbert, all smiles, right beside it. Anthea hesitated at the sight of the enclosed vehicle, knowing she would have no chaperone—but Lord Delbert swept her up in his arms, kissing her deeply, and the blood began to pound in her veins, and she knew that the love for him that ached in her breast was all that truly mattered.

Then they were in the coach, and Anthea caught a bare glimpse of Hester waving as they were whirled away. Then Delbert’s lips closed over hers again, and she could think of nothing else.

It was the most romantic evening of her life. Champagne and passion in a closed coach, kiss after kiss, growing more giddy and more silly as the miles passed. At some point in all the jesting and jollity, she mentioned how he would love Windhaven, as soon as it was restored. He seemed to still beside her then. “Restored? Is it so awfully run-down, then?”

“Oh, yes, and buried under a mountain of debt! But Aunt Trudy tells me that it will yield income again, in ten or twenty years.”

“But surely you will inherit from her when she dies.”

“Perhaps something, though I wouldn’t wish to claim it, she has been so wonderful to me already. But she has two sons and two daughters, so of course the bulk of her estate must go to them.” She suddenly realized what she was saying, and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “How silly of me, to discuss such mundane matters!”

“I am fascinated with every word that drops from your lips.”

Lord Delbert turned away; a cork popped, and liquid poured. It was a moment longer before he turned about again to offer her another glass. There was more champagne and more passion then, his kisses becoming ever more ardent—then a sudden unaccountable weariness came over Anthea.

“It is the strain and the excitement,” Lord Delbert soothed. “Sleep, my love. I would have you fresh and vivacious when we arrive at the first inn.” Then waves of sleepiness engulfed her, and Anthea drifted off into dreams of bliss.

Anthea, waken! came Sir Roderick’s voice in her mind. The dreams had become more and more carnal; she dreamed of lips pressed to her naked flesh, light fingers caressing her until she ached with longing. But Sir Roderick’s voice was commanding, and she wakened, though her head throbbed and the whole world seemed shrouded in fog. She wondered that the wine had been so strong—then realized that those light fingers were caressing her in more than dreams, in the very life, far more intimately than they should, and Lord Delbert was gazing down at her with a smile of rapt delight—and not at her face. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, and his face was flushed. She cried out in shock, and he looked up at her with a devilish grin. “Wakened so soon, my pretty? Well, that will only add spice to the adventure.”

“But, my lord ... Gretna Green ... can you not wait ... ?” Though part of Anthea wished he wouldn’t.

Delbert threw back his head and laughed, and there was a note of cruelty in that laughter. “Foolish girl, there will be no Gretna Green! What need have I, a lord, of a ceremony?”

Anthea stared, electrified. “But ... love ...”

“Say ‘money,’ rather. I’m ocean-deep in debt, silly wench, and needed a rich marriage to bail me out. The rumors said that you had estates—they mentioned nothing of debts! Still, if I cannot have relief of one kind from you, I’ll have another.”

“My lord!” she protested, flinching away—but his arm prevented her, circling behind her. “My aunt!” she cried. “Your reputation in the ton ...”

“And would you be foolish enough to speak of it? I assure you, none of your predecessors have! Though even if you did, what matter? I’m finished in London, anyway, if I can’t have a sea of silver right quickly. I shall have to leave to wander the Continent, so what matter Society now? Be sensible, wench, and lean back and enjoy it, for you’ll not have such another night again!”

She didn’t doubt that, though not as he’d meant it. She remembered the young women with stony faces, and realized, with horror, that she was about to join their ranks.

“Don’t tell me that you had no notion of this,” he said with a sneer, “for I could tell by your kiss that you had mind for one thing only.”

“I never had! Shame on you, sir, to think so of me!” Then Anthea realized that the motion of the coach had stopped, that it was still. “Where ...”

“On a country track far to the north of London, my dear, and the coachman has taken the horses far away. There will be none to disturb our lovemaking.”

“My lord, if you love me, you will wait!”

“Love?” Delbert’s lip curled in a cruel sneer. “What is love but the yearning of body for body? Don’t tell me that you haven’t felt it, my lass, for I’ve known the heat of your body and the pounding of your heart—here, even here.” The cupped hand tightened. “I know what kind of girl you are, Anthea, even if you do not—and your being here, alone in a closed coach with me, gives proof of it!”

“No!” she cried, trying to writhe away from him, but the arm that was curled about her tightened, holding her securely, as he laughed.

A delaying tactic, my dear. A wager, Sir Roderick’s voice said in her mind. A game of chess.

Anthea’s heart leaped to know she was not alone, though she blushed with shame at the thought of Lord Roderick’s witnessing her disgrace, and knew there was little he could do. But it was even as he said—the longer she could postpone the inevitable, the less inevitable it might become. “A wager, my lord! A game of chess! If you win, I shall not resist you—indeed, I shall surrender myself to the passions you claim to detect!”

“A wager?” Delbert drew back with a gleam in his eye. “That might add spice to the encounter. Chess, d’ye say? Foolish child, do you think you could best me?”

“It might heighten the pleasure, as you say,” Anthea said, her voice trembling.

Delbert heard; his grin widened. “And my forfeit, if—ha, ha!—I should lose?”

“Then you will let me go, my lord, unharmed and intact, and will say nothing of this night’s doings to anyone.”

Delbert frowned, but the gleam remained in his eye. “High stakes, but why not? I’ve played for higher. Where are your chess pieces?”

