She shook her head. "It's rather scary," she said finally. "It's scary being able to read most of it so easily, but then to have it stop-that scares me more, I think. It's as if there had been magic at work in me but now it's gone. Nicholas, why don't you look at the final pages, see if you can read them."

He took the book and gently turned each of the final pages and studied them a long time. His lips moved but he didn't say anything. Finally, he looked up. "Sorry, it's like the beginning, nothing but a series of jumbled letters to me."

Grayson had to study the book again himself, comparing the final pages to all the others. "Nothing," he said at last. He cursed, which surprised Rosalind, for, as with his father, it was a rare thing, except for "blessed hell," of course, the Sherbrooke curse of many generations. "Forgive me," he said, "but I cannot bear it to end like this."

Rosalind said, "But would it not be something to travel to the Bulgar and see if the Dragons of the Sallas Pond would whisk us away to this magical place? I wonder who named this place the Pale and why? A pale is only a blockade, after all, to protect those within it? So why that name?" She sighed. "I surely would like to meet Sarimund's son in Blood Rock."

"I wonder if the son is still alive," Grayson said. "After all, Sarimund wrote this in the sixteenth century."

Nicholas said slowly, "Epona, his mother, if she is indeed the Celtic goddess, then she is very old indeed. Immortal, I should say."

They all looked at each other.

"I wouldn't want to tangle with the Tiber," Rosalind said. "You do realize that there aren't all that many rules, yet that is the wretched title. So what is the purpose of leading you to buy this thin little book, Grayson? And who did the leading?"

"It wasn't meant for me, but you, Rosalind," Grayson said. "After all, you're the only one who can read it, and read it easily, I might add. Except for the final pages. Ah, that teases the brain."

"Then why wasn't I directed to the bookseller's stall rather than you, Grayson?"

Grayson looked over at Nicholas, who was writing something in a small dark blue notebook Rosalind hadn't seen before. "Perhaps Grayson is the catalyst," Nicholas said.

There was a perplexed moment of silence.

"What is that book, Nicholas?" she asked.

He smiled over at her, closed it, and slipped it back into his pocket, the small pencil with it. "Merely a list of appointments I was in danger of forgetting."

"What do you mean I am the catalyst?" Grayson asked.

Nicholas shrugged. "You must be the spark to set this all off. Ah, who knows? At least Rosalind could read most of it. Like you, though, I do wonder why she can't read the final pages. Perhaps you are right, Grayson, perhaps this is meant only as a fine tale to amuse and tease. But enough for today. Rosalind, are you ready to go to Madame Fouquet's to meet your Uncle Douglas?"

"For your bloody test in good taste?"

He grinned at her.

"Will you toady up to him, Nicholas?"

"We will have to see, won't we?"

"I," Grayson said as he rose, "have decided that you have no need of Lorelei at your fitting. I am taking her for a walk in the park."

19

After Grayson left, Nicholas slowly rose and walked to her, gave her his hand, and pulled her to her feet. He realized in that moment he wanted to kiss every inch of her. He said, "Perhaps you will find me quite useful in the future, if, that is, I pass his lordship's test."

The future, she thought as she walked beside him out of Grillon's Hotel. She looked up at his profile. He looked stem and preoccupied. She hated it. She thought, He is my future. I will not let him go away from me once he is mine.

Once she was seated in the carriage, her full green skirts spread around her, she thought again: He is my future. But what was the future going to be about? To be honest with herself, Rosalind hadn't given a thought to the future, save that it would be perfect, a fairy-tale ending. What a dolt she was. Nothing was ever perfect. So many bad things could happen, did happen, all too often. Look at what had happened to her. What had her parents thought? Had they loved her? She had disappeared-simply there, then gone. Had they searched for her? Had they grieved?

She sighed. She'd asked herself these questions dozens of times, perhaps even more times than she could count. She wished she had more of a past than a measly ten years. Only the ghosts knew about her first eight years. Ghosts, she thought, those vague memories that crowded around her in quiet moments, memories and faces she could never grasp.

And now a future spread out before her with this man beside her, a future all blank, ready to be filled in. She felt a ripple of uncertainty. No, that was absurd, she was being absurd. For heaven's sake, he was about to be tested to see if he had good taste. No strangeness or evil could be attached to such a man. But then there were the missing years in Nicholas's life-not to him, of course-but she knew nothing about what that boy of twelve had done to survive. Then there was Macau-what sort of person lived in a place few people had even heard of? What Englishman spoke Mandarin Chinese? Did men have harems in Macau? No, the Portuguese were there, all Catholics, surely, not Muslims.

She became aware suddenly that he was studying her, just as she'd studied him. She turned to him and asked, "Nicholas, are you Church of England?"

"I suppose that's as good as any," he said, and studied his knuckles.

"Come, answer me. Are you a religious man?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. My boyhood years with my grandfather meant Sundays in the village church, but after I left England-well, to be honest, survival was more important than attending church, at least until I managed to make my way in Portugal. I believe I tend more toward Catholicism- the repetition of the ritual, the sound of Latin on my tongue-but it isn't deep inside me. And you, Rosalind, what religion are you?"

"I have been one of the local vicar's favorite parishioners for several years, since I began organizing fairs and gathering clothes for the poorer families. Before I came to Brandon House?" She shrugged. "I have no idea. But sometimes there are feelings that come, feelings for God, but a God not quite like the Church of England's God. Does that make sense?"

"It probably means you were raised in another religion before someone tried to kill you. If you're Italian, it would mean you're probably Catholic."

He'd said it so calmly, so-so emotionlessly. Someone had tried to kill her and she'd been only a child. Odd, she felt rather emotionless about it as well, since it had never been part of what she was, what she had become. Could she be Italian? Catholic?

She said, "A monster, I always believed it was a monster. When Uncle Ryder first brought me to Brandon House, I knew the monster was close by, especially at night, and I knew he would kill me and eat me whole. I remember Jane had me sleep with little Amy, to protect her, Jane said, from her bad dreams. Amy was an adorable little girl who wanted to design and make bonnets when she grew up. I remember one Sunday, Aunt Sophie wore one of Amy's first efforts to church. A bunch of grapes were hanging down over her forehead, but she never took it off."

"And she protected you?"

"Jane was very smart. I soon forgot about the monster, since I was so worried about Amy's nightmares. She never had a single nightmare, as I recall. Now that I'm grown, the monster is flesh and blood, and whoever he is, wherever he is, he brims with malevolence. Whenever I remember waking up to see Ryder Sherbrooke holding me, whenever I remember the black nights, I can still feel the fright of the child, but it's vague now. Now it doesn't raise any horror or terror in me."