"Oh, no, I adore singing," Rosalind said and gave the young man with the clever eyes and tousled bronze hair a sunny smile.

Silence, dead silence. Appropriate, Nicholas thought, given his grandfather was dead and really shouldn't have anything to say about it.

He and Rosalind stepped into the huge library, so shadowed and so long you couldn't see either end of it. It was rather narrow and there were more books than Rosalind had ever seen in a single library in her entire life, and that was saying something, given Uncle Douglas's immense library at Northcliffe Hall, not to mention Uncle Tysen's vast collection at the parsonage.

"Are there windows anywhere in this room?" she asked.

"Yes," Nicholas said and strode to the front end and flung back the thick dark gold velvet draperies. He looped the thick braided cords over golden hooks. Then he flung open the windows. Light and fresh spring air flooded into the room. He sucked in the blessed fresh air, then mined to say-

There was a moan.

Both Nicholas and Rosalind froze where they stood. I m sorry, I forgot to tell you," Peter said, now coming into the library, "but I suppose he doesn't like the light. Perhaps if you've been dead a long time, you're quite used to the dark. If you wait a bit, those draperies will close themselves again."

Nicholas didn't look away from his grandfather's old wing chair that sat at an angle to the fireplace, perfectly empty. He said, without looking away from that chair, "Have you actually seen him, Peter?"

"No, I haven't."

Nicholas nodded. "Thank you, Peter. Leave us now."

"Er, you are certain, my lord? I worry that her ladyship-"

"Her ladyship could face down a band of Portuguese bandits," Nicholas said, smiling. "She will be fine. Leave us, everything is all right. My grandfather returned because she was coming, that is what Block said, so let him meet her."

When Peter walked out of the library, he left the door open, a demonstration, Rosalind supposed. As they watched, the door very slowly closed itself.

"Well, Grandfather," Nicholas said to the empty chair, "it seems you're causing quite a commotion. I would just as soon not hear another moan, to be honest here. Come, speak to me and Rosalind. That's why you're here, isn't it? To meet her?"

Nothing but silence, then, a very soft old voice chanted in a singsong voice,

At last the girl comes home A girl who never belonged To her is owed the debt Well met, my lad, well met.

Nicholas would have fallen over if he hadn't been leaning against the mantelpiece. The debt, he thought, the bloody debt. He still didn't understand this debt business but it was deep inside him, spun out in the dream that had filled his youth, and with it the need to pay this debt. He looked at Rosalind. She was no longer the little girl in his dream, but she was his debt, this woman, now his wife.

The old voice sang again, from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding them, yet sounding hollow, puffed out of an old reed, ancient as yellowed parchment.

The little girl nearly died The monster nearly won The debt was paid by another But the race must still be run.

The wispy voice faded into the soft air and they were alone, quite suddenly they were utterly alone, and both of them knew it. The draperies remained open.

Rosalind sang softly into the still air, toward the empty wing chair,

The ancient chair toppled onto its side. The draperies flew closed.

"Well, that certainly got a rise out of the old boy," Nicholas said. He pulled Rosalind close. "What do you think of my home now?"

"I think," she said, looking up at him, "that we have something very important to accomplish."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, we do. Do you know, I've never before heard my grandfather sing. I remember once he told me his voice scared small children and dogs."

Rosalind said nothing, but she still stared at the empty wing chair lying on its side on the carpet.

Nicholas took a bite of his roast pork, and chewed quickly. Dinner had been the last thing on his mind when Block had waylaid them coming out of the library. "Now that you are in the country, my lord, it is country hours you must observe." He bowed. "It is now well after six o'clock, nearly seven as a matter of fact and Cook is anxious to present you with her pee-ss de resistance."

What was a poor beleaguered very newly married man to do? Strangle Block, that's a good start.

After Rosalind met the cook, Mrs. Clopper, tall and bony, dressed all in white, not a single food stain to be seen, and a mustache that looked like a thin swatch of black satin, Block steered them into the massive dining room.

Nicholas had no fond memories of this airless, gloomy room, but the table was set for the two of them and candles were lit. "After this, Block," he said, "we will have our meals in the breakfast room. This room is so dark a half dozen thieves could be hiding in the shadows. I don't wish to come armed to my dinner."

Block bowed. "As you wish, my lord. Ah, I will now fetch Cook's white soup. It is renowned. She never serves her soup first, as perhaps you may remember, my lord, but tonight, she believed…"

Rosalind wasn't listening, she was breathing in murky air and studying dark corners. A single twelve-branch of candles stood in the middle of the table and cast strange shadows on a large bowl of muddy-looking grapes. She said, "If Grayson saw this table, he would say it was at least three coffins long."

"At least," he said and gave her hand a squeeze, all of her he could reach. He heard Block clear his throat yet again, and whispered, "Eat as much as you want, Rosalind, for I plan enough activity to skinny you to the bone."

She smiled at him, though he saw that her eyes were a bit dilated, perhaps her face a bit pale.

The two of them, if asked, would have said the dinner was quite delicious, but in truth, neither particularly noticed the succession of dishes brought out by Block.

"I am quite fond of fig pudding," Rosalind said finally, and forked up a small bite.

"I believe that is an apple tart."

"Oh, dear."

"Figs, apples, it doesn't matter, keep eating. You will need your strength."

She took another bite. "I believe you are right, it is apple. Do you know, Nicholas, I wonder if your grandfather will visit us in your bedchamber."

"Our bedchamber. If Grandfather comes to sing us a lullaby, we will listen, I suppose, then applaud and politely ask him to leave, else he will find himself shocked to his ghostly toes."

"If I know the lullaby, I could sing it with him." She gave him a look from beneath her lashes.

She felt the urgency in him, heard it in his voice even though he sounded light and amused. Despite her excitement, she knew this was uncharted territory. She had to admit to a bit of apprehension, a bloodless word, really, when she felt her innards jumping with excitement mixed with terror.

"Nicholas? about this lovemaking business."

He came to full attention, his focus on her. "Yes?"

She waved her hand around her. "This is all very civilized, I mean, we're eating our apple tarts, but now I'm thinking about what you're going to do to me as soon as you get me into the bedchamber."

He did indeed have plans, wonderful, detailed plans. "Did you look at all the pictures in the book Aunt Sophie gave you?'