They were in her portmanteau, and she had them out in a trice, managing to rebutton her bodice as she did. She laid out the pieces, then began the longest game of her life—not merely because of the suspense or the stakes, but because, as Sir Roderick’s voice pointed out to her:

He will never let you go unmolested, even should you win. Your only hope is to prolong the game—the longer, the greater the possibility of rescue.

She saw the truth of it in the anger that flashed in Delbert’s eye when she took a pawn. Thereafter, she was careful to lose steadily, never taking a piece of his unless she had lost two of her own, but prolonging each capture as much as possible. Meantime, she tried to ignore the caresses of his voice as he described the pleasures she would experience when this opening game was over, and tried to fight against her body’s longing to surrender. Yet when she grew too distracted, Sir Roderick’s voice was ever there, counseling, pawn to queen’s knight six ... king’s bishop to queen’ s rook five... Beware of pawn take at queen’ s bishop four ...

Three hours passed, and Lord Delbert began to frown. In fear, Anthea sacrificed two pawns and a knight, though she had to call his attention to the latter. “This game tires me,” he growled ominously, and Anthea’s heart thudded, for she knew she dared not lose. She began to win, and Delbert to grow darker and darker of mood. Then, when he had only a rook and a knight left to his king, while she had two rooks and won her queen back, he snarled and threw over the board. “Witch! You could not have brought that to pass! Come here, and I will show you the glories of the path to your master!” And he surged toward her, hands outstretched.

Anthea screamed and threw herself at the coach door, knowing it was futile, that she could never wrench the latch open in time—but Sir Roderick had been at work, and the panel gave way. Delbert’s rush carried them both tumbling out of the carriage. Anthea fell clear and bruised her head, but Sir Roderick’s voice beat through her brain, and she found her body lifting from the ground. Run, child! As far and as fast as you can!

She had a brief glimpse of Lord Delbert, half in and half out of the coach, cursing and thrashing. Then she found her feet and was off, tripping and stumbling over the uneven ground of a springtime field. There were woods to her right, and the road, but she knew she dared not run on it, for he would surely be faster than she. Ahead rose low hills, and she dashed for their cover. If she could only last till dawn! Surely he would give over the chase when there was fear of discovery!

But she heard the pounding of his feet behind her, his snarling rage, then his sudden howl of fright. Glancing back, she saw the glowing suit of armor with sword uplifted, and heard Delbert yelling in horror. Roderick had made himself visible to Delbert. She saw no more, for she turned away and ran for her life. He might give over, daunted by the specter, but she doubted it; his passion and anger were such that he might very well overcome his fear, and seek her out still, defying the ghost.

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and she was more hobbling than running, when she finally came among the low hills. She stopped, swaying, seeking a hiding place, tempted to merely sink down against the nearest slope—but she heard Lord Delbert’s howls of anger, then his maniacal laugh of triumph. “Spirit of battle or spirit from bottle, what matter? You cannot harm me in either case!”

Then she heard the pounding of hoofbeats and a cry in the night—Delbert’s voice, in rage. She risked a look back and saw a horse and rider swooping out of the darkness, blocking her pursuer, the man leaning down to cuff Delbert aside.

“Crafter!” Delbert shouted furiously. “What in hell do you think you’re doing!”

“Punishing a rogue and a scoundrel,” Roman Crafter snapped.

Anthea was amazed at the cold hardness of his voice. “Get back to your coach and wait for your horses, Delbert, or you may not live to regret it!”

“Remember your station, you oaf!” Delbert roared. “Do you dare touch a man of the blood?”

“Station? You forget, Delbert—I’m American. We don’t believe in such things. Show me your quality with your deeds, not your birth.”

“That I will, in a trice!” Delbert bellowed. “Just get down off that damned horse, Crafter, and I’ll show you your place!”

Roman gave a low laugh that raised chills along Anthea’s spine—and leaped down from the horse.

With a roar of triumph, Delbert pulled a pistol from his belt and leveled it at Crafter’s head.

Then Anthea could not believe her eyes, for suddenly the pistol began to glow, a glow that brightened into a streak of white light that surged down Delbert’s arm toward his heart. He screamed and threw the pistol away, but the white light still clung to his arm, and a voice from nowhere rang out: Shall I kill him, young Roman?

Run, girl! Sir Roderick’s voice rang through her head. He has bought you time, but may yet pay with his blood! Flee!

Anthea did, turning and running, suddenly as frightened of Roman Crafter and whatever spirit accompanied him, as she was of Lord Delbert.

She knew that one or the other of them would be after her, no matter who won. In a panic, she looked about and saw a patch of deeper darkness against one of the hillsides. She hobbled to it with ragged, sobbing breaths, reached out—and felt the hillside give way into a low cave. Weeping with relief, she dropped to hands and knees and crawled in. There was still a chance Delbert might find her, but it was less than before.

Something glowed in the dark, something that stretched upward into a tall and glittering form.

Anthea cried out, and shrank back against the wall of the cave.

He stood in silhouette against an eldritch glow that seemed to come from the walls of the cavern itself, a tall, unnaturally thin man with silvered hair.

Anthea crouched rigid, staring up at him.

He lifted an arm in a bell-sleeve with a gold-embroidered cuff, beckoning.

Anthea wasn’t ready to rise. “What do you want?” she whispered.

The figure stood still a moment longer, then came to kneel beside her. He was unbelievably handsome, with large, slightly slanting eyes, a high forehead and long, straight nose, high cheekbones above gauntness, and a full, sensuous mouth. The lips curved in a courtly smile. “We have need of you.” His voice was rich and melodious, and his eyes drew her, compelling.

A thrill coursed through her; it was just like every folk tale she’d ever heard or read, and she didn’t doubt for a moment what he was. She rose slowly, as unable to resist as to think, while the Faerie lord’s gaze was on her.

He was taller than Anthea by a head or more. He gazed down into her eyes, smiling, and she felt herself being drawn into the huge, dark pools of his pupils ... .

Then he turned away, moving silently into the depths of the cave, depths that she had not realized were there, and it came to her that this was not a hill, but a barrow, a hollow hill that her people had long thought to be Neolithic burial sites, but older people had known for the dwelling places of the Faerie Folk. She followed the elfin lord, her heart hammering in her breast.

The door was set into the sides of the tunnel, and seemed as old as the rock around it, made of dark, rich oak, waxed to a gloss that seemed to let one look deeply into the grain. The Faerie lord turned the lock with a huge key and stepped aside to bow her in. Anthea followed, heart hammering in her breast; how could anyone come through that door, if the Faerie locked it behind him? Once she was through, she could never depart without his leave—but curiosity impelled her forward as much as his compulsion, and she could not even think of turning back.

Lock it he did, then stepped on past her, murmuring, “Come.”

She followed, marveling at the richness of the paneled walls through which she moved. An archway opened to her left, affording a brief glimpse of a drawing room elegantly appointed in an antique style, but the Faerie lord strode past it without a glance, and Anthea had to follow.

They came to the end of the hall, and another rich old door, partly open. The Faerie pushed on through it, and Anthea, following, stepped into a chamber so wide that the huge canopied bed in its center seemed small. The walls were hung with tapestries; between them, walnut panelling glowed. The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet, and the bed-hangings were satin and velvet.

The Faerie lord knelt beside the bed, taking the hand of a lady who seemed so exquisitely fragile that she seemed to float between the sheets. Her hair was long, and so light a blond that it seemed almost silver. Her face was delicate, fine-boned and high-cheeked, and her eyes were huge, her lips red and full. But those high cheeks were hollow, and her skin was very pale. One look at her made Anthea feel heavy and lumpen—but also made her feel healthy.

Magnificently healthy, when she saw the emaciated infant lying on its mother’s breast, eyes still closed, little mouth working at its fist. Its crying was so thin as to sound like the mewing of a tiny kitten. Anthea stepped forward, a wordless cry drawn from her, reaching out toward the baby—but she halted a few feet away, not daring to touch something so fragile.

The Faerie lady looked up at her, and once again Anthea felt herself drawn into huge, dark eyes. “I am height Lolorin,” the lady murmured in a low, husky voice, weak with strain, “and this is my lord, Qualin. Wilt thou nurse our child?”

Anthea looked up, eyes wide—and realized that the man, though he still knelt, was strung as tightly as a violin, seeming ready to leap, just barely held in check by Lolorin’s hand on his, his eyes burning as he gazed at his child. “I ... I cannot,”

Anthea protested feebly. “I ... I am not a mother, and have no milk to give.”

“That, we can amend,” the Faerie lord said, his voice deep and cavernous, and Anthea felt a thrill of alarm mixed with a dreadful yearning. “A small spell, and thy breasts will swell with milk.”

“But ... but I am a virgin ...”

“Thy breasts will take no heed,” Lolorin assured her, “and the milk will be good.”

But Anthea was in a quandary. The sight of the infant pulled at her, so deeply that pity and her longing to help it became an almost physical pain—but ... “I am young, and have tasted so little of life! I have suitors, I have barely begun to live ...”

The Faerie lord stirred. “ ‘Tis true. Name thy nurse’s fee, and thou shalt have it.”

“Oh, don’t speak of fees!” Anthea cried. “If the baby grows strong, that will be enough!”

Qualin’s eyes glowed, but Lolorin said, as though the words were dragged out of her, “She doth speak without thought. Consider well, mortal, for if thou dost consent, thou wilt be bound to us for a year and a day—’ twill be that long at least ere my babe can subsist on fare other than thine. And human milk is vital, for the aura of thy own kind hath enervated the folk of Faerie. We have weakened with age, and the decline of mortal folks’ belief in us. So tenuous hath our existence become that Faerie mothers’ milk hath grown too thin to sustain an infant long.”

“We would not ask this of thee,” said Qualin, “save that our child must have a human to nurse, and thou art the only woman who hath chanced to come within our purview; I lack the vitality to go abroad to sue. Yet thou hast come near our hollow hill, alone and at night—and thou art one of those born with the power of magic about thee.”

“I?” Anthea gasped.

“Indeed. Hast thou never felt it?”

“No, never!” But then Anthea remembered her contact with Sir Roderick, and his mention that she could only see him because of an inborn Talent, which might fade as she matured. Apparently it had not—or she had not grown up as much as she had thought.

“ ’Tis that quality of magic,” Qualin said, “that touch of the fey, no matter how minor, that doth enable thee to see and speak with us of the Faery world.”

“ ’Twill be long ere another so gifted haps to come within the aura of our powers,” Lolorin murmured. “It will, I doubt not, be too late for my babe. Wilt thou not give aid? For if thou dost not, surely he may die!”

“Oh, do not lay such a charge upon my soul!” Anthea buried her face in her hands, torn “I would not see your baby die—truly, I wish to save him—but I wish to save my own life, too! I wish to dance, and to speak with other girls. I wish to be have young men fall in love with me, and woo me, and court me; I wish to dance at balls and drive in the Park!”

“ ’Tis only a year,” Qualin protested. “Your life will still be there when thou dost return.”

“Nay,” said a deep voice from the doorway. “It will be vastly changed.”

Anthea spun about, and Qualin surged to his feet with an oath.

There, in glowing silver armor, stood a knight with a drawn sword in his right hand—and, tucked in the elbow of his left, a head!

But it was a living head, if a ghostly head can be said to live—and its lips moved as it spoke. “The lady is in my care, and I will not permit her to be harmed.” The head wore no helmet, and the rugged face was young and handsome, though it too glowed silver beneath a wavy mass of hair.

“Sir Roderick!” Anthea cried. “You have found your head!”

“Yes, Anthea—and I must thank you for bringing me to the battlefield on which I lost it.” Sir Roderick held his sword out before him, where it floated, point fixed on Qualin. Then he took the head in both hands and set it on his shoulders, giving a half turn as though to lock it in place. Qualin took the opportunity to lunge, but the sword parried easily and riposted, sending Qualin back on guard.

“How didst thou come here!” he spat.

“I followed my kinswoman,” the ghost answered. “Blood calls to blood, and I had but to answer that call. Your locks mean naught to me, for I am a ghost.” He smiled grimly, his eyes never leaving Qualin’s. “And know, Anthea, that you will pass far more than a single year here—for though it may seem only twelve months to you, in the world outside, seven years will pass. Your friends will be matrons and young mothers; the gentlemen so smitten with you will be husbands burdened with the management of their estates. Your aunt will be seven years older, if she does not pine away for grief at your disappearance.”

“Aunt Trudy! Oh, I could never do that!” Anthea turned to Qualin. “Is this true?”

“It is,” he said reluctantly, eyes still on the ghost. “And who art thou, stranger, who comes thus to imperil mine heir?”

“Her ancestral ghost, who has known and cherished her since childhood. I do not wish your child any harm, but I will not see my own deprived of youth and the few carefree years of romance God grants to her. A vaunt, eldritch lord, and stand aside! This lady is not for you!”

“I shall not let her be torn from me!” Qualin ground out, and lunged forward.

“No,” Anthea screamed—but swords not of steel met with a fearful clash ...

And held. They stuck together as though they were magnets of opposite poles, and an eerie silver light played over both blades, melding them together. Qualin spat an oath and wrenched at his, but it would not budge. “What magic have you wrought, fell specter?”

“No enchantment of mine.” Sir Roderick, too, was wrenching at his blade. “Some other force comes. O glow upon our swords! You are a spirit of your own form!”

“Even so.” The voice was a thrumming in the air, a deep vibration within their skulls. “I am a spirit foreign to the land, but strong enough withal, especially on such a night as this. Give over, Faerie lord! Give over, ghost! For I shall hold thee bound till thou dost cry ‘Hold, enough!’”

“Never shall I bow so!” Qualin raged. “What hellspawn hath brought thee here?”

“A spawn of mortal folk, and not of Hell at all,” said a resonant voice behind Anthea. She spun about with a gasp, and saw a gentleman in breeches and Hessian boots, though his coat and neckcloth were gone and his shirt torn wide open, showing a manly, muscular chest. “Roman!” she cried, then blushed. “I mean, Mr. Crafter!”

“The same, Miss Gosling.” But Roman’s gaze was fixed on Qualin and the ghost. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Wouldst thou speak as though in a drawing room, thou fool?” the Faerie lord snapped.

“Why not?” Roman said, with airy disregard of the circumstances. “We may as well be civilized, after all, since we cannot do one another harm. Anthea, would you do the honors?”

Anthea noticed the use of her Christian name alone, but knew it was no time to charge him with a breach of etiquette. “Mr. Roman Crafter, may you be pleased to make the acquaintance of Qualin, a lord of Faerie, and his lady, Lolorin, with their child. The knight is my old friend, Sir Roderick le Gos, late of Windhaven Manor.”

“Quite late, I should judge, from the cut of your armor.” Roman looked Sir Roderick up and down. “Still, it is becoming; you must give me the name of your tailor. I thank you for your kind intercession on behalf of Miss Anthea, Sir Roderick.”

“It is my pleasure,” the knight responded, “for I am privileged to think of her as my ward, though not in the eyes of the law—and you shall have to answer to me, Mr. Crafter, if you wish to know her better.”

“Why, Sir Roderick!” Anthea protested, blushing furiously.

“I gather he is the senior male of your house,” Roman inferred.

“If you are being so civil as to make introductions,” Qualin ground out, “might we know the name and style of this creature who has bound our swords?”

“My apologies,” Roman murmured. “He is a creature of the sea, and I made his acquaintance during a storm in the tropics. We got on famously, and he has chosen to accompany me for a brief space. In fact, it is through him that my cousin purchased my rise from powder monkey to midshipman, and thereby to ensign and, eventually, captain.”

“Yet he advanced by his own ability,” the spirit hummed. “Call me, as he does, merely ‘Erasmus.’ ”

“Saint Elmo’s Fire!” Anthea cried.

“Excellent, Miss Gosling,” Roman said, with surprised pleasure. “Not too many landlubbers know the term, or that ‘Elmo’ is the shortened form of ‘Erasmus.’ Yes, he has that name among the superstitious, though to tell you the truth, he has as little to do with saints as with demons—though I promise you, he can give living mortals quite a shock. Yet he seems to have taken a fancy to my inquisitive turn of mind.”

“And to your boldness and talent in dealing with spirits,” Erasmus hummed. “What say you, Roman? Shall I free these two banty roosters?”

“Banty roosters!” Sir Roderick choked.

“You will have to forgive my friend,” Roman apologized. “He has taken up many idioms that he learned from me in my youth—oh, very well, my early youth. But the question he asks is valid. Will you both sheathe your swords and try to deal in reason, if he releases you?”

“Well, I will attempt it,” Sir Roderick huffed.

“And I.” But Qualin’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Yet I warn thee, I will not permit the lady to be taken from us, if she doth choose to stay.”

Roman glared at him for a space, then said, “Fair enough. She is, after all, her own person. It is your decision, Anthea, and we will all abide by it. Agreed, gentlemen?”

Ghost and Faerie grumbled assent, and the glow drifted away from their swords to hover, a sphere of light, by Roman.

Anthea paled, and almost cried out in protest. Was she to be left without support in this? Though she did have to admit that she did not want to be compelled to a course of action she would not like, it would nonetheless be wonderful if someone else could only tell her what it was she wanted—and could be right.

“Please acquaint me with the nature of the contretemps,” Roman said. “Apparently the issue is the freedom of Miss Anthea Gosling. But why should there be any contention against it?”

“First tell me,” Qualin growled, “who you are, and how you came into my hill.”

“I am Roman Crafter, late of His Majesty’s Navy, and later of the United States of America.”

“What is that?”

“A country in the West, beyond the Isles and the ocean.”

“It cannot be.” Qualin’ s eyes burned. “Mortal eyes cannot see the Western Haven.”

“Quite right; the only ones we see are quite mortal, I assure you, and though they have their own population of elementals and spirits, none of them are of your race. As for myself, I had the bad fortune to be impressed into the British Navy, and the good fortune to meet Miss Anthea Gosling. When Erasmus told me that she had been spirited away by an a utter cad, I rode as quickly as I could to overtake them. I lost their track on the road, but Erasmus cast about and found them for me, and I arrived in time to spare her the worst of his attentions. Yet when I’d done with him, she had fled, and I was quite concerned for her further safety. Erasmus was good enough to seek you out again and unravel the spell that barred the entrance to this hill. I felt your presence and followed.”

Anthea stared. “But—the door ... the lock ...”

Roman frowned. “What door?”

“That huge old door in the hillside! He used a six-inch key to open it!”

Roman shook his head, gaze still on Qualin. “Only a bush, and a cave mouth.”

Anthea’s breath hissed in. “A glamour! It was an illusion that Qualin cast.” She looked up at the tall Faerie lord. “Did you think I would be more willing to help if I thought you lived in a rich house?”

“Aye, certes. If ’tis not so, thou art quite unlike all others of thy kind.” Qualin’s gaze stayed on Roman.

“Then,” Anthea breathed, “everything else I see is also a glamour. Take it away, please! You cannot expect me to dwell in the midst of a lie!”

“Thy kind ever have,” the Faerie lord snapped; but Lolorin murmured, “My lord, I prithee—let her see what is real.”

Qualin stood stock-still for a moment; then he shrugged, tossing his head. In the blink of an eye, the tapestries and carpet were gone, as were the rich wooden panels behind them. Damp rock walls showed in their place, webbed with niter where they merged into the cave’s roof. The four-poster bed was gone; Lolorin lay on a heap of old straw atop a rocky shelf, and her coverlet was several old furs sewn together, with patches of hair missing. Her gown was only linen, stained with age, and Qualin’s glorious raiment had faded to the dun colors of an old, threadbare tunic and hose.

“This is the truth thy kind so praise,” Lolorin said. “Why, I cannot tell—I had liefer live with glamour.”

“So would most of us.” Anthea felt her heart sink.

Even Roman looked somber, but he said, “You cannot expect a gentlewoman to live under such conditions!”

“Glamour will warm and comfort her,” Lorlorin protested.

“The lady is safe.” Qualin’ s tone was brittle.

“Be sure we shall not maltreat her; we have too great a need of her.”

“Need?” Roman turned to Anthea with a frown. “Would you acquaint us with the nature of that exigency, Miss Anthea? Surely you did not come into this hill of your own free will.”

“But I did, Mr. Crafter,” Anthea explained, “at least, into the cave that is the mouth of this tunnel. I sought to hide from Lord Delbert ... .” She shuddered at the thought of him.

“Do not fear,” Roman said quickly. “He is fled to the Continent, and will trouble you no further.” His eyes hardened. “I made quite sure of that.”

Anthea nearly asked what Roman could have done that would have made him so certain, but her courage failed her.

“I take it,” Roman went on, “that Lord Qualin then appeared, to entice you further in.”

“Why, yes,” Anthea admitted, “though I can scarcely blame him, since he did it to protect his own child.”

“Child?” Roman glanced sharply about the room. “Ah, yes!

The lady Lolorin, and the babe you mentioned. I take it they have need of a mortal nurse.”

Anthea blushed. “So they have explained it to me—and I am the only human woman they have come upon. If he does not have human milk, the baby will die.”

“So I have heard.” Roman frowned at Qualin. “But I confess to confusion. Has your race, ever so powerful, now grown so decadent as to need the services of a mortal nurse?”

“Nay!” Qualin exploded. “ ’Tis thy race that hath done it, thy kind that have filled the land with Cold Iron; thine air doth reek with the fumes of the blood of the earth! The insidious aura of unchecked Cold Iron doth pervade the aether, and doth sap the strength from our limbs! Even here, in the fastness of the Welsh mountains, doth that vibrating reach—even here, far from all cities, doth it deplete us!”

“ ’Tis true.” Lolorin’s eyes seemed even more huge. “ ’Tis therefore that my frame cannot bring forth milk rich enough for my child.”

“Unchecked Cold Iron?” Roman frowned. “What is this you speak of? Men have used Cold Iron in every way they can, for millenia!”

“Not so,” Qualin replied, “for your smithies have grown huge, and pour out vast quantities of the stuff—and more and more of it is alloyed and purified into such as was once reserved for swords!”

“Of course!” Roman lifted his head, understanding coming into his eyes. “Steel has a broader and stronger aura than mere iron—and there is more and more of both abroad, as horses are shod and wagons multiplied! Tell me, is it the Midlands that are especially noisome to you?”

“Aye. Where once was our haven, there are stinking piles of brick that are filled with bits of Cold Iron! Their aura pervades the Midlands; they blight the land!”

“Mills,” Anthea whispered.

“And their ramshackle towns,” Roman agreed. “Small wonder the Faerie Folk are vanishing.”

Anthea frowned. “But the tales of your kidnapping mortal wet nurses go back hundreds of years!”

Lolorin nodded. “Cold Iron began it—and as thy kind spread its use, so didst thou use it to hew down our trees, which did shelter our kind, and without which we cannot endure. Thus we retreated from thee and thy metal, for ’tis poisonous to us. We weakened, yet we persisted—till now.”

Qualin nodded stiffly. “Our folk began to flee, when they found that scarcely a house could be found in all Britain that was not filled with nails of Cold Iron. Aye, they did fly to the Western Isles, where I trust they remain to this day.”

Roman frowned. “The Western Isles that I cannot see?”

“Thou wouldst not, nor any of thy kind—nay, nor will any of thine instruments of alchemy reveal them to thee. Of all the sons of Mother Earth, only those of the Blood may find them, or the roads that lead there.”

Anthea looked up at Roman. “What instruments of alchemy are these?”

But Roman only answered, “I never did like being excluded ... .”

“There is no aid for it,” said Qualin. “Thy kind have not the eyes to see these Isles. Yet our folk did, and most fled; yet some did cling to our earth, and what remained of our forests, for ’twas the land and the trees that did give us birth, look thou, and we despaired of living without them. Aye, some few of us do bide in determination.”

“How is it that the aura of Cold Iron weakens you?” Roman said softly.

“ ’Tis counter to the coursing of our strength,” Qualin maintained. “ ’Tis too measured, too harsh. It doth disrupt all our magics, without which we cannot live.”

Roman nodded. “No wonder you fled as far from the cities as possible.”

“Not enough,” Anthea whispered, staring at Qualin. “It is leaching the life from you. How can you bear to stay?”

“We are intractable,” Lolorin said, her voice low. “For look you, ’twas our land ere any of thy kind did come here, this Britain, this England—and how could it be either, an there were no Faerie folk here?”

Qualin nodded. “Therefore we bide.”

“It must be immensely lonely,” Anthea breathed.

“I’ truth,” Lolorin whispered, “there are few enough of our kind that bide in all England—in all Europe, mayhap in all the world.”

“But how can you endure?” Anthea asked. “Even after this child has grown ... “ She looked down at the baby, which looked up at her, wide-eyed. She smiled tenderly. “Oh, Roman! I cannot leave so sweet a child to perish!” She looked up at Lolorin, her eyes swimming with tears. “How unfair of you, to show me the baby, when you knew it would tug at my heart as strongly as any man could!”

Lolorin only smiled, but with sadness and longing.

“Her point is well taken,” Roman said, his voice low. “She must be free to go where she will, without coercion—and when she chooses.”

Qualin’s mouth tensed with impatience. “Thou shalt have her so, when the babe no longer hath need of her.”

“How long will that be—a year? Two? She is a free woman, you know.”

“She shall not be our slave,” Lolorin said. “ ’Tis as thou sayest—she shall be handsomely paid, and we shall dismiss her in a year and a day as promised.”

“In your time, perhaps. But how long will that be in our time? Seven years? Fourteen?”

Qualin didn’t move, but something in his eyes showed that Roman had hit home. “We shall ensure that it be no longer in thy time than in ours.”

Roman shook his head. “It is not enough. You cannot ask her to forfeit her youth.”

“Thou dost presume.” Qualin seemed to draw inward, compacting, like a tiger readying itself to spring. “Thou dost not chaffer with the Old Ones.”

“If the lady’s freedom is at stake ...”

“Nay!” Lolorin cried. “Wilt thou two, in the pride of thy manhood, give the lass greater cause to weep than she already hath?”

“I do not wish it.” Anthea’s voice caught in a sob.

“Which?” rapped Qualin. “That the man be hurt? Or the babe starve?”

“I do not wish it! Neither! I cannot stand for Mr. Crafter to be hurt, or the babe! But if only I can save the infant, I will!”

Roman turned to her, appalled. “But you are too young to cast away seven years of your life, Miss Gosling, no matter how much good you may do with them!”

“Speak honestly, mortal!” Qualin snapped. “It is not her youth that thou dost care for, but herself! Thou dost wish to have her for thine own! Do not dissemble!”

Roman turned to stare at him, nonplused, and Anthea felt the blood drain from her face. Was there truth in what the Lord Qualin said? But surely there must be—the Faerie Folk could see to the heart of any mortal.

But Roman had recovered his poise, and turned to her with a bow. “I surmise you find the choice unbearable, Miss Gosling.”

“You ... surmise correctly, Mr. Crafter.”

“‘Miss Gosling’! ‘Mr. Crafter’! Can they not be done with such pretenses?” Qualin burst out. “ ’Tis plain to all who see him that he is in love with thee, and plain to anyone who can hear the heart, that thou art in love with him! Canst thou not at least call one another by personal names?”

Anthea blushed and lowered. her eyes, her heart pounding.

She heard Roman’s voice, slow and wondering. “Miss Gosling ... Anthea ... No, I’ve no right to ask!”

“Yet I will answer, though not at this moment,” she replied.

“I shall call you ‘Roman,’ though, if I may.”

“I would be honored. And may I call you ‘Miss Anthea’?”

“You may not, sir,” she retorted. “ ‘Anthea’ will do.” She was gratified to hear him let out an awed breath.

“Well, there is some vestige of honesty, at least,” Qualin said, and Lolorin added, her voice low, “We cannot ask thee to stay with us now, Anthea, if thou art in love.”

“Unless ... “ Qualin looked up, eyes burning. “Thy lover would stay with thee?”

“Instantly,” Roman said quickly.

Sir Roderick coughed into an iron fist.

“That is, if the proprieties could be observed,” Roman amended.

“Indeed.” Qualin’s lip curled. “And where are we to find thee a minister, or a chaperone?”

Sir Roderick looked up, as though at a sound, then said, “That may not be so vast a chore as you think. If you will excuse me a moment?” He disappeared. \

“What ... what could he have heard?” Anthea stammered.

“There is another matter I have neglected to mention,” Roman began, but footsteps—of more than one person—echoed in the passageway.

Qualin whirled, backing up to shield Lolorin with his body, and she tensed behind him. She didn’t move, but her eyes seemed to grow even larger. Shaking his head, Qualin lifted a hand slowly, wrist turning in a complicated pattern as the fingers seemed to stroke the air. He began to chant in words that Anthea and Roman did not know, and the cave walls disappeared, replaced by the rich wooden panels and the tapestries. The floor was carpeted again, and Lolorin lay once more, richly garbed, in the four-poster bed.

Then Sir Roderick stepped out of the tunnel—and beside him were Aunt Trudy and Hester.

“Aunt Trudy!” Anthea cried, and lowered her gaze. “Oh, forgive me!”

“In an instant, child.” Aunt Trudy bustled over to her and caught her hand, chafing it, then touching a palm to her forehead. “Lord Delbert is another matter—but you I’ll forgive in an instant, the more so because I feel certain you’ve learned the reasons underlying some of the strictures surrounding a young lady. There, child, are you well? Such a deal of damp! And really, who are these people who live in so unseemly a location?”

“I might ask the same of thyself,” Qualin snapped. “Have a care how thou dost address a lord and lady of Faerie!”

“A lord of Faerie?” Aunt Trudy turned, staring. “My heavens, it’s true! Well, I am the Lady Gertrude Brock, wife to the late baronet—and I trust it will not be necessary to call upon his aid! Yourself, sir?”

“I am the Lord Qualin, and my wife is the lady Lolorin. Our son is only a fortnight aged, and hath a need of mortal aid. Wilt thou grant him such?”

“Sir!” Aunt Trudy cried, drawing herself up.

“I feared not,” Qualin said, thin-lipped. “But if not thee or thy niece, then who?”

“I ... I am not wellborn, Lord Qualin,” Hester said hesitantly, “but I am human.”

“Hester!” Aunt Trudy cried. “You speak out of turn!”

“Yet such speech is perhaps welcome.” Qualin’ s eyes glowed, and Lolorin pushed herself a little further upright, hope in her eyes. “Wouldst thou nurse my babe then, mortal lass?”

“Oh, the poor wee thing!” Hester cried, and ran to the Faerie’s bedside. She caught up the baby and rocked it, crooning. “Oh, how could I turn away, with one who would need me so! Yet I fear there’s little good I could do it for some months yet, for my milk has not yet come.”

“You are with child?” Lolorin’s eyes swelled.

“Yes, milady, though the father will not acknowledge my babe.” Hester bowed her head ruefully.

“That doth matter naught,” Lolorin said, “and a small spell will suffice to bring thy milk before its time. Yet know, mortal woman, that if thou dost stay to nurse my babe a year, seven will pass in thy realm outside this hill.”

Hester stilled, and Aunt Trudy said, “I really cannot allow a servant in my employ to be so badly used.”

“We will not use her ill, but well,” Qualin said with surprising force. “She shall be honored, and shall live in luxury—and when her service is done, she shall have Faerie gold aplenty.” He turned to Hester. “Name thy fee!”

“Oh ... why ... “ Hester looked up, startled, but Aunt Trudy nodded slightly, and she said, “Why ... a hundred pounds, I should think.”

“A thousand,” Aunt Trudy said. “Ten.”

Qualin glared at her, then shrugged. “One thousand or ten, what the matter? She shall have it, and Faerie magic shall grant her a safe and easy birthing.”

“But what of my child, after?” Hester wondered.

“What of yourself?” said Aunt Trudy. “Your son we can foster easily enough—but how shall you live when your service here is over?”

“Why ... I had not thought ...”

“I shall take you back into my household gladly, if I am still alive,” Aunt Trudy assured her, “and I intend to be—but one never knows ...”

“I shall surely be able to provide for her, Aunt,” Anthea offered, “and I shall be pleased to have her services.”

“Oh, will you, miss?” Hester cried. “Oh, thank you!”

“Though there will be small need for it, if you’ve ten thousand in your own right,” Aunt Trudy finished. “Such a dowry should attract a worthy husband—but we should speak of love, Hester. How will you feel to lose seven years with young men?”

Hester shrugged. “I’ve little enough interest in them of the moment, milady—and it may be they will be better when I return.”

Roman turned a grunt into a cough, and Sir Roderick said, “I doubt that exceedingly, young woman.”

“Well, then, mayhap my Robin will have position enough to want a wife and babes,” Hester said, then shrugged. “Though I’m not so certain I would want him anymore. ’Twould be hard to find any other husband, though, when I’ve already a babe.”

“If thy mistress cannot find a home for thy child, he shall have one here,” Lolorin said firmly. “ ‘Twould not be the first time a mortal lad hath been raised in the Faerie realm.”

Hester turned to stare at Lolorin, her eyes growing huge.

“Oh, milady! If you only could ...”

“We can, and shall.”

“And there, I think, is Hester’s trouble solved, at least for the present,” Aunt Trudy said, “though you must call on us, Hester, as soon as you have come back to the daylight world.”

“Oh, yes, ma’ am! And I’ll be forever grateful!” Hester dropped a curtsey.

“And so, I think, you have no further need of myself, Lord Qualin, or of my niece,” Aunt Trudy said.

“No, none at all.” Qualin was standing by the bed, one hand on his son’s head, one hand on Lolorin’s shoulder. “Go in peace, mortal folk—and I thank thee for thine aid in this.”

“It was our pleasure, I’m sure. Anthea?”

“Oh, thank you, Hester!” Anthea rose and followed her aunt out of the tunnel, very much aware of Roman’s presence behind her. Not that she needed to worry about making conversation, though—Aunt Trudy was doing splendidly at that, and not leaving much opportunity for anyone else. “Well, really, Sir Roderick! I didn’t even begin to recognize you! Your head, at last! After all these years! Oh, it is so very good to see you again! But how has this come to pass?”

With a shock, Anthea realized that she had not been the only lonely child to be reared at Windhaven.

“Really quite remarkable, Trudy,” Sir Roderick replied. “By excellent chance, that cad Delbert laid a route straight past the battlefield where I lost my head, so many centuries ago. Really quite a bit of luck, that. And as to your seeing me again—well, I fancy your contact with Anthea may have had something to do with it. But it’s mostly the result of these Faerie Folk, d’you see—they fairly exude magic, they’re surrounded by it, and I’ve no doubt it amplified your own gifts and woke them again, in a fashion ... .”

Anthea realized, with a start, that they had come out into the light of false dawn—and that Aunt Trudy and Sir Roderick were moving off to the side, not at all obviously, but moving quite a deal faster than they seemed to, and there was quite a bit of space opening between the two of them on the one hand, and herself and Roman on the other. The ball of light had emerged behind the American, and was waning in the half-light, disappearing with the deep-chimed admonishment, “Call me at need, Roman.”

“I thank you for all your assistance, Erasmus,” Roman said, then turned back to the lady. “Well, Miss Anthea, it would seem our long night is nearly done.”

She took a breath, nerved herself up to it, and said, “Just ‘Anthea,’ if you please, Roman. I believe I did give you that permission.”

“Anthea,” he murmured, and his voice caressed her name as though it were a fabulous jewel.

Then, somehow, fantastically, insanely, he had taken hold of her hands and was gazing deeply into her eyes and was saying, “Anthea, the Faerie lord is right—I am a fool to dissemble any longer! I have loved you since I met you, and every succeeding acquaintance, every word from your tempting lips, has made me love you the more! Desire for you burns so deeply in me that it will drive me mad, if you do not assuage it by a promise to wed me! Marry me, I beg of you, and I swear I shall do all that I may to ensure your happiness!”

“But ... but Mr. Crafter ... Roman ...” Anthea caught her breath, and what was left of her senses. “How ... how can you still wish to be with me, when you have ... had to confront the fact that I am ... haunted?”

“Haunted? Oh, now, sweet lady!” Roman stepped closer, as though to reassure her. “It is merely that you have the sensitivity, the gift, to see what others cannot!”

“But do you not see that I must be fey? That I must be one of those born to—” She forced herself to say it. “—to a weird? And that I come from a family so accursed? And that my children, in all probability, shall be so, too?”

“Children! Oh, Anthea!” Roman pressed closer still. “If they were my children as well as yours, you may be sure they would have the Talent—for do you not see that I am one even as yourself? Nay, I assure you that in my family the Talent does not only run—it is a virtual torrent! For six generations, my family have cultivated their gifts, learning the science of magic! The trait has bred true, and has grown and grown.” He took her by the shoulders and held her off at arm’s length. “How can you think that I would be put off by meeting with Sir Roderick, when you yourself have seen my own supernatural friend? And he not inherited, but discovered and befriended by me myself!”

“Then ... you do not know what it is to have a family ghost!”

“A ghost? No, but there is a will-o-the-wisp that has been our friend for a very long time, and it is rumored that we are long-lived because an ancestor made a friend of Death himself. Nay, there has scarcely been a single Crafter who has not had his own spirit-friend, and they march in a legion to the aid of the present generation when they are needed! Oh, Anthea! That I could be put off by only one ghost? Nay, nay, sweet lady, especially not when the damsel who is ‘haunted’ is a lady of such beauty, intellect, and charm!”

She gazed up into his eyes, blinking. “I ... I don’t know what to say ... .”

“Then say ‘yes,’ “ he pleaded, “and kiss me.”

She did. Both.

A few yards away, Sir Roderick appraised Roman’s technique with a practiced eye. “Not terribly experienced, I’d guess, but I wager he’ll learn.”

“I’d wager he will delight in it,” Aunt Trudy said tartly, “and so will she, though I suspect I’ll be hard put to make them wait for a wedding.”

“Trudy!” Sir Roderick gasped.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense! Did you think William and I had lived as plaster saints all those years? A chaperone must know her duties from the inside, Sir Roderick—and don’t tell me you don’t know that, for I seem to remember you making a few timely interruptions when I was fresh from the schoolroom!”

“I did,” Roderick sighed, “and from the look of these two, I’ll have another generation to attend.”